#especially since the town is on the coast

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Whenever they drive into town, arguing over who sits where and spilling buckets of strawberries all over the floor, the music blasts so loudly on the horrible, tinny speakers that it vibrates the entire van, and still the group of them is so loud that the songs get drowned out anyway. It is especially worse if, Nico will admit, he and Chiara are in the front seats together, whatever argument they delight in having raising New York’s noise pollution levels by four percent at least. If there is enough fruit to warrant two vans, and all sixteen of them will go, they will race down the highway, drowning each other out with the pure force of their shrieking voices. People stare. Cars slow to a stop. Cars follow them, even, mouths open, wondering at these grinning, hollering fools, dressed in neon and crawling all over each other.

It has been a long time since Nico has driven in silence.

Even as a child there was noise. No radios in cars, yet, they’d hardly been invented, but he and Bianca would scarcely be within miles of each other without bickering. Crowded in the backseat of Nonno’s Alfa Romeo, shouting for Mama in between even every poked shoulder and shoved face, there was noise. In the backseat of Alecto’s SUV, too, muffled as it was, and in every car he raced at the Lotus. Even up front with Jules-Albert, there has always been something. Grumbling, usually, live Grand-Prix reporting if the season is right. Music if he is in a good mood and Nico can convince him.

The silence that rings from the coast of Long Island to the bridge over the Savannah River is unbearable. Even the van is unbelievably quiet, rusted shocks creakless and ancient engine quiet as a grave. As if it too is straining to hear the words Will is murmuring, over and over again, nonstop for hours; hunched over with his hands clasped and pressed to the bridge of his nose.

Nico knows the Lord’s prayer in five languages. He hasn’t spoken it in years, but it’s stuck in his brain the same way as the alphabet; he knows the rhythm, the place of every breath, the rise and fall of the words as they crest towards the heavens. Prayers go unanswered at the best of times, trickling down the soil and bedrock and gathering in the currents of the Styx, but Will prays like he is programmed to do it. Like it is all he has left to do. They leave in the grey peak of the afternoon and drive through the night, and the kids sleep in the back, and Will prays across the freeways, over the bridges, through the gas stations, straight through traffic. His voice scratches and fades and he does not stop, the tears roll down his cheeks and bubble into his mouth and he does not stop, the twisted-in hymns glow along every peek of sunlight, burning his throat and his hands, and he does not stop. He prays like the dying in line to be judged, like the weeping shades along the stone walkways of Asphodel, like the desolate on the bank of the River. He prays like he knows it is already over, and he is desperate for the strength to move forward.

When they pull into the parking lot it is late morning, and Nico has been driving for fifteen hours, and the sun is cowering behind black dirt stormclouds, and the heat is as oppressively constant as the Pit. Nico feels like he is standing at the mouth of something cavernous. Staring down sharp teeth and a maw the size of an island. He feels like he is teetering, balancing, tipping; like the single point on the ground moments before lightning strikes it. Close your eyes and hold out your hands. What is coming next is inescapable.

“Do we go in?”

Kayla’s voice is timid. It is never timid, and it jolts his obliques and abdominis into action, into stretching. She holds hands with her brother, and they are pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide, mouths set brave and trembling,

and they are pressed shoulder to shoulder

eyes wide

mouths set brave and trembling

his ankle is twisted around hers

her skull ring knicks the flesh of his ring finger

her hands are cool

her voice is steady

her body shakes.

Where are you taking us? We would like to go home, please. Can we call our mother?

“Let’s go find Mama,” Nico hears himself say. Sees Will’s hands twitch. Watches Kayla flinch in the rearview. Feels Austin’s leg bounce the van.

His mouth feels like sand, like worn denim. Dry, desert sand, desert sand; Nevada air through the open window.

“Mama,” Will echoes. He chokes. His whole body shudders, shudders, compresses; shrinks down, mouth still moving. Knuckles white. “Mama.”

Nico swallows.

“Kayla,” says his mouth, “take your brother to go pay parking.” Take your brother inside. Wait for me; I’ll be back soon. Don’t leave the hotel. “Here.”

He hands her his father’s card, and she takes it, untangling from Austin but keeping their hands joined when he grabs for her. The van door wrenches open because the tracks are rusty and Nico jumps with it, exhaling past Kayla’s muttered apologies, waiting for the two of them to climb out and hurry across the asphalt. Huddle at the parking meter, poking at the button.

Nico opens his door and climbs out, shutting it carefully, walking calmly around the front of the van. He opens Will’s door and it doesn’t move, locked, so it waits, and when Will makes no move to pull the little lever he reaches around the door Kayla left open, pulling it himself. The door swings widely open, bouncing slightly on its hinges, and Will doesn’t so much as flinch, doesn’t so much as glance towards it.

Nico reaches out, slowly, and takes his clenched hands.

They’re wet.

He peels back his clenched fingers, one by one, and they are stiff, formed to shape. He takes a moment to straighten them, carefully, slowly, until his palms rest upwards again, fingers limp. When he presses their palms together Will’s fingers twitch, ever so slightly, around his, and he drags their hands up to his mouth and presses his knuckles to his lips, tasting the salt, tasting the iron of his cracked chapped skin. Will’s hand twitches, again, and his face matches; contorting and crumpling and breaking, for a second.

“Will,” he murmurs, salt like the coast, like Nonna’s villa, like the water slide, “Will, look at me.”

He does. He looks to him like he’s dragging himself like he is clawing his own way upright.

“I can’t again,” he croaks, “I —” and he stops, or rather he is cut off, by the sob that fights it’s way out of his throat. It is sharp like skull fragments. Some part of Nico bleeds.

“You won’t.” He drops Will’s hand and clasps instead both sides of his face, pulling him down until their foreheads press tightly together, until their breathing shares the same space, until he can feel every shudder against his skull. “We will save her.”

As he says it Nico knows he will make it so. Kayla and Austin run back to the van, ticket clenched in both of their hands, Will squeezes his eyes shut and nods, once, before sitting straighter than he has in hours, and Nico knows that he will not let Will lose.

Not again.

———

next

[katyobsesses]

Ah home sweet home

Muggy air instead of a sea breeze worsening my asthma, and quietly crying in the back of the cab from the airport because I realise that those small towns in Ireland are the final places of my childhood where family still live or visit. That small town is that last True Home for me and I miss it already. Though we've all already been offered multiple places to stay if - No when - we visit again (my sister was also randomly offered a place to stay in Glasgow by a highly entoxicated (and absolutely beautiful) friend of the groom's who we have never met before 😂)

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶What was meant to be a quiet evening of DND gets out of hand before it even begins, and when the guys leave a bottle of whiskey behind, all those passes you and Eddie made at each other grow to a new level.✶

NSFW — slow burn, fluff, drunken yearning, drunken flirting, dirty jokes, sexual tension, failed phone sex, light angst, drug/alcohol mention/use, 18+ overall for eventual smut

obi-wan voice: this isn't the first kiss chapter you're looking for (it's in the next one)

chapter: 9/20 [wc: 23.8k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 9: Dungeons & Dragons & Unicorns, oh my!

Occupying the narrow space available in Mr. Moore’s cramped office, Carl exchanged a look with Kevin over the edge of his coffee mug as he tipped it back, and coasted the bitter liquid across his tongue, swallowing with trouble. He winced at the potency. Kevin gave him an apologetic grimace.

“You made this too strong,” Carl whispered.

Kevin took a sip as well, and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, admonishing his mistake of putting too many grounds in the machine. “She just makes it better.”

David hunched forward in his plush leather chair. Around him, filing cabinets were open, sticky notes reminders hung crooked on the drawers, and his desk was stacked with customer’s invoices.

Three days you’d been gone and the world had devolved into chaos.

“Yeah, gotcha,” David said into the phone crooked between his shoulder and ear, jotting down an unrelated note on the corner of an envelope. “You feel better soon, ya hear?” He threw an excessive eye roll onto the end of his sentence when the voice on the other end kept rattling off. “I told ya to stop worryin’ about it. Now, get some rest. Yeah. Bye.”

He hung up, and addressed his audience waiting on bated breath, “Ed’s callin’ in sick again.”

“Third day in a row,” Carl commented.

Kevin gestured at the state of the office with his mug. “Third day for her too.” David muttered an acknowledgement, missing his Office Administrator who had taken up the responsibility of organizing all the documents into their rightful place.

“Three days, huh? And both with the flu?” Kevin restated in a leading tone.

“Both with the flu,” David confirmed.

“Not suspicious at all,” Carl added.

In unison, the three men put their mugs to their lips, sipped the coffee, winced, and made noises of disgust.

But after all that, Kevin beamed at his friends. “Good for them,” he said. “Ed deserves someone like her.”

In unison, they agreed, and sipped, and made a pact to dump out their mugs in the sink.

————

You arrived to work with an unglamorous wad of tissue balled in your fist, and a raw nose. Lingering sniffles ailed you, as did the body lethargy, but you were no longer contagious. It sucked to exist in this head-cold sphere, but it was nice to leave the house after days spent in-and-out of a Nyquil daze.

And yes, you were eager to see Eddie again, despite the twist of dread in your stomach.

It’d been days since you left his place on a good note, but would the remnants of his tears be this weird unstated suspense in between breaths of conversation? Would there be an underlying presence of you know all the intimate details of my life in the otherwise cheerful morning greeting? Would things go back to normal as if nothing happened?

Regardless, the morning greeting would have to wait. There were a million things to do around the auto shop since you’d been absent; first of which was going into Mr. Moore’s office, and fighting the disarray to find his updated schedule detailing his upcoming meetings, lunches, and days he’d be out of town. You grabbed a marker and went to work on the calendar in the garage, transcribing the schedule for the guys to see so they could stop asking you if Mr. Moore was in his office or not (especially when his door was right there and they could check for themselves).

Crossing out the first week of January, you began to write down one of the meetings when the back door was thrown open, and an ominous death knell tolled in a jangle of chains and heavy boots, making a veritable effort to stomp as loudly as possible on their way to you.

The eagerness disappeared. Only tumultuous dread now.

Your delicate smile was replaced by a canvas of annoyance. “Why are you so loud?” you winced. And winced again when you heard your stuffed-up voice.

You didn’t have to look away from the note you were jotting down to see his impish grin. He practically forced you to see it when he folded his arms, and imposed his shoulder on the wall, making the calendar page slip under your marker in a long red streak.

He ducked his head to catch your eye. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? I’m walking as I always do; not a hop, skip, or bounce extra.” Eddie’s tight lips parted in your periphery, showing a gleam of teeth. Raising his voice a tick, he drove the dread deeper, “My girl isn’t flinching at every sound because she has a headache, right?”

Having no sense of self restraint, nor manners, Eddie invaded more of your personal space. His chest swelled with a held breath while his tongue prepared a taunt and his eyes squinched half-closed. “It couldn’t be because you’re sick, right? Not Miss Queen of the City who’s been coughed on by every germ out there, making her tougher than the common cold, hmm? Couldn’t be because of that?”

Capping the marker, you let your side-eye graduate to a full fledged incredulous stare at his much-too-giddy expression. “It’s allergies,” you said, crumpling the tissue into your pocket.

“Allergies, huh? Which ones?”

“The ones I’m allergic to.”

“Interesting, interesting,” he humored you, “very interesting since, y’know, the most common allergies people have around here are to grass and weed pollen, and those suckers are dead and buried under a layer of snow. Won’t be growing for quite some months, so..”

You glared at his need to follow up that observation with his lips pursed into a mocking kiss of arrogance, provoking you to fold while simultaneously flaunting the sharp cut of his cheekbones.

“Fine,” you admitted in a low tone. “I got sick.” Noting the heavy bags under his red-rimmed eyes, you quirked an eyebrow, and asked, “Have you been working overtime without me?”

He brightened. “Oh, no. Adrie got me sick too. This is my first day back.”

“Have I ever told you how so,” you paused for emphasis, and prodded the pen cap into his sternum, “so very irritating you are?” He cupped his hand over your wrist, and cradled your fist to his chest. Drawing you in, in, in. Cold seeping through your sleeve from his red fingers, never kicking his habit of smoking before coming inside, regardless of the weather. “Just the worst,” you admonished, finding it difficult to resist the magnetism of his laughter quaking under your palm, urging yourself to favor the adorable scrunch above his nose, and guide your thoughts away from his unzipped leather jacket.

But the draw was too strong. You swayed closer until your forearm was pressed to the dragon tattoo hidden beneath his coveralls, and your tennis shoe grazed past the tip of his metal-toed boot

He recalled, “That’s weird. I remember you saying I was your favorite.”

“I said you were my favorite date. As far as people go, you’re in my top three. Robin, Adrie, you,” you listed on the fingers trapped against his inhale.

He lifted his chin, regarding you down the slope of his magnificent nose. “You rank Adrie above me?”

“Well, think about it this way; you rank above all the other people I’ve met. And I’ve met a lot of people, you know.”

“That isn’t instilling a lot of confidence, babe.”

Sweetheart. Babe. My girl. His hand on your hand. His cold fingers cupping your palm, searing you despite their lack of heat; so different from how you came to know them, as hesitant pauses on his tools when you greeted him and he frowned as if to ask why you were speaking to him.

Was this it? Was this the new normal?

You hoped so.

Cheeks warmed by the multitude of pet names, you put an edge of dissatisfaction on your question to cover how his affections affected you, “Is that my job? To make you feel good about yourself?” Hotter, hotter. His intensity was burning you.

You wiggled the marker in your grasp until you could tap it at the second unfastened button on his coveralls. “I think you just keep me around so you have someone to call you handsome.”

“No way,” he said. He tilted his head to the side, resting it on the wall. His tangly mess of hair followed the movement, laying against his throat. “But.. Just for clarification, I am handsome, right?”

“Of course you’re handsome.”

“Aw, you flatter me, gorgeous,” he said in mock bashfulness, turning his face away while you stared at him in utter exasperation. “Love to hear it from my favorite.”

Gorgeous. Love. Favorite.

You didn’t question his favorite what. Person, place, or thing? Who knows. Words escaped you when the honey in his eyes twinkled with something tender, and his dopey smile softened at the edges, and his heart pounded a story against your touch, and his grin faded more, and his lips regained their pretty pink plumpness, and his voice reached deeper–to the place where your hand felt the creation of vibrations–and his tongue put a new spin on a sentiment as old as time.

“I missed you,” he said, features going lax as he dropped the overly flirtatious act. He let go of your fist to reach out and pinch your upper arm without an ounce of strength in his sweet teasing.

It took you an extra beat to withdraw your hand from his person.

You scoffed, “Uh-huh. I can tell by how you’re trying to butter me up, and annoy me to death at the same time.”

“Don’t tell me I’ve become the sunshine in our relationship now,” he snorted. And before he gave your stomach time to flutter at the word choice: relationship, he was stabbing his finger at the rumpled calendar.

He looked where he pointed, and dropped it down another Saturday. “I meant to ask you this before you left the other day, but we’re at a good spot in our DND campaign for a new person to join if you wanted to come. Sessions are a bitch to schedule now that we’re all adults and have lives, jobs, and responsibilities, and whatever, and I haven’t, uh, hosted one at my place in a while” –years– “so it’s kinda an extra special event, and would be cool if you wanted to come by.”

You wrung your mouth at the invitation.

“C’mon, I promise it’ll be fun.”

“I know it’s easy to assume I’m a giant loser like you, but even being a theater kid, I’ve never played DND,” you told him. “I don’t wanna ruin your game, or impose on your friends enjoying their night. Or, like, clash if we don’t get along, or somethin’.”

He cast his gaze wildly around the room. Extra dramatic. “You won’t ruin our game, and my friends will love you–they’re the rest of my band, and some kids who were in my club in high school. You’ll fit right in. And besides.. I want you to meet them.”

Delightful goosebumps tingled at your scalp. Meeting his friends was quite the step in your relationship. And no, mutual friends via Bobbie did not count.

You filled your lungs, and expelled your sigh at the calendar, reading over your penmanship while you thought it over.

“And maybe I didn’t phrase my question correctly. Let me try again.” He cleared his throat. “Will you play DND with us?”

Will you?

A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.

“Ah, taking that route,” you said. And just to mess with him, you tapped the marker on the tip of his nose. “Sure–yes–I’ll join you in your roleplaying game, but if they don’t like me, I told you so.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you?”

“I dunno, it took you weeks to speak to me.”

“Yeah, but I’m me.” Eddie shoved himself off the wall and began walking behind you, brushing his hand across your lower back, and bending to your ear to whisper a coy gloat, “And I play hard to get.”

All smiles, smiles, smiles. He took two bouncy steps backwards, opened the glass door in a wide swing and spun on his way inside, whipping his hair in a blur of brunette.

Bewildered by his dorky charm, you watched him through the windows, sighing out the air in your lungs to make room for the blossoming throbs of adoration when he caught his hip on the corner of your desk and tried walking off the pain in case you were watching, only for him to keel over right before he reached the hallway.

You shook your head and resumed where you were in Mr. Moore’s schedule. “You are absolutely not hard to get.”

Looking up, you found the day you were supposed to mark with an important phone meeting, and instead..

January 16th

DND

You drew stars around it, experiencing the childhood rush of endorphins that came from doodling hearts around your crush’s name in your yearbook, and giggling with your friends over it, betting you could get their number so you could call them over the summer, acutely aware none of you would ever dare.

————

Stress squeezed Eddie’s throat. Each cry, each sob, each sniffle set him on edge. His headache pounded, his chest clutched onto the calming breaths he was supposed to prioritize, his heart raced sweat to his skin. Everything was falling apart around him.

“Yeah–Yeah, no, it’s okay. Yeah.” He hung up the phone, chord swaying against the grimy wall, and he pressed his fists above his eyes, turning in a slow circle.

Whistling, screeching, wailing. The boiling kettle on the stovetop pierced the sound of Adrie’s hiccupy bawling. Growing louder, and louder. Rising above the blood pulsing in his ears, the twitch in his strained muscles. The anger under the surface, bubbling. A vice on his chest. Clenching his jaw. Gripping harder. Growing bigger, and bigger, and bigger, his emotions grew bigger until the frustration slipped.

Eddie snapped the stove knob to the off position, and jiggled the broken shitty plastic back on the dial. He moved the kettle to the back burner–sucking his bottom lip in and biting down hard, seeking the relief of pain to keep himself from slamming the kettle into the next dimension. And after swallowing the thickened saliva in his mouth, he walked away from what would’ve been his late, late oatmeal breakfast.

The trailer rattled less and less.

His heavy footsteps exhausted to his socks sliding across the vinyl.

“Adrie,” he begged her name again, and again as he knelt to her chair at the green table. He passed his hand over her hair, petting it away from the sticky streaks of tears on her red cheeks, and he cradled her head to his neck. The flash of anger was gone. It should’ve never seen the light of day, but he was human. He was a single person, and he tamed it the best he could. He was fragile, about to break at the next sob in his ear, but he tried. “Daddy’s gonna fix it, okay? I’ll make it better. I’ll make it better. Let Daddy make it better.”

He was stuck in the loop again. Where everything was so much, and he was so weak. Gathering her as if she were still small and could fit into the crook of his arm. “Let Daddy fix it,” he begged again, rocking her as he did all those years ago; for her, and for him, not having the capacity to do more than cry along with her.

Peeling himself away from her neediness, he worked his hoodie from her fists, and dialed his last resort.

It rang.

And rang.

Hopelessness burdened the expanse of shoulders, dropping them at the fourth trill. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, pick up.” The only thing helping calm him was his hand pressed over his eyes. One less stimulus.

Another ring. He was about to give up when–

“Hello?”

“Hey, man! Uh, uhm, what’re you up to?”

The casualness was lost when Steve’s pause elongated to a nasally noise of understanding when Adrie’s whine cut through the static, and Eddie’s cheek smashed to the receiver as he moved into the hallway, curling his frame to the phone like it were a lifeline.

Steve’s tone feathered to the same one he used five years ago when Eddie called frequently, “Is everything okay over there? Nancy and I were packing up the car to head out of town with the kids, but I have a minute. What’s up?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay, uh–hey, you have Robin’s number, right? For her parent’s place?”

His mood lightened, “Yeah, I think Nance does in her pocketbook. Nance!” He called out for her. Then, he spoke into the receiver, as gently as possible, with grace for him to deny if he wanted, “You’re not trying to call Robin, are you?”

“No.. No, I’m not.”

There was a stint of silence where neither of them broke the wordless understanding woven into their connection; phone, chord, wires, friendship.

At last, Nancy’s footsteps came in clicks on their hardwood flooring, and Steve expressed a soft, “I’m happy for you, man.”

Eddie didn’t correct him that it was about his game night. He simply let his friend’s praise fill the void. It’d been a long time since someone was proud of him.

————

The modest house near the empty plot of land was unassuming. Not much money was invested into the foundation, nor the many repairs, but oddly, it was the furniture and fine dinnerware passed through generations that would have anyone second guessing why a home with a cracked window from two summers ago had a china cabinet. And really, any gust during a storm could shatter the glass pane covered by a delicately orange curtain, but it hadn’t happened yet, and therefore, there was no need to fix it.

In the living room, the TV was too loud. In the kitchen, you closed the fridge with your foot and took the tea kettle off the stove, balancing the makings of a sandwich in your arms.

Eddie said to come over half an hour before everyone else so he could help you create your character sheet, and with it being 4PM, you had three hours before you were supposed to head out, and were spending the afternoon with Robin’s parents while she went to Vickie’s before her late night shift.

You placed two slices of bread on a plate when the phone rang.

From the other room, Robin’s dad answered, and his dry vocal chords carried an air of confusion, “Someone’s calling for you!”

“If they’re asking for bail, I’m not here,” you replied in a monotone voice, getting a butter knife out of the drawer.

There was a shuffle as he sat forward in his chair and inquired, wholeheartedly, “Are you asking for bail?” He waited for a reply while you continued to unscrew the cap to the peanut butter. “He says he’s not!”

“Mm.” Unconvinced this wasn’t one of your friends calling from a police station, you finished pouring the two cups of tea you were intending to make, put sugar into one, and carried them into the living room.

“He sounds like a nice young man,” he assured, adjusting the nasal cannulas higher on his upper lip before taking the cup from you.

Narrowing your eyes with wisdom beyond your years, you informed him, “They always do,” and placed the other tea on the end table between the recliner and couch for Robin’s mom to take whenever she wasn’t piecing together the answer for Wheel of Fortune and whispering it into the TV remote clutched to her face.

You took the phone from him and held it to your ear. “Yellow?”

There was a horribly sad sound on the other end.

“Hey! Hi! I, uhm, hey, it’s Eddie, I’m sorry for calling you, if that’s weird, but I’m–I’m going through a lot here”, he ended in a humorless laugh. “I-I-Adrie–So, look–Adrie, it’s okay, I’m fixing it–Adrie was on a playdate, and I don’t know, I think she got into a fight with her friend or something, and broke the toy they were playing with because she didn’t want to share, so she had to come home early, and now she’s upset because the playdate’s over, and the other girl’s toy broke, and–I already said that–but Steve and Nancy are going out of town, and I can’t find a babysitter last minute that will take her to their place, and Wayne’s out playing poker with his friends, and God, I–” He shifted, and you could tell by the fading whimpers that he moved down the hallway, and by the clack on the phone, it was his fingernails dragging along it as he scrubbed his hand over his face, desperate for someone else to come up with a solution. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m asking of you, but there’s going to be a bunch of guys drinking tonight, and I don’t want Adrie to be around that shit–”

“Eddie?” You didn’t mean to cut him off, but his panic was overwhelming you, and it was easier to concentrate on the one idea your brain latched onto without his input.

“..This is my only night I get to hang out with everyone,” he admitted in a whisper so shy you struggled to hear it. “I’m worried about her distracting me.”

You stared at the linen closet in the hallway to Robin’s bedroom. “I’ve got an idea, okay? Just hold on. I’ll be there in thirty.. maybe forty minutes. That okay?”

More movement sounded from the other end. You thought it was him hanging up without saying goodbye, but then you heard the sweetest thing.

“Miss Mouse is coming over,” he reassured Adrie, and the relief in his voice affected you in the worst way. Making you go all mushy when little Adrie’s hiccupy confirmation came from the depths of her face pressed to the base of his neck.

“M—ouse?”

“Mhmm.”

His hum filled your chest. Her noise of appreciation erupted goosebumps along your forearms. You were wanted–requested–and the square beads digging into your wrist had never felt closer to his, across town.

You addressed Eddie, “I’ve got a plan. Okay? I’ll be over soon.”

“Thank you,” he spoke into the receiver as you hung up.

The phone suspended on the hook in a weighty click. It bounced as you let it go, coil slipping from the table and falling to the floor. You asked your audience of two, “Is it okay if I leave early?”

“Of course you can, dear,” Robin’s dad answered, hoarse from the constant flow of oxygen drying out his throat.

“And can I borrow some of Bobbie’s old bedsheets?”

Her mom made a confused face, but agreed, “Whatever you want, sweet bean.”

–And thus, you had the catalyst for the second time you arrived on Edward Munson’s doorstep with your arms loaded with goodies–

He threw open the door with a dozen apologies stacked behind his teeth. “Hey. I’m sorry for calling you like that, she–”

The she in question came barreling out from behind him.

You dropped your knees to accept Adrienne. Discarding your overstuffed tote bag to hug her wholly; taking her into your arms, and consoling her with all the right words you prepared on your way over. “Hey, I heard you were having a rough day,” you said while tucking her into you tight. “You don’t have to be sad anymore. I’m here.”

Her cheeks had long since dried, but the whiny pitch to her voice teetered on the cusp of a sniffly cry Eddie had only eliminated minutes ago, after his speech about sharing. She mumbled against your puffer jacket, “You came to play wi’h me?”

“I sure did. And you know what? I brought you a surprise.” You flicked your gaze to Eddie to gauge his reaction, and your breath hitched at the beauty of his relief. Standing tall in the doorway over you and his daughter, taking a moment of peace with his eyes closed, mouth in a gentle line, and relaxation easing the near-permanent creases between his brows. The pleasure of a small break from parental duties affected him so physically, you could behold him for hours. Or tell him to go have a cigarette.

However, impatient as any four-year-old, Adrie wriggled in your arms for your attention, and asked what you brought.

Opening the tote, you took out patterned bedsheet after bedsheet. Stars, flowers, cowboys–as many as you could fit, and held them up. “Do you know what we’re gonna make with these?”

“A fort?” she asked, hopeful and bouncing with energy.

“A fort!” you repeated. “We’re gonna build a blanket fort! And I brought movies for you to–”

She grabbed the sheets and took off for her bedroom.

“Okie dokie.” You pushed yourself up from the concrete steps, and fanned out the rented VHSes like a deck of cards to show Eddie instead. “Sorry it took me so long, I stopped by Family Video on my way here. Has she seen these?”

He read the white clamshell packaging, and the dimple on his left cheek developed. “She has,” and before you could react, he pressed on with a reassurance, “but don’t underestimate how many times a kid can watch the same movie and never grow bored of it.”

“Good to know!”

Like that; intuitive, second nature; Eddie knew when he gave you news that could be disappointing, he chased it with a thoughtful remark, validating your considerate gesture.

You slipped them back into the bag, and shouldered it. “I was thinking we could move the TV and VCR in her room, and build a fort around it with a pile of blankets on the floor for her to sleep on like she’s camping. Super cozy. Maybe some string lights if you have some from Christmas?”

“That..” The subtle arch in his eyebrows climbed higher as his eyes drifted closed in true appreciation. “That sounds like a perfect plan.” And his face went apologetic again. “And yeah, thank you for coming early. I was trying to send Adrie on a playdate so she’d come home tired and want to sleep while we’re playing, but, yeah, that went to shit, and then I tried calling her usual babysitters, but they couldn’t watch her at their places, and my uncle’s gone until the morning, and Steve and Nancy are–”

Interrupting him, you stepped into the doorway, and he moved to accommodate you. “Next time,” you said, cupping his upper arm, “just call me first.”

You squeezed and trailed your fingers down his sleeve as you let the moment mature in traces of your fingertips brushing over the thick poly-cotton of his sun-bleached black hoodie missing its drawstring. He prized the moment by memorizing the angel the universe blessed him with; and you were rooted by his gaze, driven to wonder about the ardency which he watched the minute press of your lips when you swallowed, and the coincidence of his own lips twitching into a jumpy smile.

“Let me show you Adrie’s room.”

His home was much the same as when you left it. There was a pillow and blanket tossed on the corner of the couch, a Little Mermaid plate and fork dripping in the dish rack, an assortment of clean clothes piled into a laundry basket on top of the washing machine. Though, Adrie’s toys were put away and the bathroom sink was scrubbed clean of children’s bubble gum flavored toothpaste.

Eddie pushed open the door at the end of the hall, and for the first time, with the tail end of daylight piercing the burgundy curtained window, you saw beyond a few feet to the bed.

You wished you could say the precious girl in the middle of the room caught your eye, but realistically, your attention was drawn to the walls. Specifically, the amount of pink and white Barbie advertisements cut from magazines and special edition My Little Pony fold out posters lining every square inch of available space.

But the girly stuff ended at the height of the dresser beside you.

The bedroom was divided in half, horizontally. Above the mirror decorated in stickers and photos tucked into the frame, the ponies and rainbows ended there, obliterated by a sharp line of black. A RATT flag, Corroded Coffin banner, and printed images of paladins fought the encroaching Carebears and sweet things. Every heavy metal poster in existence overlapped the final push to the ceiling. You took it all in with an air of baffled amusement.

You waved a finger at the top half. “She uh.. a big Judas Priest fan?”

Eddie was already cutting his eyes to you with a sly smile, Adam’s apple bouncing with a mute giggle. “This used to be my room.”

“I figured as much.”

Mixed amongst the posters were guitars hung where only he could reach them, and there was an amp shoved beneath a white desk where his daughter was currently setting up her stuffed animals, picking up one to show you, then second guessing and putting it down.

Eddie vied for you before she could. “Wanna see somethin’?” he asked, walking around the queen sized bed to the closet. Accurately, you guessed he was going to show you a clue to his past, and stepped over the dragging corner of the blue and white comforter, shimmying past him to stand next to the small bookshelf, excitedly watching him reach into the dark abyss. From the top shelf he pulled a lump of jean fabric, and unfolded it, handing it to you. “I used to wear this every day in my youth.”

You pinched the article of clothing between the very tips of your fingers, and turned your head to cough. “Jesus, dude. How much did you used to smoke?”

“Way more than I do now,” he laughed.

After some heavy side-eyeing about his habits, you took a closer look at the garment. The blue plaid lined jean jacket had ratty edges everywhere it could have ratty edges; helped by its sleeves being ripped off, of course. A collection of pins and patches mirrored the ones on his (used to be) bedroom walls–before a princess ruled his kingdom, and fought back the dragons.

“You used to wear this everyday?” you voiced aloud, finding the sentimental value in touching something so dear to him, for him to hang onto it for all these years.

“Should I wear it tonight?” Taking it from you, he flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt, and slipped his arms through the vest, turning around to show you the Dio patch on the back, pointing to it with his thumbs.

You golf clapped. “Very cool. Very tough.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie faced you and tidied the stray waves of his hair flowing out from under the hood, raking his fingers through his bangs until they were perfectly messy, and again, it was one of those strange exchanges where your too honest gazes met, and he diverted his humble smile to the floor, shy and bashful, but not in pretend like before.

You were in his home, in his daughter’s bedroom, doing him a favor, which was feeling less and less like a favor, and more like a convenient excuse you both seized as an opportunity to hang out.

“Miss Mouse!” Adrie gunned for your hand, and embarked on her greatest effort to break you away from her father, tugging you towards her collection of plushes you still needed to be introduced to.

You gasped at the honor, and asked, “Do you want to tell me about them while I braid your hair?”

She lit up at the suggestion. Eddie wasn’t the best at weaving plaits, and she wasn’t the most patient, so having an unbiased party step in to determine whether it was a ‘him’ problem or a ‘her’ problem sounded grand.

And as you sank onto the edge of the mattress with her sitting criss-cross between your legs, it was obvious within the first few twists of the French braid sitting flat against her head, and curved perfectly over her ear, that it was most definitely a ‘him’ problem.

Behind you, there was a great sigh at your victory.

Adrie held up a brown teddy with one glass bead eye slightly larger than the other after surgery was performed on him to replace the one he lost, and said, “This is Mr. Bear.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bear,” you said, using your best Children’s Television Program presenter voice to entertain her. You threw a smile over your shoulder at the silliness, and Eddie was already looking at you, warm brown eyes shining with the same fondness as yours.

“And he’s married to Mrs. Froggy.”

“Wow, a bear and a frog.” You nodded, impressed. “I guess true love knows no bounds.”

Feeling like the third wheel to you and Adrie, Eddie moved into action. “I’m gonna go out to the shed and start bringing in extra chairs, and the Christmas lights you asked for. And, uh, here’s her hair stuff.” He handed you a basket filled to the brim with every style of ponytail holder a drug store could carry. “You two have fun.”

Naturally, as he stepped away to leave, you curled your fingers at him in a childish wave, while Adrie used Mrs. Frog’s hand to do the same, adding on a sing-songy “Bye!” to hers.

And what a delight it was to witness the beginnings of the red flush creeping up his neck as he took a final glance at you both smiling up at him, and he pinched the hood over his mouth to shield his crooked simpering from further inspection.

~~~

The gloaming sky dozed in a blanket of pink and purple clouds knitted together with ribbons of orange.

Eddie leaned in the doorway to the porch, resting his shoulders on the frame as he crossed his ankles. The backs of his hands stung from overwashing them during the dry season, but his palms were soothed by the piping hot bowl he cupped to his chest. His muscles ached from unrest, but he grew warmer with each bite of the cinnamon sugar toast he dipped into the peanut butter oatmeal. Maybe he wouldn’t have taken the time to wipe down the folding chairs from the shed, but when you asked if there were any spiders on them in that timid wobble of yours, he had no other choice. And he’d do it again, even if his body protested the entire ordeal.

Squinting into the beauty of the setting sun, he sighed. Adrienne squealed. You cheered her on.

The pain in his hands subsided, the clawing hunger in his stomach settled, and the soreness in his lower back relented. All his worries fell away when his girl was happy.

For Eddie, standing by as the outsider to the scene of you and his daughter bonding over the neon green bottle of sloshy bubbles, he was aware of the catch in your voice when you asked about the unicorn and learned of his name, Fluff. You released a tender ‘aw’ from the back of your throat, and oh, it fulfilled him in ways he couldn’t possibly articulate. A simple noise, and it felt like a hug from an old friend. A pinky promise. A rare complacency in his life. Ataraxia.

He sensed it more, and more. When you sprinted back and forth on the porch, blowing bubbles for her to pop before they landed on the ground; giggling, laughing. Giggling, laughing. And he was smiling, smiling. It was sweet, so sweet; this new loop he found himself in. Gone was the stress. You took care of it. You heard him say Adrie needed to be tired out before bed time, and here you were, standing at the edge of the creaky floorboards, blowing a slew of bubbles for her to chase in the deadened grass.

She complained, “I can’t–reach!” She jumped, and jumped, but the bubble caught the gust from her fingertips, and continued floating away.

“Use Fluff!”

Elated at the ingenuity, she snatched Fluff from where he posed at your feet, and she launched herself off the deck for the last bubble, popping it with the very tip of his white horn. “Yay!”

“Rad!”

He watched until your forms were bathed in dusky blue, and the cold swallowed your heaving breaths.

Licking clean the last spoonful of his late, late breakfast, he reminded you both, “You girls better get started on this fort before it gets too late. Still gotta set up for the game too.” After whispering a curse under your breath, you ushered Adrie inside, and he asked her, “Can you take this to the sink?” Remarkably, she took his bowl without complaint, but stood stock still until he forced out a pointed, “Thank you,” in a tone implying she should scram.

She snickered at getting a rise out of him, and jogged away.

He reached into his pocket for the object weighing down the front of his hoodie, and produced a tangerine. Juice squished from the top of the fruit where he stabbed his thumb into the rind, and the scent of fresh citrus filled the air. “The chairs are certified spider-free. Got them inspected by a professional and everything.”

Your glare was mellowed by sweetness. “My hero.”

“Daddy.” Adrie was back, and with one simple demand of her hand held out flat, he peeled faster, and dislodged two segments for her. She popped them in her mouth, and ran to her room.

Interesting..

Testing him, you held your hand out flat as well, and with a bored stare, he placed two segments in your palm too.

“Don’t worry, I won’t call you Daddy unless you want me to,” you said, tossing them in the air, and catching them in your mouth. And as the fruit popped between your teeth, and the cold juice gushed like ice over your tongue, your brain caught up to what you just implied, and you froze mid-chew.

Eddie’s expression morphed from slack-jawed surprise, to intrigue, to his lips clamped tight, body shaking with silent laughter. “What?” he squeaked out.

“Uhh–I mean–How about we forget I said that?” you offered, wagging your finger from him to you.

No way.

No way in hell was he about to let you live that one down.

He loved your blunder. Reveled in it, even. It was sweet, sweet revenge. Payback.

Eddie took you off guard by snatching your wrist. He drew you into him as he pushed off the doorframe, bringing you in real close, eliminating the gap between your bodies. His cheeks may have darkened, but it was his greatest pleasure to imbue all his wickedness into repeating the same word you used months ago when he was driving you to Adrie’s school play and he made a similar joke about your bike and riding a man to work.

His nose scrunched with wolfish satisfaction. “Never.”

“Don’t be mean,” you whined. Putting up a weak fight, you attempted to twist your hand from his grasp to–hopefully–bolt away, and bury yourself in a pile of bedsheets for the rest of eternity; just somewhere you could hide, and desperately avoid thinking about the delicious zing traveling to the worst places.

But he wouldn’t let go.

There was clear disdain in the way his posture stiffened the split-second anyone other than his daughter called him Daddy, but you couldn’t deny how good it felt to introduce the context of calling him such a name, whether it would happen when you were under him, gasping it into his mouth; or in different position, with your knees on either side of his narrow hips, bouncing out the syllables..

His breathing deepened. You squirmed.

Caught in each other’s trap. Impossible to look away, the sweltering fantasy sat heavy in your mutual gaze, wide pupils boring into wide pupils. Heartbeats pounding beneath the surface of uncharted waters. An intimacy to his study of your body language, especially when you tilted your head to the side, and the lingering wryness in his eyes turned curious.

Illuminated by the glow of the bathroom light above the medicine cabinet, the face framing layers of Eddie’s haircut brushed his cheeks from beneath the hard shadows of his hood, and the fog from your exhales mixed in the inky darkness.

Alas, the standoff came to an abrupt end when Adrie called your name.

“I should help her with the fort,” you whispered in a release of tension.

One finger at a time, he opened his harmless grip. “I’m gonna bring your bike up here in case the weather turns,” he said, voice the same as always when he had you this near; quiet, tame, cutting in and out in the vowels.

“What a gentleman.”

Definitely a gentleman when he bit into the tangerine as if it were an apple to distract you from his hand tugging down his hoodie to hide the hard outline stretching towards the thigh of his light wash blue jeans.

You sneered at the fleshy strings of fruit pulp gathering over his lower lip. “And by gentleman, I mean utter weirdo.”

~~~

By winter’s solid nightfall, most of the fort had been completed. Eddie visited the room to drop off the TV (after it had been cleaned of staticy dust clinging to the glass), and placed it and the VCR on top of a Coca-Cola crate at the foot-end of the blanket nest you created. At one point he grabbed his acoustic guitar from the wall, and brought more clothes pins.

You pinned the last corner of the sheet canopy above Adrie while she pulled her tea party table inside the fort, and set up her toys in the itty bitty pink chairs. She volunteered to string the twinkly lights herself, giving you an excuse to go to the kitchen where you could make the highest quality finger sandwiches as dinner for her and her cotton-stuffed guests. And by total coincidence, Eddie was beside you, hunched over the counter with a DND book opened to a page of illustrations with a blank character sheet to his right.

“Ham, mayo, cheese, and the thinnest layer of mustard,” he told you.

You organized the ingredients to Adrie’s sandwich and confirmed, “A hint of mustard. Got it.” Taking two slices of sandwich bread, you placed them on her Beauty and the Beat plate, and dipped a butter knife into the mayo jar, slathering a generous amount on one side. One the other, you merely suggested mustard had been in the presence of it with a single swipe.

He angled the book to you. “Which race and class do you want to play as?”

Looking over the pictures, there were more to choose from than you initially assumed, but there was a clear winner towering above the rest. “That one. The big green guy.” Apparently he was called a half-orc, and he was stacked with muscle on top of muscle. “I wanna be huge and brawny like him, crushin’ my enemies with my giant biceps. Like, everyone’s scared of me, but I save kittens on the weekends. Fighter type, or whatever’s the term. Melee? I wanna beat people up with my bare fists.”

Eddie glanced you up and down. “Overcompensating for something?”

Deflating, your puffer jacket swished fabric-on-fabric as you dropped your arms. You pouted, but the tug at his heartstrings went ignored as he rolled a large dice, and picked up the pencil.

So be it. It was your turn to sum him up in one glance. How his shaggy outdated haircut gathered on his shoulders, curtaining his face as he underlined words on the character sheet, not even paying you attention. How his jean vest paraded his music tastes under years of dust and a decade of smoke baked into it; offensive and meant to ward off others, unless they belonged. How he decorated his skin in macabre imagery, and wore his white tennis shoes with just enough dirt to show he didn’t care. How every denim item he owned came with holes. How his keys dangled from a keyring attached to his belt loop, so everyone was forced to listen to him expressing his apathy towards the world with each stomp, and rattle of chains swinging against his leg. How he bent over the counter with his hip cocked out, making his pants crease to his inner thighs, highlighting a particular package beneath a handcuff belt buckle. How he was decked out in his usual skull themed rings. Prickly, jaded, drives too fast, and has never heard of an ‘inside voice’ once he deemed you worthy of his boisterous ramblings. Loud, obnoxious, excessively weird when he was himself around you.

You asked, “Are you overcompensating for something?”

“I don’t need to.”

Cool, smooth, nonchalant.

I don’t need to.

Warmth flooded your abdomen. Heat reached your cheeks. Blood rushed, descended to the place your thighs clenched, where your jean’s stiff metal zipper went tight–and if you stood a certain way–the seam grazed over.

Rolling the dice again, his expression remained impassive as he filled in more blank spots, asking you in a monotone voice, “What’s your orc’s name?”

“Gary,” you answered in a bout of exasperation, annoyed he’s acting like he didn’t just say that.

There was no way you were about to be the one squirming again. After his teasing earlier, he deserved a dose of his own medicine.

Feeling undue bravery, you set the butter knife down, and rested your elbow on the counter, angling your body towards him with your hands linked over your stomach, wearing an adorably smug pinch of confusion between your brows. You were the example of casual when you asked, “Do orcs fight with a dagger? Maybe six and a half.. seven inches in length? Curved to the right? Real girthy handle?”

Eddie’s face lurched into wide-eyed awe at your bombshell of an innuendo. He turned his head slowly, frizzy curls sticking to his just-licked lips, fluttering in front of his gawking smile as he exhaled a stunned huff. His big brown eyes were alert with the thrill of the subject, and he stared, waiting for you to fold. You didn’t blink, acting classes coming in handy as his eyebrows climbed higher and higher, and you remained stoic, free of emotion.

A choked out– “I..” –came from his mouth, but he didn’t finish. He hooked his finger around a lock of hair, and twisted it, yanking more over the lower half of his face as he shrank into the comfort of his hoodie, leaving just his eyes visible.

At last, he answered, voice wavering high and tight, “A little over seven, I think.”

You lifted your chin, and rolled your lips inward, steeling yourself from voicing anything other than an impressed hum.

However..

Having a knack for bad decisions, you drew in a breath to speak–but Adrie came to your rescue before you humiliated yourself by saying something abhorrent like, ‘my, my, that’s quite a size,’ or ‘I heard that orc’s been single a while; what’s his skill level with that weapon?’ or worse, ‘need a second opinion on that length?’

“Are you almost done?”Adrie asked.

She sought the answer by snaking her hands under your jacket and clinging onto the back of your hips, making you jolt at her cold fingers creeping over your skin, and you stumbled after she trusted you to support her weight while she jumped onto her tippy toes.

You lost your balance, and your hero from further harm was Eddie.

Well, less of a hero, and more like he stood with his arms pinned to his sides, and took the brunt of your fall.

He released a painful wheeze from being wedged into the corner where the sharp edges of the countertop dug into his bones.

“Sorry,” you think you whispered, but maybe it never left your lungs.

You watched the subtle tic under his eyes when he said, “S’okay,” and the ‘s’ whistled sharply between his teeth.

It was amazing–incredible–to discover he had freckles sprinkled across the top of his cheekbones, standing out against the telltale shade of embarrassment. You’d never been this close to notice them before; near enough your nose tickled from the end of his hair. Never had the opportunity to catch yourself on his bicep, and feel the extraordinary body heat radiating off him, dialed on high from the last few minutes. And now you had to continue living as if you didn’t know his dick size.

Adrie brought you back to reality. “Can you cut off the top crust? It’s shaped like a butt, and I don’t like it.”

Letting go of Eddie, you reached for her, patting her shoulder for her back up and release you from this awkward prison. “Y-Yeah, of course. No top crust. Got it, little lady.”

She giggled and kept talking as you put an ample gap between you and her dad. Thank God she giggled and kept talking as you and Eddie regained some semblance of composure.

“Can you cut it in long squares?”

“Rectangles,” Eddie corrected gently.

“Reck-tangles,” she pronounced.

“Perfect.” He grabbed his pencil and dice, and picked up where he left off on your character sheet. And you were more than happy to play along, peeling the Kraft Single from its plastic film and placing it on top of two slices of ham before cutting it into long squares.

~~~

With her sandwich made, you and Adrie sat at the tiny pink table under the fort. Your neck ached from the constant hunched position, and your legs were falling asleep, but you’d deal with the pain if it meant having tea with the princess.

She tipped air from an empty tea pot into the tea cups, and Mr. Bear thanked her for his imaginary portion.

Throughout the play-dinner, Eddie was in and out of the room. There were noises from the closet, sounding like he was picking up shoeboxes filled with rattling items. The canopy drooped when he opened the top drawer on the dresser where it was tied. Musical notes from a wind instrument trilled from the living room.

After another bite of her sandwich–Oh, no, Princess Adrienne, I’m much too full, you may have mine–a ne’erdowell crashed your exclusive party.

“Hey, this is pretty,” Eddie said, poking his head inside; his grin lengthening into a frightful shadow from the Christmas lights stuck in his hair. He looked around at the hard work his little girl put into the fort, linking the bedsheets from his old desk, across the back of a chair, and held aloft by the dresser. The TV occupied the space one of his amps used to, and the nest of blankets covered what used to be a network of cords, albums, and magazines. But that was years ago. Now, his gaze settled on the adult woman feigning a long sip on her toddler-sized tea cup, and a hand smashed against his face–

Adrie shoved him out of the fort, and whipped closed the entryway bedsheet. “No boys allowed!”

“But.. I need to borrow Miss Mouse,” he begged in a pitiful quaver.

She cut her eyes to you, and rolled them into the next eternity (a move you’d become an expert in yourself.) You bargained with her in a haughty shrug, and after a moment of consideration, she drew back the curtain. “Fine.”

Making an unglamorous exit by crawling on your hands and knees, you accepted Eddie’s warm palm to help you stand. “What’cha need help with?”

“The folding table is behind the couch, and it’s annoying to pull out by myself with all the mugs in the way,” he explained on his way to the living room. “Oh, can you move that stuff off it? Yeah, just toss it in a corner.”

He used his shin to push the coffee table against the wall while you picked up the pillow and stack of blankets off the corner of the couch. But after collecting them to your chest, and the thinning pillow released a puff of air from its wilted self, you were struck with an array of scents. Hair products, cigarette smoke, vanilla, sour sweat; notes of exhaust, motor oil, and fumes.

It smelled bad in the good way.

The mix stung your nostrils, twinged at your eyes. But it was a comfort you hugged tighter. Familiarity you inhaled deeper. Home in your lungs.

You took his pillow, and Adrie’s kaleidoscope quilt with the tattered facing, and went to place them on the fold-out bed in the corner, assuming it was his; but as you neared, you scrutinized the collection of items on the oak nightstand beside it. A brand of cigarettes he didn’t smoke, a BIC lighter he didn’t use, a comb, and a clunky silver watch. And as you thought about it more, you saw the fold-out bed already had a set of sheets and a pillow balanced on top of it.

“Eddie, where do you sleep?”

There was much care put into your question, but the uneasy way it probed into his private life was evident in his change in demeanor.

He was slow to stand up from adjusting a side table out of the way, never quite unslouching the weight from his shoulders when he pushed his hood back to run a hand over his hair. The cuckoo clock on the wall ticked by as you watched him scratch his fingernails in tight circles on his scalp, roughing up his hair, never quite focusing his gaze on anything.

“Well,” he mumbled, gesturing at the lumpy couch cushions. “Here.”

Despite figuring as much, he never stated it bluntly, and to know another hardship of his reality squeezed your heart with sympathy.

He must’ve read the emotion on your face as pity, because his tone reflected an edge of annoyance; a deep-seated stress sneaking out when he spoke to those who didn’t get it. “Most of my paycheck goes to Adrie’s daycare. That shits expensive, and as much as I don’t want her growing up right in front of me, things will get better when she finally starts real school. I won’t be paying for that anymore, and I can start saving up, and maybe, y’know, start making some changes around here.” He spoke with his hands in a sad sort of shrug, waving at the trailer, though his gaze was cast down, and away from you. “But this is how it is, okay? I can’t do anything to fix it.” There was a haunting sort of pessimism that came from living in poverty. As much as he made statements about changing his life when he had more money, there was still the pile of bills in the kitchen, the numerous things in need of fixing around the house, Wayne’s truck on its last leg, and the fear of a random doctor visit wiping out his bank account. All of that resided in his tone.

You gripped his pillow harder, not sure what to say other than a hushed, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

At that, he shook himself out of ruminating on his situation, and saw you were awkwardly twisting the pillowcase around your fingers, staring at the floor. He realized he messed up.

Every bit of him went soft for you. “Wait, wait, wait,” he soothed, striding three steps to you and cupping his palms around your upper arms. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. Not to you. Not when you’ve been the sweetest–seriously, the sweetest, and most generous person to me and Adrie. It–It, yeah, it hits a sore spot, talking about shit like having to sleep on the couch, but I didn’t mean to speak to you that way.” He finished with a final, sweet, but quick, and enunciated assurance, “I’m sorry.”

Overwhelmed by the whiplash in his change of attitude, followed by his sincere apology, you stammered, “Oh, uh, it’s okay. I understand why you reacted the way you did. It’s cool.”

At an impasse, you looked up at him. He stroked his thumbs over the cool outer layer of your jacket. Swish, swish, swish.

More, deeper. Swish, swish, swish.

You understood.

This was our first fight as whatever-we-are, and I’m showing you I can apologize instead of brushing it off and forgetting about it like I used to.

It was the mildest spat, yet it was a milestone for him.

“Seriously, we’re good,” you said, crushing the pillow to your chest.

Shifting the subject, he lightened the mood. “Also, did I mention how much I appreciate you coming over early, and playing with Adrie? The whole fort thing, going out of your way to get her movies, ‘nd making her run around like a maniac? Genius.”

“Yeah, yeah, put it on that ‘thank you’ tab you owe me,” you teased him, pulling away to set his bedding on top of his uncle’s.

“Soon!” he promised. He tapped at the side of his head. “Got some ideas brewing in here.”

“Not sure if I should be excited, or scared.”

Ah, his two-front-teeth-showing grin. Your favorite.

He laughed, and with your help, the couch was scooted away from the wall enough for the wood laminate fold-out table to be wiggled out from behind it at an angle which avoided knocking the mugs hanging from the shelf above it. You draped a tablecloth over it in a flourish. Eddie pressed the wrinkles out of the grid pattern, and began placing miniature standees from the shoeboxes onto the squares; parts of a village, cobblestone fences, and characters to fill out the town. When he didn’t need you anymore, you went to check on Adrie, and the moment you crawled inside the fort and she showed you the pajamas Eddie picked out for her earlier, there was a series of car honks outside.

Showtime.

“You ready, Miss Adrie?”

“Mhm!”

Tires crunched rocks in the makeshift driveway. Engines died. Noises, greetings, Eddie’s happiness grew louder, and louder. A group sounded off. Several sets of shoes scraped the cement steps, and in the amalgamation of voices was one above the rest, “Hey, looking good, man. Haven’t seen you since you almost killed my elven ranger before Christmas.”

You crawled backwards out of the fort, and caught Adrie’s hand before she ran out of the room.

From the living room, Eddie sucked his teeth, and dismissed his friend. “You had it coming all night with the way you were walking around not checking for traps.”

“It was one time! And besides–” The argument stopped. His blue eyes went wide with shock, outstretched arms drooping as he focused on something behind Eddie. He lowered the two six packs he was carrying. “A girl!”

Being led by an excited almost-five-year-old, you bolted around the kitchen counter, and raised your eyebrows at the blunt acknowledgement of your existence. You looked at Eddie, whose entire being depleted with a sigh.

With his head hung, he swept his arm towards you. “This is my friend from work. She’s playing with us tonight.” And under his breath, he muttered to the young man wearing a ballcap over his springy curls, “Be cool.”

He shoved a six pack at Eddie’s chest, and pursued you with his hand held out. “I’m Dustin! Eddie’s friend from high school, and previous Hellfire member,” he said, displaying a mouthful of adult braces.

“Dustin, it’s nice to meet you!”

Repeating people’s names back to them was a helpful memorization tool, but as your gaze shifted, the nerves of making a good first impression on Eddie’s friends sat heavy in your stomach.

The other guys on the stairs came up behind Dustin. In a rush, you were introducing yourself to the beginnings of a crowd stomping through the living room. Exchanging names and smiles and handshakes, you gripped Adrie’s tiny hand for support and said, “I’m the receptionist at the auto shop, that’s how I know Eddie.”

The one who approached you last–Gareth, drummer for Corroded Coffin–snapped his fingers, and exclaimed, “Oh! You’re the receptionist.”

“Alright, alright,” Eddie interjected, body and voice between you two. “Beer goes in the kitchen, and I’ll order pizza in a minute.”

He passed off the six pack to someone else.

Gareth reached into his leather jacket with a wicked, lopsided grin. “I brought something a little stronger than beer.” Though most of your vision was taken up by the back of Eddie’s shoulder, you caught a flash of amber liquid in a clear bottle, and a black label.

Kneeling beside you, Jeff–guitarist for Corroded Coffin–tilted his head down so Adrie could touch the wooden beads at the end of his short braids, and said to Eddie, “You know, since we’re havin’ it at your place again, why not make it memorable? Or not memorable,” he joked. “Maybe a sip for every roll under 13.”

Eddie gave him the Dad stare. “You’re gonna be shitfaced–Adrie, you didn’t hear that–by the time this is over, and I’m not organizing rides for all of you.”

“I’m driving tonight.” Lloyd–bassist for Corroded Coffin–jangled his car keys.

“And so am I,” a girl’s voice came from beyond the entryway everyone was crowding. “Now can we come inside before we freeze to death, or do you really think you can take on another basilisk without my help?”

A round of laughter gave way to the next group entering.

SWISH, SWISH, SWISH.

The girl at the helm of the windbreaker brigade went to the kitchen to drop off the case of beer straining her arms. (It seemed that was the payment of choice to the host.)

Sensing you were lost to the sea of faces, Eddie laid a comforting hand between your shoulder blades, and drifted it downwards to the small of your back. “That’s Erica, Max, and Lucas,” he told you in your ear.

Max held on tight to Lucas’ arm, taking smaller steps into the mixture of orange and blue-white lamps flooding the room tight with bodies, and shapes she was unfamiliar with.

“Aw, don’t you two look cute,” Gareth goaded them in an overly saccharine way.

Max groaned, “I told him it was lame.”

Whereas she shrank into her black and neon pink jacket, Lucas scoffed, and fueled her disgusted tongue click. “Matching windbreakers should be the least of your worries. You’re playing Dungeons and Dragons. You can’t get any lamer than that.” To finish, he popped the collar of his in a suave swish, and guided her into the kitchen.

She made a gagging sound, and Erica made one too.

————

While waiting for the last guest to arrive, the front door remained open. The glow from inside etched the peeling paint on the stair’s ornate handrail in gold. Warm laughter rolled out like fog into the dry frigid night, where neighbors could hear it. See it. Feel the vibrations of Eddie Munson’s friendship, support, weirdness being celebrated. Witness the joy others could not steal from him. They could observe the vehicles parked out front, listen to the rapture of claps when Adrie performed a song and dance, and taste the bitterness in their mouths when Eddie “The Freak” Munson continuously found his gaze drifting to the girl beside him, who beamed at him openly.

————

Fashionably late, a loud car turned into the trailer park; the obnoxious kind, where the motor rumbled like a death rattle, but in a cool way, because it was made to sound like that on purpose.

Eddie looked over his shoulder, and raised his hand at Mike. “Hey, man,” he whispered, keeping their conversation separate while everyone else was exchanging stories.

“Did you wanna check out the engine?” Mike bounced his eyebrows, swinging the keys to his bright yellow muscle car. “I installed it a few weeks ago.”

It was a tempting offer. He wasn’t opposed to car talk, nor freezing his hands off to fawn over the modifications Mike made to his beloved 1979 Mustang while in the big city for school, and, of course, Eddie was going to give him his usual spiel about working for David when he came back to Hawkins. However, he didn’t want to abandon the newest member to their party.

“In a min,” Eddie said to Mike, motioning with his head to come inside.

Assuming he’d just tossed his girl to the wolves, Eddie zoned into the conversation again, and rubbed his hand along your back. His palm passed over the warm spot on your jacket where he was comforting you before, and he glanced around the circle of his friends–tightly knit, and grinning at you.

He assumed wrong.

You weren’t shy, or intimidated to be the new person in a group of people who’d known each other for decades, failing to be heard over their easy banter and inside jokes. No. They were hanging onto your every word.

The group had gone hushed, captivated by your life. You had a knack for turning the mundane into marvelous enthrallments of relatable spectacular. Every sentence was more entertaining than the last. The punch lines landed, and kept coming. You worked them like a crowd–and when someone else shared a similar anecdote, you were asking questions, getting them to open up, and take the stage. This was you. You were in your element. You didn’t need Eddie.

“Oh! That reminds me of this one lady when I was waitressing in Philly..”

“In New York we had these huge pigeons that would..”

“Back home, there was this place on the corner where..”

Eddie took his hand away. The insulated warmth dissipated from his palm as he let it hang at his side. Your rolodex of stories separated you from him.

“Dude, you wanna talk about bad dates? This one time..”

“And then there was this guy who..”

“–Worst kiss ever.”

Details were spared–maybe because both he and Adrie were there–but the story beats were like stabs to his stomach. Clenched, sinking hot with envy. It wasn’t like him. Not really. He didn’t think so, anyway. But maybe he was wrong.

Jealousy prickled under his skin at every mention of ‘home’ and ‘date.’ He didn’t appreciate the heat to his cheeks, nor the loneliness of his hand reaching out for Adrie, only for her to notice him with a sleepy blink while she clung to your hips, and it was your fingers rubbing her little shoulder.

Of course he knew the subject of your stories, of course he knew you’d been on hundreds of dates, of course he knew you lived a larger life than him, but he’d never had to listen to the yearn in your voice when you spoke about the things you missed. The city, the people, being on stage. Performing, collecting stories, having dinners at sit-down restaurants. These were eccentricities integral to your design, and Eddie Munson had no place among them.

“Hey, Wheeler?” The lump in Eddie’s throat grew. Even Mike was transfixed on listening to you, forgetting about the keys in his hand. Leaning closer, he tapped on his friend’s teal raincoat to get his attention. “Mike? You wanted to show me your–?”

“Right!” Mike whipped his head around, sending his shaggy haircut bouncing in freshly styled waves. “Yeah, so I started with..” he trailed off, walking down the stairs, and out to the yard.

Before Eddie followed, he surveyed the group; Gareth was snickering his way through a story, while the rest of you went nauseous at his description of getting eighteen stitches, and replicating the sound of the needle popping through his skin.

“Babe?” he whispered under the group’s grossed out gasps, speaking the endearment for you only. Taking control, in a way, of his shame by reminding himself he could call you by a sweet nickname, and you’d answer.

You divided your attention, tipping your ear to him, and tearing your gaze from Gareth’s bizarre reenactment of how he fractured his tibia, and settling your eyes on Eddie’s Cupid’s bow when he made a request, “I’m gonna talk shop with Mike. Can you take over here? Get people settled, and Adrie in bed?”

“Of course, handsome.”

For couples, this is where he would duck to give you a kiss on the forehead, or bring you to his side for a hug and be on his way, and perhaps you gleaned those tentative actions when he hesitated on the lean-in, and sat in the subsequent awkwardness of playing it off as a friendly pat on your back when he realized, yeah, he’d never hugged you before.

You diffused the tension by laughing at him. Great.

As he rolled his eyes, you stopped him from leaving, and stepped away from the group.

“Where should we put our jackets?” you asked, pinching the zipper of yours.

Eddie paused in the middle of his gangly stride, and glanced at the two available hooks beside his leather jacket. It hadn’t started snowing or sleeting yet, so everyone’s coats would be dry. “Couch is fine.”

You said, “Cool,” and plunged your hand. In the blink of an eye, you had unzipped your jacket, and thrown your arms back, wiggling it down your shoulders and tugging it off by the cuffs. Underneath your jacket was a tight white tank top and unbuttoned flannel. A nice, fitted, ribbed shirt. Lower cut than anything you had worn at the auto shop, and clinging to your chest as you arched your back and shimmied out of your outer layer.

His gaze stalled.

You didn’t comment on it. He didn’t say anything, either, when his focus snapped to your face, and he read your sly smirk. Adrie, however, grew restless.

“I’m sleepy,” she whined.

“Okay, sweet bean,” you said, besotted by how little her hand was in yours. “C’mon, we can pick out the first movie to play in the fort, too.”

Eddie, thankful to have a distraction, and even more thankful you didn’t call out his obvious ogling, sank to his knees to give his little girl a goodnight hug and kiss. Part of him missed not being able to sit on the couch with her falling asleep on his chest, but the twelve peppered kisses to her cheek would have to suffice. He trusted you to take over the last few steps of Adrie’s night routine without his supervision, and sat back on his calves–after doting over her one last time by straightening out the long sleeves on her pajamas, and twirling the end of her braid around his finger.

“Night,” he kissed against her forehead.

“Night, Daddy,” she kissed back.

Kneeling on the carpet for a moment longer, he ran his tongue along the sharp edge of his teeth at watching you walk away with her. He was hidden amongst the throng of legs, and deep conversation. Invisible for now.

Drop, by drop, his chest filled with tender emotions. A coffee pot of feelings he swore to suppress poured into his heart; brimming the edge, overflowing, bringing heat to those neglected hopes, longings, and desires. Minutes ago you spoke of home, and he was aware he was not owed the promise of you changing the location of home to within biking distance, but he could hope, because every second you spent with him and his daughter was another coin in the wishing well, sploshing the coffee over.

Soon, the overflow would trickle to his lungs. It would fill them up. It would reach his throat. It would coat his tongue, wet his mouth, and before he knew it, those confessions would be spilling into words for you to cup to your mouth and drink until you were as full as he was.

Or, he could suppress them tonight with alcohol. Just enough to dull the urge, but still act as Dungeon Master.

Or, the whiskey could loosen his tongue, and risky sentiments could flood over, one steady drop at a time.

Either way, he was drowning.

~~~

Diving into the true purpose of the evening, the party split between the kitchen and the table in the living room. Jeff went out to Lloyd’s truck, and brought in a long black case. Snapping the latches open, he took out an electric keyboard, and began setting it up in his lap while Gareth rapped his drumsticks on his thighs in a slow rhythm. In the bedroom, you fluffed up the blankets for Adrie to lay on, tucked the comforter to her chin, and brushed her bangs off her forehead while the blue flash of the Disney castle logo played across her heavy eyelids. Idling around the variety of beers on the kitchen counter, Max gripped one of the silver and red cans, and spun it around its plastic ring holder, straining to discern the label.

You came up behind her to let her know, “That one’s Bud Light.”

“Ew,” she frowned, “who would bring that?” She opted for the can of Pabst instead.

“Some people have no tastes.”

On cue, Dustin wove his way through Lucas’ and Erica’s argument over which Mortal Kombat character was the best, adding a quick, “Liu Kang, obviously,” and snapped a silver can from the ring pack. He looked from you to Max. “What?”

Shifting from the secret giggles rising in your chests, she shrugged. “Nothing!”

He squinted at her, not buying it. Cracking the tab, he took a sip, and then you became the subject of interest. “So,” he started, “how long have you and Eddie been friends?”

Perplexion drew Max’s eyebrows together.

Aware of where this was going, you got your own beer, and carried an airy, casual tone while popping the cap, “Oh, just a few months, since I moved here with my roommate–Robin, if you know her.” His expression answered for you, arching in an ‘ah!’ of understanding.

Max, though, was stuck on another detail. “Wait, you and Eddie aren’t dating? I thought–I figured since he’s never invited anyone here before, and his daughter was, like, holding onto you?”

“Yeah, Adrie’s pretty fond of me, I think,” you answered, hiding your own secret behind the glass bottle to your lips. “And Eddie’s cool, too, I guess.”

“Well, I don’t know about him being cool, per se–” she was cut off.

Blurs of black and teal tumbled in rivers of frosted breath, and clattering teeth. Mike shivered life into his limbs on his way to the sink to run his hands under hot water. Eddie’s cheeks and nose were tinted frosty red as he wiped the dirt from his numb fingers onto his hoodie, and pulled his wallet from the junk drawer to check it for cash.

His brown eyes zeroed on you first, Dustin’s wiry mug second, and Max’s tilted lips third.

As he picked up the phone to dial for pizza delivery with his grease-scraped knuckle, he warned in a playful inflection, “You better not be telling her embarrassing stories about me.”

“Oh, no!” Max promised him. “I didn’t even tell her about how I used to live across from you, and caught you–on numerous occasions–sweeping the porch while blasting ABBA, and screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs. While drunk.” She didn’t need to see him from across the kitchen to feel the heat of his glare, and duel it with another cool shrug, defeating him with ease when the pizza place picked up, and he had to stumble over his order.

Once the hurdle of dinner was out of the way, the drinks of choice sweated under the cozy temperature of ten bodies packed like sardines at the table, and with Eddie at the helm of it all, the game commenced.

He set forth a toast. Affection swelled in his even gaze sweeping over his friends who had come to join him in his home, acknowledging the growth behind his ordinary request. He couldn’t speak it without a nervous tremble, no, but they understood. They understood. With pride, his eyelashes twinkled at the outer corners where mirth gathered, and his broad grin creased a slew of Crow’s feet into cascading to his smile lines with his dimple nestled between them. His silent gratitude thanked the room, and when he reached Jeff at his right hand side, Eddie flicked his eyes to the opposite end of the table, and brought the whiskey to his lips.

The room refracted beautifully in the carved edges of the smokey gray tumbler. It was silly, almost, how the squat glass vanished behind his large palm and thick fingers. Sillier, even, when you noticed these things and your heart pumped a little faster.

Sat at the far end across from him, you raised your beer, and sipped.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages,” he spoke in increasing speed and passion, descending into a lower octave as he stood and loomed over his dividers of books, binders, and folders acting as a shield to his Dungeon Master antics, “I present to you, the port town of Irrilis!”

He bowed, and swept his arms over the miniature display.

Sitting back, he guided everyone into the scene. Between describing the smell of the briny sea, the itch of stale sweat mixed with dried blood on their bodies, and the creak of wooden planks under their feet, he expertly wove lore into details of the town, comparing the afternoon sun on the backs of their necks to the stares they were getting. The townsfolk were not expecting newcomers this evening, apparently; and to finish the introduction, he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed the caw of seagulls perched atop a gnarled bulletin board. When it became clear the fishermen were not interested in speaking to Lloyd’s tiefling, he asked if there was a guard nearby instead. Instantly, Eddie became one. He donned a constant salute, and rigid posture with a nasty curl on his lip, speaking in stunted sentences with a broadened chest.

Watching him perform was mesmerizing.

Your vision narrowed as if you were going lightheaded, highlighting Eddie at the center with sharpened colors. His broad movements coaxed you in, his ability to switch both his pitch and accent raced in your ears, his creature cadence hummed nostalgia along the back of your mind like an old memory of observing another actor on stage mastering their craft. Time forgot to start. He stole a glance in your direction and you were washed in humility. He was gauging your reaction to his geekiness, and whatever he saw, whatever was written in your expression, rewarded his vulnerability. Confidence set his face aglow; power in the way he beheld you. And you praised him by sitting forward, affixing him with all your adoration, considering yourself fortunate to be in his presence.

After all, you’d been enchanted by Eddie Munson since the first day he stomped past your desk with a fierce scowl aimed at the ground, and now? Now he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.

~~~

As with most DND adventures, the fun began at a tavern.

The group had spent too much time with Eddie as their DM, they knew the bulletin board was a red herring, so they explored the city until they found the seediest bar tucked into the end of an alleyway.

You were reading over the details Eddie wrote for you on your character sheet when you were snatched to the present by an array of sounds.

Eddie strummed down on his acoustic guitar, and silenced the vibration with his palm. He then plucked a slow, seeking, progression, circling back until Jeff harmonized on his keyboard, and they nodded their heads in sync while Gareth found the tavern’s beat with the ends of his drumsticks on the edge of the table. Lloyd angled his chair to put his guitar in his lap, and chased the melody quietly under Eddie’s, at a slower tempo.

To be captivated by someone, wholly immersed in their quirks and nature, is to cherish them, and as you played audience to your friend’s natural charisma and ability to impress you in new ways after months of knowing him, your chest panged with the ache to cherish him completely.

You were one beer deep on an empty stomach, and you were already intoxicated by him.

Their song continued as he laid out the exposition of the tavern, and as a party, everyone sat at the bar, or snuck around invisible to glean information. And that’s where you came in–

Jeff changed his tune to have a mysterious dissonance.

Erica’s rogue sidled in beside you at a table, and smoothly asked you a variety of questions: how long you’d been in town, if you knew of the disappearances, or had any encounters with the rumor of the undead lurking outside the kingdom.

You… You looked at your orc’s low intelligence on the paper, and seeing as how you were an improv artist, you roleplayed.

Inhaling a mighty breath, you filled out your not-so-intimidating frame with imaginary muscle, and shot out your hand. “I’m Gary!” you exclaimed, rough and tough.

The guitars stopped on a screech.

Pause.

Eddie covered his mouth. His eyebrows peaked sentimentally. And once his shoulders shook, and his snort squeaked out like a dying sprinkler, everyone laughed. In your periphery, they each reacted differently–all having their unique outbursts at your blunt introduction. Erica, too, giggled as she shook your hand. They were laughing with you. Definitely with you when Jeff chose a sillier ditty to play, and the guys matched him, upbeat and excited for you to wholeheartedly participate in their game.

Soon, your orc joined their party, and a series of clues earned from armwrestling other bar patrons led you down several paths to take, and after finding a lost tome near an underground jail cell (thanks to Dustin’s constant perception checks), your group was led outside, past Irrilis’ stone walls, and to their dying crops.

Mike scooped a collection of dice into his hand after, somehow, engaging in combat with a scarecrow, and began shaking them.

There was a bang at the door.

Mike jumped, uncupping his palms mid-shake, and the dice went flying. He caught three–snatched them right out of the air–and before they ricocheted off his fingers to add to the clatter on the table, he began to juggle them. One, two, three, four perfect rotations, and he set them down.

Eddie hadn’t yet stood up from his chair when his gaze wandered to yours, and he cut you a cheeky, significant grin. You shot him an exaggerated sneer in return. Stupid juggling.

He managed to not trip over the scattered mix of boots and tennis shoes mingling around the entrance, and balanced the exchange of cash for a stack of white cardboard boxes his eyes and handsome nose peeked over on his way to sliding them onto the kitchen counter.

“Orders up, boys.”

As grease soaked into paper plates, and another round of drinks were poured by Gareth’s heavy hand, you were all ushered into the next leg of the game.

Jeff played low notes as background mood music for your party when you came upon your next encounter: ghouls. They were low level, easy to defeat even if there were many, but it was an opportunity for Erica to teach you the different dice. Max leaned over, and helped you keep track of your abilities, and if you could execute them from where you stood on the grid.

When it was Max’s turn to roll for attack and damage in the rotation, she did so in a shallow wooden tray between her and Lucas. The dice tumbled around, pinged the sides, and came to a stop where Lucas could read the numbers, and do the math.

Least to say, she decimated her target.

Erica’s rogue on the other hand rolled a number Eddie was ambivalent towards.

“Convince me you can sneak up on him,” he proposed, squinting over his steepled fingers, and leaning back in his chair. They seemed to butt heads a lot, if her eye roll was anything to go off of.

She stood up from the table, and snapped her fingers at Mike to act as her overly large zombie. “C’mon.”

He groaned, “Not again,” but did as he was told, standing not unlike a limp noodle with a flat stare into the distance as she listed off her character’s skills for Eddie, and hooked her arm around Mike’s throat, bending him backwards over her pencil (pretend knife) to his back. She even shuffled him to where Eddie could acknowledge the poison on the tip of her blade would enter his kidney. He argued the undead did not have functioning kidneys, but conceded her efforts.

It was your turn next, but as you were mulling over the ghouls on the grid in front of your figurine, the rest of the table went silent.

The bedroom door creaked open, and soft footsteps padded out onto the kitchen vinyl. Eddie jerked his head up from behind the dividers. Gareth scooted his chair in, assuming Adrie was going to squeeze by on her way to her dad, but there was no need..

She wedged herself between you and Max, and splayed her arms across your lap. With her cheek to your thigh, she sighed, pitifully, “The movie stopped, and my head hurts.”

“Oh, no,” you consoled her in your silly Children’s Television Program presenter voice. “Is it the braids? They can be so un-com-for-table to sleep in.” Perhaps you instilled too much confidence in the pizza to soak up the alcohol, because you were now two beers and a few sips of whiskey deep into the ‘overly affectionate’ stage of your tipsiness. You collected the sleepy girl to your lap, and enveloped her in a bone crushing hug, rocking yourselves back and forth, fawning each other in a happy hum, unaware of the bewildered stares boring into you as you pressed a kiss above her ear.

The men around the table exchanged confused looks with each other, then threw suspicious glances at Eddie, who appeared struck by Cupid. The girls, much more intuitive and observant, smiled at the sweet scene.

She sat sideways across your legs, and kept a hand crooked into your flannel’s collar while you slipped the yellow bauble ponytail from one of her braids, and loosened the plaits. “Do you wanna roll for me?” you asked her, working through the tangles.

Thrilled to participate in her dad’s game, she woke up just enough to say, “Yeah!”

Max felt for your dice, and handed her the largest.

Instead of Adrie letting go of you to cup her hands around it and shake, she pelted it at the table, and after narrowly missing the LEGO skeleton standees, it came to a stop.

“Eight,” Lloyd said with a hint of regret.

You asked Eddie, “Is that enough to hit?”

“It, uh–” The table’s full attention turned towards the Dungeon Master. He dropped his gaze to his notebook, and traced his finger over the dog-eared page. The pressure of their anticipation manifested in his bouncing knee, masking the tremble that would be present in his words regardless when he answered, “Y-Yeah, yeah. That, uh, that hits.”

The party squirmed with awareness; pressed lips ready to burst.

Oblivious, you put the smaller dice in Adrie’s hand, and added up the numbers when she tossed them. “Eleven!” With your turn done, you unraveled the rest of her other braid, and combed your fingers through her hair, circling them on her scalp to give her some relief. Speaking to her, you said, “Wanna count to eleven while we pick another movie?” She started counting automatically.

There was another whisper in her ear, and she hopped off your lap with her arms raised. You cooed a small, “Thought so,” and picked her up, settling her on your hip. Knowing it was Jeff’s turn, and you wouldn’t be needed for a while, you pushed the bedroom door open with your foot, and closed it behind you the same way.

And the very second it clicked shut, the table erupted.

“Jesus, dude, you’re gonna impregnate your coworker if you keep staring at her like that.”

“Ew,” and “Gross,” came from Max and Erica respectively.

Eddie jolted from his trance, mentally erasing the sway of your ass from his mind. His cheeks seared vicious red at Gareth’s comment.

With more tact, Dustin lilted, “So, just a friend from work, huh?” His blue eyes sparkles with mischief, matching the upturn at the corner of his lips, foretelling no good from this interaction, either.

“A friend,” Jeff added, “that he has the biggest crush on.”

Gareth rolled his bottom lip inward, and cocked his head. “More like she’s his babysitter with benefits.”

Loathing the obvious sheen of sweat rushing to his face, Eddie warned him with a pointed finger. “Don’t call her that.” He swung to Dustin next. “And she is my friend, and my coworker,” he stated evenly, putting emphasis on the last word.

Being the voice of reason in these situations, but not entirely on his side, Lloyd told the younger members, “Around the time they started working together, he started coming to band practice not entirely in a bad mood. A few weeks ago, he was even smiling. Apparently they had this little Christmas party, and there was mistletoe–”

“Shut it!”

“You kissed her?” Lucas gasped.

Gareth was the one to knock the gossipy housewife wind from his sails. “No,” he scoffed with a laugh. “He was too much of a pussy.”

Several of the guys snickered, and one said, “So no benefits, then.”

Reining in his volume, Eddie warned them again in a low tone, “I’m well within my right to not want to make things weird between us if it doesn’t work out. I have to see her every day, regardless.” It was one of his oldest excuses in the book, and to be honest with himself, he dismissed it a long time ago. He no longer feared making things awkward, or tampering with your friendship.. but he wasn’t about to explain his real insecurities to so many people at once.

No one needed to know the true reason behind why he hadn’t asked you out yet.

No one had to know why he walked away when you spoke of ‘dating’ and ‘home.’

It was to protect himself, so no one had to look at him with pity when he explained he wasn’t a good enough reason for you to stay in Hawkins past the end of summer. Instead, he defaulted, “We’re just friends.”

Erica was gentle in her approach. “If we’re all just friends here, then why don’t we get matching bracelets made by your daughter?” On instinct, he tugged his sleeve over his wrist to conceal D-A-D-D-Y. “I saw hers when she was messing with Adrienne’s hair.” She saw M-O-U-S-E. “And if you’re just friends, why doesn’t Adrie ever want to be held by us? Or hugged by us? I honestly thought she didn’t like to be coddled by anyone besides you, but then that just happened..”

The questions sank in Eddie’s stomach. It cooled the frustration from his furrowed brow, and eased the tension from around his eyes. He didn’t have a satisfactory answer for the group, but he could share something close enough to the truth, it might better help them understand his hang ups. But first, he downed the rest of his double on the rocks.

Wincing after his swallow, he set down the glass, and ran the heel of palm along the edge of the table. “I’m taking things slow,” he said, “and you all know why. Okay?” Shrugging a bit, he lifted his eyebrows and spoke again to his binders, focusing on his campaign notes rather than his friends. “I only told her everything, y’know, about what happened to me a few weeks ago, so I’m still giving it some time. And, obviously, yeah it’s a big deal having a kid, and her getting attached to someone else.”

“Aw, he’s in love,” someone said.

Exuding patience by closing his eyes, he continued, “Right, so, if you wanna tell her some less embarrassing stories about me, maybe even make me look good in front of her.. I’d really appreciate it.” He ended with a beckoning clap, as if he were striking a deal with the blisters in his life.

“Or,” Mike asserted, “I can roll to hit this ghoul, and if it succeeds, you have to ask her out tonight.” Before Eddie could respond, Mike puffed a lucky breath into his cupped hands, and bounced the dice across the grid. “Thirteen!”

“Aw, sorry, man. Doesn’t hit.”

Vitriol bit into his snark, “Oh, really? Thirteen doesn’t hit, but eight does? Give me a break.” The more his face pinched into a sour expression at Eddie’s stubborn favoritism, the more wickedness laced itself in the Dungeon Master’s smug grin.

Gareth was contributing another goading remark about breaking strict rules if they benefited Eddie’s chances for getting good pussy, but the squeal of the door knob turning interrupted him.

It was noticeably quieter when you sat down at the table, beaming at the mixed signals of people avoiding your gaze, and meeting it with the type of excessive smile you gave a stranger after you were just talking about them behind their back. “So, whose turn is it?” Jeff raised his hand sheepishly. “Oh, you guys didn’t have to wait for–for me!” You hardly got through the sentence before you were giggling into your drink.

Fear not, Gareth broke the underlying tension. “Hey, did Eddie ever tell you he used to walk out on stage with a rose in his mouth, until” –he motioned at the corner of his lips with a grimace– “he cut himself on the thorns one too many times. Ow!”

Gareth clutched at his foot, and the men shot off rapid fire communication through sharp hand gestures, and widened eyes.

Jeff played the Jaws theme.

“Is that true?” you whispered to Lucas.

Lloyd shouted, “Can we get back to the game?”

Still red in the face, Eddie turned to him with his arms extended graciously. “Yes! Thank you! Let’s get back to the game.”

Adjusting his chair under himself, Eddie the Dungeon Master sat with the distinct grace of someone who went unopposed. Wispy curls of his hair caught the wind, drifting in frazzled layers wherever they pleased. The buttons and pins on his jean vest glittered, and tinked together. His lungs expanded with a long, held breath, stretching the black hoodie over his chest. When no one challenged his unceasing eye contact, he continued, “The ghouls were nigh..”

————

The night matured.

Dustin and Lloyd championed your party to an underground cave where the source of the undead were conjured. Eddie heralded your arrival by opening the box beneath his chair, screwing together something behind his barrier of DND lore, and bringing it to his mouth.

You shouldn’t be surprised by him, yet again, but the fact he played flute was just as adorable as his playful grin straining his plush lips to the metal, and his round doe-eyes flitting to yours, and away.

The notes he played grew increasingly haunting, turning intense during the battle with the necromancer who started this all. Then, as the foe turned to dust, Eddie trilled higher, and higher notes. Sillier, and sillier as Dustin looted the robes he left behind.

Everything about Eddie’s expression was impish when the group asked if the scroll found in the pocket was written in common tongue.

“Why, as a matter of fact it is,” he said, much too cheerful, and trilled an incensing measure.

He was being a menace, and the group began to sag with dread.

Dustin’s words were laced with suspicion and regret. “What does it say?”

“Let’s see! It says..” Eddie held up a prop coil of tea-stained parchment, and cleared his throat to don a brittle old man's voice, “I was a lonely necromancer who missed my wife, children, friends, and family. I was merely resurrecting them to have companionship, and you attacked me for nought. I hope you are happy with yourselves, and can sleep at night.” He abandoned the paper to incite violence in his quick succession of notes on the flute. “The dying crops are not my fault. The soil simply has too many minerals from the estuary near Irrilis, and the quarry to the north.” Peering at the blank sheet fallen to his notebook, he faked confusion, “And it says down here, in teeny-tiny writing, ‘You should have checked the bulletin board.’”

Dustin dropped his head into his hands. “You son of a bitch.”

The rest of the quests went smoother, you supposed. After returning to Irrilis and checking the bulletin board, the party’s findings led to the library, which led to a murder, which led to a mystery, which led to finding an object which had the group gasping in surprise. Apparently, the Crimson Order’s emblem on the second dead person’s body, and bite marks on the neck had a long history within the group. The next big campaign was vampire related. You celebrated along with them, cheersing the end of your whiskey, and chasing it with some much needed water.

~~~

Raw twilight bloomed behind heavy set clouds pulling flutters of white against the black.

The night winded down with more fetch quests sending the party deeper into the woods, and to the edge of the mountains. It would take several more sessions to cover the terrain beyond, or something like that. Something, something tales of a labyrinth or some sort before the vampire castle. Your memory was a little fuzzy. Going with the flow of music, whether it was the mellow strums of Lloyd’s guitar, the muffled notes of Jeff’s keyboard, Gareth’s battle march, or the dark piece Eddie played when he introduced an object of interest; your focus muddled with the jokes, the lore, the alcohol. The whiskey burned less, and the oaky honey thrived. You surrendered to the passage of time–interrupted, briefly, when the man sat opposite you answered every one of the boy’s questions with a riddle, and his rascally cackle at their irritation stole another piece of your heart. Falling deeper, and deeper. And deeper for him.

~~~

The early witching hours feasted on the weary adults who were no longer able to pull all-nighters. The game was over for now, and the group packed their things away.

Max asked you, “Did you have fun?”

“Yes!” you blurted. “I didn’t really know what I was getting into, but the atmosphere was so cool. Eddie really knows how to put on a show, huh? And hey, finding fragments of a dragon’s egg shell in a game called Dungeons and Dragons was pretty neat.”

Her laugh brought music to her affirmation, “Yeah, he’s a pretty good DM, and we’ve been hunting the dragons for two years now. Do you think you’ll play with us next month?”

“Totally!”

“Nice.”

Lucas dragged his hand down her arm, and placed the black and neon pink windbreaker in her awaiting palm. She zipped it over her cozy college sweatshirt. They were at the back of the congestion, shuffling around the living room, straying behind the chaos of stumbling adults doubling over to laugh at their clumsiness and inability to find their shoe’s match.

While waiting, you watched several of the guys clasp Eddie’s shoulder as they passed, and placed money in his hand. Oh. Shit. Your gaze snapped to the scattered stack of pizza boxes in the kitchen, and shame licked your cheeks. It never occurred to you to pay for your share.

Quickly, you found your puffer jacket under Mike’s raincoat, and wrangled some cash from the pockets. Your stride went wobbly between the table, chairs, couch, shoes, and bumbling grownups in the cramped trailer, but you squeezed your way to him. He was beginning his goodbyes smushed against the breakfast bar, not quite able to reach the front door just yet.

“Here,” you said, shoving a crumpled $20 at his arm.

Pausing his conversation with Jeff, he twisted to see you over the curve of his shoulder, and absorbed your apologetic face before noticing the money. His lips ticced at the corners. His nostrils flared with a soft snort. Amusement crinkled at the corner of his eyes. “Not from you,” he said. “Why don’t you go check on Adrie for me?”

“Oh.” A confused, maybe disappointed ‘oh.’ “If you’re sure.”

Fighting an internal battle, you stuffed the $20 in your jeans, and held true to your frown. You were about to argue, but your brain registered what he’d asked you to do. “Adrie!” you whispered excitedly, and made finger guns towards the bedroom.

You scurried (yes, scurried) off, and left Eddie to fend for himself.

Jeff was twisting his hand around his chin in mock rumination. “She doesn’t have to pay, hmm?”

“Not my place to comment,” Gareth said, about to make a comment, “but maybe you should think about cashing in those benefits.” He paused, drunkenness slowing him into a contemplative stare. “Or at least fu–”

“Anyway!” Erica saved the situation by pushing past all of them to wrench the door open. “Well.. that sucks.”

Icy flakes floated in pendulum swings to the ground, where they stuck.

Eddie stood on his tip-toes to study the severeness over his friend’s heads. The weather appeared to be in its mild beginnings, not yet falling in a considerable sheet from the sky, but still, he was a dad, and he was prone to worrying. The party hardly finished lacing up their shoes, and he was making them promise they’d call him as soon as they got home. They’d barely walked down the steps, and he was there at the bottom, holding his arm out. “Seriously, call me as soon as you get home,” he warned each household.

And it was only once the last car’s tail lights trailed red streaks over the main road, he went inside.

The trailer wept with emptiness. Remnants of being fulfilled remained–the trash, the lingering body heat, and stuffy air–but it sighed with loneliness. The trailer was pent up. In need of decompressing after the hours of putting on a show, and in a constant state of overthinking, entertaining his friends while fighting the itch deep in his chest that said ‘I wish none of these people were here except for you.’

The trailer longed for you, searching the couch, the card table, the kitchen where the bottle of whiskey was left behind. The trailer sought you in the corners of its belly, its lungs, its head, leaving the heart for last.

Eddie pushed open the bedroom door, and you were not in his daughter's bed. He lurched further into the room. Needy for the heart. And he found it. He found his home..

A pair of adult legs stuck out from the entrance to the blanket fort.

Judging by the angle of your feet and your knee tucked into the other, you were laying on your side. The powder pink bedsheet gathered in folds around your lower thighs. Strings of Christmas lights pressed against the shelter, and the TV flicked bright colors as it played a movie on a low volume.

Daring, his fingertips encountered the coarse weave of your jeans on his way to lift the bedsheet keeping your sleeping form separated from his greedy gaze. Stealing moments where he could be learning your face, placed a precious snore away from his daughter’s, sharing the pillow with her curls and unicorn hugged to her chin. Inhaling silently, and exhaling in a quick breath, not yet catching the sound in your throat akin to a mumbly whine at the dream playing under your twitching eyelids.

The sheet draped the back of his neck.

Risking, he traced the rugged outer seam of your jeans. Starting at your printed socks, and traveling up your calf, over the rigid mountain peaks of stiff fabric creased around your knee, and discovering the squish of your leg under his prodding. His eyes were trained on your face. He slipped his palm over your upper thigh. A gentle warmth of his presence. Next, he cupped the curve of your knee, fitting it into his hand, and he continued his stroke downwards, tightening his fingers to your shin, and stopping to squeeze your ankle. You didn’t stir.

He shifted closer, widening his stand and ducking under the canopy to reach your face.

Leaning over you, he anchored his balance to your hip, relaxing his hold on the arch of bone shaped like a strung bow, and dragged his other knuckles along your cheek. Three fingers worth. Three opportunities for him to press his skin to your hairline, and brush them along the flat plane before the adorable round apples he knew to be relaxed under the surface while you dozed.

You were soft. So unexpectedly soft.

Courageous, smooth peach fuzz welcomed a fourth knuckle. A simple sweep of the back of his hand to your face. Feeling you. All of you. Insatiable.

His breathing grew heavier at the hunger.

Stomach clenching from the craving of more.

Heart, starved.

It was animalistic, but you weren’t afraid. No, you weren’t afraid when you twitched and slapped at your cheek, expecting a fly to be tickling you in your sleep, but as you awoke, you prodded at the confusing obstruction, and glided your fingers along the underside of his. Plump ridges punctuated by hard calluses with scratchy outlines. You recognized them by touch alone, and fought through the pain of your bloodshot eyes to peer up at the man looming above you, and yawned.

“No boys allowed,” you whispered through the groggy haze.

Oh, he nearly let his tipsy tongue admit too much to your dopey grin.

Eddie could tell he was smiling hard enough his vision suffered from his encroaching cheeks. His eyes were inundated by his happiness, nearly closed to slits from how hard he beamed when he slid from gaze from you, to his daughter who enacted the ‘No Boys’ rule, and to you again. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, withdrawing.

He helped you stand. With difficulty. The whiskey hurled you into a premature REM cycle, and without consideration, he roused you from its depths. In your drowsy state, you clung to him for stability, depending on his chest to support you. Not that he was complaining. He was reliable, compensating for your swaying by grasping your upper arms, and teasing you with a, “Whoa there, silly.”

Stood outside the closed bedroom, there was not a chance for gaps to stop your lower inhibitions. Alone, you were together. In the same hallway where there was a thrifted painting of a lake scene hung beside the bathroom, a shelf with a set of wooden ducks amongst the ceramic knick knacks, a doorway where he ate his oatmeal while watching you and Adrie play. Those points of interest were all there; you were familiar with them, even if you struggled to open your eyes.

You fawned over him, snickering at nothing until your features tensed into confusion, not understanding the bits of ice clinging to the fibers of his hoodie, scraping at them with your fingernail. You collapsed into him more, leaning your forearms on his steady frame, rising and falling, accepting the lullaby of his pleased hum. The very outline of your torso discovered his, giving him a taste of your warmth; comforting you both with the actuality of such a thing. You skimmed your fingers up to his hair, picking at the sloshy liquid burdening the ends of his curls. “Why’re you wet?” you mumbled.

“It’s snowing,” he repeated from earlier, when the rush of standing whooshed in your ears, rendering him an otherworldly voice from beyond. “It’s not bad, but like hell I’m about to let you bike home in it. If you wanna give me some time to eat and have a cup of coffee, I can sober up and drive you, sweet girl,” he finished like hot honey.

You circled your palms over his pecs with the lack of awareness a blissfully buzzed person would for the lone reason of wanting to experience the texture of his hoodie burn your skin from the friction. “But wouldn’t you have to wake Adrie up to bring her with us?”

“I would, but she’ll be fine. She’ll probably fall asleep in the car.”

“No, no, no,” you shushed him, losing your merry smile for the first time in hours. “Robin’s working very, very, very late tonight. She’ll probably be off her shift soon. She can pick me up. And my bike can fit in her trunk, unlike your tiny car.” Many of your words mushed together from your drowsy, drowsy, drowsy imploring.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! I’ll call her, and hey, we can clean up while she’s on her way.” When his expression was less than enthused at the suggestion, you waggled your eyebrows, and bit your bottom lip, enticing him. “We can make it fun,” you tried. “You know, we’ll play music, drink some more, eat whatever pizza’s left.” You walked your fingers up his shoulders, and he smoothed his hands around your wrists, flattening your palms to his clavicle.

Eddie lowered his head until he managed to peer at you through his lashes, asking a condescending, but lighthearted question, “That’s what you wanna do? Help me clean?”

You reaffirmed, “It’ll be fun.”

“Fine by me, sweetheart. Go call Buckley.”

The plans were put on pause while you called the back office of the grocery store, but after a short conversation, and many twirls of the cord around your finger, your voice lightened with relief, “Thank you so, so much. I love you.”

You hung up, and spun around to tell Eddie the fabulous news.

The two glass tumblers on the kitchen counter were assuming. Filled with ice cubes from the blue plastic tray in the sink, and situated in front of the opened whiskey. There was a decent amount left–a fourth of the entire bottle, probably–and he didn’t need to hear you repeat Robin’s message about her getting off work soon to unscrew the cap and begin pouring.

No distinct emotion crossed his face when divided an even shot into each of the smokey gray glasses, and paused the bottle above yours to ask, “So, what kind of drunk are you?”

The ice cracked and popped as it melted.

“Giggly, touchy,” you supposed.

He tipped the bottle and added another healthy shot to yours. You raised your eyebrows at his boldness, and scoffed out the same question, “What kind of drunk are you?”

“Hm.” He propped his hand on the counter, and cocked his hip out, staring out into the living room. You studied his side profile from where you stayed by the telephone, most notably how his light wash jeans gathered around the bulk of his zipper again; hoodie tucked behind the handcuff belt buckle. The weathered silver metal glinted an edge of orange from the lamp beside the microwave, shifting as he rocked his weight to his other foot. “Stupid, I think,” he said finally. “I make stupid decisions, ‘nd shit.”

“Are you trying to make stupid decisions tonight?”

His features kicked up, and instead of giving you a verbal answer, he brought the bottle up and dropped his head back.

“Eddie!” you gawked.

Your mouth hung open in awe, stunned into silently watching the bubbles race to the top of the amber liquid chugging ever closer to the neck of the bottle being strangled in his white-knuckled grip. His eyes were screwed shut, body tensed and struggling to finish it off, lips pursed in a kiss around the opening. Each gulp sent his Adam’s apple jumping.

He threw his head forward. The bottle slammed on the counter, final sips of liquid sloshing in waves along the bottom. He caught the dribble falling from his chin with his sleeve, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. All of him shuddered. Teeth bared as he grimaced through the burn, eyebrows furrowed in mild regret.

After the last jerk of shoulders battling the aftershocks of disgust, you mimicked his parental exasperation, “What in the world are you doing?”

Making a stupid decision.

A tight line of water flooded his eyes. He ran his fingers over his shy smile, turning to look at you with a particular brand of sheepishness usually reserved for teenagers who were trying to impress their friends. “I only had two drinks the entire night. I’m just catching up to you.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He agreed.

“Bobbie’s still gonna be a while,” you said on your way to grabbing your drink, now wondering if you were going to be the more sober one in half an hour. “Shall we get to cleaning?”

He lifted his tumbler by picking it up by the rim and clinked it to yours, but refrained from taking a sip when you did. Thankfully. “Wayne’s got some jazz records in the crate next to the record player, where the TV is.. Well, where the TV was. On that cabinet beside his bed.. If you’d just.. Look over there.. Okay, why are you staring at me?”

Memorizing the freckle of the side of his nose to your heart’s content, you shrugged. “You blush a lot.”

“Do not,” he denied in a mutter. He felt his cheek, poking and prodding and smashing at the skin being tugged down by his pouty frown. “It’s just the alcohol.”

“Ah.”

You sipped, swallowed, and snickered on your way to the record player cabinet, weaving through the staggered chairs untucked from the table. You laughed again. Just the alcohol, he said. Yet, he’d been flushed red all night. Or, at least, since he bragged about his seven inches.

~~~

The soundtrack for cleaning was a 25th Anniversary edition of a label’s best live performances over the years.

Various artists scored the yucky business of folding and stacking the chairs against a spare wall, trying not to envision a spider popping out at any moment from where it may be laying in wait under the seats. A fun upbeat tambourine number played when Eddie knocked over Wayne’s beard trimmer in the bathroom. Wondrous vocals warbled against your game of wadding up the used napkins and tossing them at the trashcan, while Eddie flung the paper plates like frisbees until both of you tired, and threw them away as normal. Brass horns vibrated under your hands and knees as you crawled around on the floor, finding all the crushed beer cans. Lazy drum beats coaxed both of your languid movements into the sort of drunken erraticism that came from being buzzed, gesturing without much consideration for sharp corners, or breakable things. He packed away his miniatures while you wiped down the counters, and he washed the dishes while you attempted to sweep up crumbs from the grid table cloth and fold it into a neat-ish square.

The record stopped.

A break ensued. You drank the rest of your whiskey, and Eddie searched every pizza box, divvying out the last slices for you to share over wordless respite, heads drooping, chewing slowly.

After washing the greasy cornmeal from his hands, and wiping the flour from around his mouth, he suggested, “Why don’t you put on the yellow record? Third from the end, on the left.”

You found the one he spoke of–golden yellow–and put the needle to it.

Together, you hauled out the dense vintage couch the few inches it required; done in dozens of centimeters, yanking on the ugly upholstery until your fingernails ached, and arms gave up. Eddie was rushing you, annoyingly so. Hurrying on in anguish, the table was flipped on its side, and its legs folded in. It was stuffed against the wall after some difficulty (the mugs remained intact), and after shoving the hulking piece of furniture to close the gap, you fell to the lumpy cushions with an exhausted groan.

You went boneless. Arms and legs landing wherever. Head lulling to the side. Eyes closed. Relaxed. Drifting off to the place where you were in the blanket fort at an alarming rate..

The song switched.

“May I have this dance?”

You opened your eyes.

Eddie’s hand came into focus. He was bent at the waist, extending an invitation. Reciprocating. Making true on his promise for the dance he owed you. It seemed so long ago; back when you knew him as a single dad who was private about his personal life. Now you knew. You knew his home, his past, his trauma, his notebook, his friends, his band, his daughter’s favorite stuffed toy named Fluff. You knew his pizza order (cheese with black olives), his favorite color (deep, sultry red), his laundry detergent (Cheer Free for extra sensitive skin). You knew his body temperature ran like a furnace, you knew the knot of pink scar tissue on the meat of his thumb, you knew the shimmery flecks of butterscotch in his eyes when he went teary. In the span of a few days, you knew him better than you did weeks ago, before Christmas.

You took his hand. He helped you stand, and in a brave exhale, he held you in timeless elegance.

It wasn’t like the dance before, where you minded the respectable distance two coworkers should. No. He still clasped your right hand in his left, sure, but from there the similarities to waltzing in the garage differed. Reservation did not stop at the top of his neck, or his bicep–you switched your friendly clasp from those safe areas, to introducing your torsos, and pinning his arm under yours in effort to reach the middle of his back. He enveloped your waist, coaxing your hips together with woozy enthusiasm. Close, close, close. Handcuff belt buckle catching on your jean’s zipper at each pass until you began to sway in aching unison to Frank Sinatra’s Somethin’ Stupid.

You empathized with the heady flush pinkening the bulbous tip of his nose, and gazed into his eyes. Or tried. His eyelids fell in sluggish blinks, and his envious lashes refused to part. The sway was a shuffle. Your head was swimming. Failing to focus on one particular thing before your vision went cross, and the room spun, despite standing almost still.

It didn’t take long for either of you to surrender.

Rocking side to side–no turning, no pivoting–you accepted the innate desire to rest your head on his chest, and even from a distance, his pulse beat against your ear. Hard pumps of lifeblood under your cheek laid flat on the faded black hoodie. If you looked the other way, you’d see the jean vest reeking of cigarette smoke thrown on the couch where he discarded it before asking you to dance, but you chose to admire your joined hands. Preferring to learn the dry skin where a scrape was healing on his thumb knuckle–how small your thumb was in comparison to the single stretch of bone until the next joint, and his blunt nail. Maybe he was admiring such a thing too, because he stretched his fingers and curled them snugger to yours, and he set his chin atop your head, learning another new intimacy.

You melted under the burden of his weight.

He exposed the issue of your hair catching on the stubble of his five o’clock shadow.

You craned your head against the grain, and he nuzzled his chin harder.

Two people discovering their deprived yearns.

The sweetness of being crooked into the hollow of his body. The possession of snagging a full grip of his hoodie between your fingers, and becoming the reason he filled his lungs. Existing around him. And he existed in you, in all the unexplored corners, and you dusted the cobwebs from his. Fulfilling the dark places. Giving them light, and acceptance. Sharing the slice of night before it turned day. Swaying, rocking, swimming together in an inebriated dance under a tin roof, under the sprinkling snow, under the opaque clouds, under the crescent moon, under the twinkling stars. Under the universes, and hypothetical alternate dimensions and timelines, and as attractive as they seemed, you wouldn’t choose a different one. This is the one. This is the exact dimension, the exact timeline you wanted.

No longer wishing to lead, Eddie closed your fingers into a soft fist, and placed your hand over his heart, cupping his palm over it and stressing the thousands of unspoken words in his squeeze.

Basking in the minutes stretching to hours, the music looped into a perfect eternity.

It was getting late, almost time to leave, you guessed.

You withdrew your head. Eddie lifted his. The spot his chin once resided on your scalp ran abnormally cold from the loss, and there must’ve been an imprint of wrinkled fabric on your cheek, because that’s where his eyes landed first on their journey to meet your resilient gaze.

The beginnings of his lopsided grin emerged.

He spoke, and it was a single word. “Yeah.”

You didn’t know why he said it, or what he meant, but in this moment, in his arms, with your hand nestled between his and his heart, you agreed, “Yeah.” This was special. Whatever this was, this was special.

A huff of laughter broke through your smile, and his. Giggly silliness.

You were embraced from the top of your thighs, through to the slight proposal of your hips, and ending at the acute strength of your arms pressing each other closer.

Eddie raised your hand from his heart to his face. His thumb ensured your fingers stayed curled in, barring you from investing in a full, unadulterated touch. Wisps of his hair traced your skin. His exhale snaked down your flannel sleeve. Your inner wrist stopped at the slick junction of his lips, where he had swiped his tongue over out of nervous habit.

Oddly, he tapped your hand a few times to his cheek.

It made you curious. You copied him, bringing his hand to your face. Hooked your thumb under his sleeve to expose his wrist, and tapped it to your cheek. Ah, you understood.

Such delicate, unscarred skin brushed against the ridges of your lips, each tap like a kiss along the edge of your lovesick simper. Closer to a kiss than anything you’d experienced with him before. Still so tender, and so pure.

“Yeah?” A raw tremble was present in your question; gone shy from the profoundness of the single word, and fearing you were attributing the wrong meaning behind something so little, yet so large in your relationship.

But he saw the doubt, and he reassured you, “Yeah.” By the wetness glossing over his eyes, he reassured you your assumptions weren’t wrong. He whispered it again, softer, to where the one syllable croaked out, “Yeah.”

This was special.

The alcohol sat like candor on your tongue. “Wanna know a secret?” you teased as you let go of his wrist, and guided your hands up to his nape, linking your fingers over the bulky hood prohibiting you from playing with the sensitive hairs on the back of his neck. He slung his arm around your waist, over top of the other, encompassing you in a true hug.

He squinted at you. “How drunk are you? Don’t go tellin’ me somethin’ you’ll regret in the morning.”

“It’s nothing like that, I swear.” There was a flirty whine to your pitch, and even flirtier breathiness to your voice. Encouraging him to maintain the sway, leading him side to side, foot to foot, taking advantage of flow to put an arch in your back, and rise onto the balls of your feet, undetected. Your heart skipped at the proximity. “You know how I said my top three favorite people were Robin, Adrie, and then you?” you reminded him. “That’s actually backwards.. I said it backwards. It’s actually you, Adrie, and then Robin. But don’t tell her that.”

His mouth hung open to respond, but his gaze was off, discerning something behind you in the distance. When he centered on you again, there was a new kindness to the wrinkles framing his handsome face. “Are you okay with sharing my number one spot?”

“I would be honored.”

“Good,” he emphasized, “I’d be heartbroken if you didn’t want to be my favorite.”

“I always want to be your favorite,” you preened.

The innocence slipped from his expression. He’d never heard you sound quite so needy, or eager to be something of his, and the effects were sudden and poorly timed.

Outside, rocks skidded on the cracked pavement. A car turning in from the main road sunk into a pothole, and bounced out. The music spinning on the record player crescendoed. The fluorescent bulbs in the lamps hummed with electricity. Scents of acidic tomato sauce and oregano were inescapable. Tiny pellets of hail pinged on the tin roof. You both looked up, listening to it pass after a drifty-cloud moment.

Eddie concentrated on keeping your chests together. His forearms dug into your waist as he found the best way to lock his grip. He dipped his head lower when you had no choice but to lean up, and into him. “If I give you my number, will you call me when you get home, so I know you made it safe?”

Every consonant and vowel vibrated in your skull, thrumming velvety richness through the daze.

“I already have your number,” you said amongst the warmth building, and building behind your rib cage.

He faltered, confused. “You have my number?”

“Mhm, an even bigger birdie told me.”

Both bewildered by the callback, and having a tendency to fall head over heels for anything and everything you did, regardless if it was an unsatisfying answer or not, Eddie snorted, and scrunched his face, observing you with all the judgment you earned. “That’s either really creepy, or really endearing.”

You dropped your gaze to his crooked smile, and the car approaching the blue and white trailer faded away.

His lips were gorgeous. Overly full, and a wonderful shade of fleshy red with a tint of pink. They were bitten. Chewed on when his nerves got the best of him. Behind them, the edges of his teeth showed. Above them, you put your energy into obsessing over his overly large nose, as you had in many instances, but never at this distance, able to see every pore, every freckle, every splotch, and realizing this could become a normal occurrence, being this close.

His eyes were overly large as well, and they followed each micro-tic of yours.

“Good thing you find me endearing, then,” you provoked.

He loved that response.

“I do,” he chased. “I do,” he gave in. The willpower to resist his urges crumbled at the admission. He pressed his forehead to yours, and conceded until his mouth ached with happiness, “I find you so endearing.”

The alcohol dulled the intimate gesture. The top layers of your skin were numb. You had to work harder to feed the starvation; grinding your forehead against his, digging deeper to feel the itch of his bangs stuck to the glisten of boozy sweat. Sliding your nose alongside his, smashing the tips to each other’s cheeks. Sharing the same breaths, panting feathery sighs into each other’s mouths. Then, another carnal bump of noses, clumsy and misaligned, and a hard rut bone on bone until your bodies tingled with satisfaction. Satiated. Full.

Eddie turned his groan into a ragged, “I fucking adore you.”

“I adore you, too,” you promised, on the verge of crying and not knowing why.

He pulled away, dragging the tip of his nose up the side of yours, and tracing it down, allowing them to stay connected for a moment longer. A cooldown while your stomach flipped, and your pulse raced. I adore you.

The whole thing was strange to do with your coworker, especially with your hands remaining latched where they were, and there was no grinding elsewhere; it was just sheer lust for touch. Mutual, too.

His overly large pupils bored into yours. Neither of you had appropriate commentary on what transpired, probably for the better.

A car engine rumbled outside.

“Yeah, I’m pretty toasted, I think,” you said.

He pinched his eyebrows in, and pursed his lips. “Think I am, too.”

Either way, it was a good excuse for you almost moaning his name, and him choosing to hinge his phrase on adore, as if the endearment couldn’t be swapped out, and suddenly, the entire sentiment would have changed. It would be a confession.

There was a knock on the door, and Robin’s voice came muffled, but the urgency of being stuck out in the cold was conveyed.

Both of you hastened separating yourselves, and fumbled around each other.

Always, Eddie was a gentleman and helped you put on your jacket after you argued he was way more plastered than you were, despite you being the one doubled over with your hands on your knees, wobbling, disoriented after reaching down for it. He made sure you were dressed before going outside. Zipped you all the way to your chin, even when you complained it looked dorky. He lined your shoes up for you, and waited for you with his eyes closed, drifting off to a dream while standing up.

He handed you off to Robin, and loaded her trunk with your bike. For whatever reason, you didn’t climb inside the car yet. You waited in the snow for him. Collecting glittery flakes on your eyelashes, inhaling the fresh, crisp air. Probably quelling the nausea, same as he was, taking gulps of oxygen while he blinked, and blinked, searching the swirling images for something his brain could comprehend to get it to stop.

You waited for him, never saying anything. In heavy steps, he came to you, and wedged his fingers under the door handle, popping open the latch with an expression of wryness, as if you expected him to open every door for you.

Which, he would, for the record.

Stopping you before you sat, he grabbed at your jacket and bent himself to you, no longer afraid to press the cold tip of his nose to the shell of your ear, and drag his lips over the peach fuzz as he spoke directly to you. “Call me,” he stressed against your shiver.

“I will.”

At that, he shut your door and Robin began backing out of his driveway, stunting his wave goodbye from the headlights blinding him. He moved to the stairs, then to the top of the landing to watch the car drive around the soft bend around the trailers, and out onto the highway, leaving him behind.

He entered the trailer, and it was full.

It felt full, anyway. In his stomach, his chest, behind his eyelids, in the dusty corners, in the mortal hollows, manifesting a tightness in his throat, and a contradictory heaviness to his weightlessness, floating on clouds after spending an entire day with his crush and ending it with I adore you.

Eddie brushed his hair back, neatening the tangles wetted by ice. He combed his bangs off his forehead, and drove his fingers against his scalp, leaving his hands on top of his head, stripping himself of the extra stimulation to hone in on the persistent throb between his brows where you staked your claim.

You had made your home there, and he couldn’t wait for your return.

“Jesus Christ.”

With his woolgathering out of the way, he went to where Adrie was half-asleep in the doorway to her bedroom, and he crouched onto his knees. “Were you watching us dance?”

Wrapped in a blanket and sitting slumped over, she nodded against the wood frame, and sucked in the drool threatening to spill over her bottom lip. Only having the energy to open her eyes a smidge, she still found it within herself to have gripes with him. “You didn’t let me say bye.”

“I’m sorry,” he pouted in a silly deep voice.

Stooping further, he worked his arm under her legs, and collected the sleepy bundle that was his daughter to his chest. He shuffled along on his knees over to the fort, and man, did he understand why you fell asleep so easily in the blanket nest. Just the accidental touches when he set Adrie down called to him, as did the bleating sheep hopping over fences in his head. It was enticing.. but the phone was ringing, and the first check in of the night as calling.

He knew it wasn’t you, but his heart leapt all the same.

“Sorry the phone might ring a lot,” he said. “Do you want another movie on? I’ll put another move on so it doesn’t wake you, okay?”

She scrunched her nose in a bad way, not like he did when he was laughing. Probably from the alcohol on his breath, and his waning coherency.

He stowed away his kisses for now. “Sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye, but I promise you, I promise you, okay? Miss Mouse will be back soon.” That was the heaviness in his chest. The decision. “I’ll invite her over, and we can all play together, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she mumbled, loosening her grasp on his hair.

She was out, and he paced the kitchen while he chatted to stay awake.

————

Eddie sat at the small green table with his head resting back against the peeling wallpaper. A single light above the wrap-around counter skimmed the belly of the trailer. It traced the bubbles slipping down the bottle in front of him, and glanced the top of his pillow on the couch, submitting to the darkness past his plaid blanket waiting for him. The phone cord draped over his shoulder, down to his chest. The last call was half an hour ago. Maybe? He knew his last swig of whiskey was seconds ago. Everyone had checked in, and his ability to show an ounce of self-control was forfeited to the sheep. In his final blink, his body went lax, and he passed out.

Though, he could always count on the clangy ring to cut through their bleats.

Jolting awake, he searched above him for the phone, knocking it off the hook before it disturbed Adrie.

He was disoriented.

“Hello?”

Quiet as a mouse, a voice came, “Hey.”

He sat up. Alertness spread through him in waves, rippling from the decision sitting hot on his tongue, and stirring deeper, lower. Your greeting was filtered by the tiny microphone caged in yellowed plastic, but the dozy, sweltering rasp was there. “Hey, sweetheart,” he answered in kind, and inhaled deeply before the blood loss in his brain rendered him lightheaded.

One word in and he was wiping his palm on his jeans, and keeping it there, on his thigh.

“Sorry it took me so long,” you apologized in a whisper. “I wanted to wait until everyone went to sleep. I’m in the living room. In the dark.” You giggled as if it were a joke he should be in on.

He peeked behind him to make sure the bedroom door was shut, and wrenched the phone against his lips to stifle his own laughter. “Yeah? I’m sitting in the dark, too.”

You hummed.

He didn’t know if you were making a pass at him by mentioning you were alone as he was, so he chose something innocuous to comment on, bouncing the ball in your court. “You sound tired, baby. You should go to bed.”

“But my bed’s cold,” you whined.

Bingo.

Risks were worth taking as long as you participated.

In a matter of quick exchanges, he had his palm between his thighs, running his fingernails down the coarse fabric of his jeans and cupping the heft. “My bed’s cold too,” he matched your pitch, exploring his thumb upwards.

“If you were here, mine wouldn’t have to be..”

“But you live in someone else’s parent’s attic,” he teased.

“And your bed’s a couch,” you shot back.

He checked the closed door behind him one more time, and yielded, “You’re right.” You liked being right. He liked it when you were right. Your grin tinted all your pretty words when you were right. Well, they would, if you were speaking. “Babe?”

“Sorry, that was quick,” you said, struggling through a yawn after nodding off. “I’m laying on the recliner, and it’s really comfy.”

“Then go to sleep,” he implored in a chastising snicker.

You grunted.

Except, it didn’t sound like the other grunts and groans he’d heard you make over the months. This one was sweeter, higher, similar to the airy catch in your throat when your bottom lip dragged on his stubble. A moan of his name, he hoped. He twitched against the warmth of his palm. Growing rapidly under the first strokes of his thumb encouraging his descent, half-hard just at the thought.

How much whiskey he had was of no concern when it came to you. Clearly.

He couldn’t stop his appetite from lowering his voice, “Whatcha doin’, sweet girl?”

You turned it back on him, “What are you doing?” And when he was busy rearranging how he sat to give his jeans some slack to wrap his thick fingers around himself, you mused with an evident smirk, “Touching your orc dagger?”

Goddamnit. “If you ever bring that up again, I swear..”

“You must be, with how you’re avoiding the question.” You muffled your giggle��probably with your shirt collar, if he had to guess. Teasing him more, you slurred, “S’okay. I saw how hard you were staring at my shirt earlier. Just thought you’d like to know I’m not wearing it anymore. Not wearing a bra either.”

You’re right. He did like knowing that. So much, in fact, he smoothed his fingers in a long tug along his length, stroking twice over the sensitive head, and repeating.

“Not wearing anything?” he asked, sounding a bit more husky than he intended.

“Just the flannel. Gotta be a little dressed.. in case someone comes in.” You shifted in the middle of your sentence, and at first Eddie pictured you turning onto your back. Imagining your tits shifting against the flannel, and their subtle bounce as you got comfortable. How hard your nipples pressed to the fabric, and what they must feel like being licked and sucked into his mouth, and all the beautiful noises you’d make for him. Unfortunately..

“Touchin’ yourself for me, sweetheart?” Nothing.. “Sweetheart?” Oh.. “You fall asleep again?”

An actual grunt, maybe a hiccup, or a snore created static on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” you sincerely apologized.

Poor sweet thing. “Tell you what,” he reasoned. “Why don’t you go to bed, and think about how nice it’d be for me to be there with you; how warm I am. And I’ll take a shower, and do the same.”

You asked, “You mean you’re gonna think about me while in the shower?”

He squeezed himself. “Yes,” he answered truthfully. There was no fucking way either of you’d remember this by Monday morning. It was kinda thrilling; obeying the allure, and teasing each other without consequence.

“Nice.”

“Mhmm.”

Eddie closed his eyes in the following silence. The fantasy drifted to something tender. Sharing a bed. Waking up next to you. The alcohol made it difficult to remember why you called, and fathom why he was holding a conversation. His own hand went slack around the part his heart pumped blood to. The urge passed. The desire to brush his teeth replaced the lust. He was drunk, and he was losing the battle to remain conscious.

His body slouched ever forward.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t stay awake.”

“Neither can I..” Not that it mattered, but before the conversation ended and he summoned the strength to collapse on the couch instead of the green table for the sole reason of never wanting his daughter to discover him passed out in the kitchen from drinking too much, he heeded the heaviness in his chest. The decision. And he told you, “By the way, I thought of what to do for that ‘thank you’ I owe you. It’s time I pay you back for everything you’ve done for me.”

Processing his words at a slower rate, a few moments ticked by before the intrigue ate at you. “And what’s that, handsome?”

He smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

You snorted. “It’ll be a surprise if either of us remember anything after I failed nine rolls in a row, and you chugged.. Fuck, however much whiskey you’ve had. I don’t even wanna know.”

In a night of stupid decisions, he committed to one more; the joke was too good to not tumble past his loose lips, “Not enough to stop my orc dagger from growing seven inches.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, that was awful. I’m never calling you again. Goodbye.”

The speed at which you hung up sent him doubled over, clutching his aching stomach. He tried to keep quiet, really. He held onto his dignity just long enough to take three attempts to hang up the phone, and then it hit him with reckless abandon. He slapped his hand over his gaping mouth, and shook until the breathless gasps came out in squeaks, ugly laughing at his own stupid joke. He rocked back and forth, almost hitting his forehead on the table, and only caught his breath when tears brimmed his lashes, and he remembered his forehead was sacred, and he should stop. If he hit it, it’d be like an earthquake to your home. Except, that imagery also made him giggle, and he was at it again. Biting his tongue to subdue his outbursts while he stretched out on the couch cushions which rubbed his skin raw everytime he changed position. Finally, he was at peace. He tried to forget about the impending hangover he was going to have to explain to Wayne, and instead, he thought about you, and let his daydream take him to a fantasy where he could wake up next to you. And if he went through with his decision, maybe it could become a reality.

No. Not if. He would. He would go through with it. Probably. If you asked about it, he would, definitely. If you didn’t, he’d.. he’d still do it. He couldn’t keep living like this.

However, for both your sakes, he hoped neither of you remembered this night come Monday morning.

[samandcolbyownme]

Summary: anon request - "can you do one where y/n likes Colby and he likes her but they don't really do anything about it but flirt until they're at the spot and a ghost/demon thing (you can completely make up the scenario), torments and targets y/n to the point she's crying and runs out with Colby chasing after her? Pleaseeeee"

Warning: This one shot will start out kinda funny and flirty between reader and Colby, but it will get dark and contain the reader being targeted by the spirits and some actions include; being touched, pushed, choked, scratched, spoken to, and other things some readers might find a bit creepy. There will also be mentions of murder at the place of exploration and other bad things some readers may be triggered by.

Read with care my lovelies!

Word count: 10.3k

Disclaimer: I completely made this story up!

"We're going to explore the Hellriegel Manor in a few days.. you in?" Colby says on the other end of the phone. You smile to yourself and sigh, "I suppose I can make time in my very busy schedule for you."

You are always up for doing a video with them, even hanging out with them off camera. You've known them for a while, so sleeping over at their place or in the same tent while in the middle of some haunted woods wasn't that big of a deal, or so you thought.

"You better, y/l/n. We need you on this one." Colby chuckles to myself, "Plus, we kinda miss you out here."

You liked Colby, a lot actually. Sam is always teasing you guys, mainly because he knows he likes you too, but you both always shoot it down for stupid reasons.

You thought that maybe it would be best if you just kept him as a close friend, but the light flirting and how comfortable you are with each other makes it incredibly hard, not to mention, you and Colby are always thinking about each other though, especially when you crash at their place, and when you're asleep in a tent within in an arms reach away from each other.

You laugh as you hear Sam in the background yelling, "Don't let him lie to you y/n. He's been crying like a baby every night since you've been gone."

Point proven.

"Shut up, dude, my god. She can hear you." Coby says with a groan and you can tell that he's getting shy, "Fuck." You picture his big smile as you grab your laptop, listening to them bicker back and forth like usual.

You had to admit, you missed them, too. Even though you're visiting your family on the east coast, you honestly felt homesick.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow." You bite your lip, waiting for a response but it's quiet, "Um, hello?"

You hear muffled yelling, and you already know that it's Colby trying to get Sam to keep his mouth shut, "That's great, y/n! See you tomorrow!" Colby yells over Sam trying to yell out.

"Stop it. Please." You can hear Colby laugh, and Sam yells, still slightly muffled, "Bye!"

You hang up and shake your head laughing as you click open a new tab and type in the place Colby said you're going.

"Hellriegel Manor." You repeat to out loud after reading one do the old newspaper headlines. You scroll down as your eyes scan over the screen,

Multiple prostitutes brutally murdered in Hellriegel Manor

Callum Hellriegel is the devil himself

The ruthless murder of Hellriegel Manor revealed

Callum Hellriegel, killer found dead by self inflicted gunshot wound to head

The town thinks workers at the manor were involved

You blink a few times, shaking your head as you let out a sigh. You reach for your phone and FaceTime Colby.

He picks up fast, "Hey."

"So a possible demon. That's nice." You look into the camera and tilt your head. He takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh, "I was trying to wait until you got here to tell you, but I guess cats out of the bag."

You nod, "Yeah, yeah." You laugh slightly and squint, "Oh no." Colby looks behind him then back to you, "What?"

"It's quiet... did you finally kill Sam?" You smile slowly and he laughs, "No, no. He's upstairs editing."

"So I called at the right time then, huh?" You tease and he nods with a smile, "Yeah, yeah, you did."

You move back onto your bed, continuing to look up the manor, "Colby."

"Yes?" He asks staring at you through his phone, but he looks away when you look, "This place looks fucking creepy, and it sounds even worse."

You know what he's about right say next, so you cut him off by speaking, "I'm still going." You bite your lip as you read, "I think with having a girl there, it might help us figure out what really happened."

He nods, "I was taking to Sam about that, too, actually. It also might be the worse because of how bad that Callum dude is made out to be."

"Yeah, but.." You nod slowly as you read more, and your eyes widen, "Colby."

"Y/n."

"Do you know what Hellriegel means?" Your eyes move over to your phone that's propped up against your computer screen and he shakes his head, "Probably something not good."

"It means the Devil, in German." You swallow slowly, "Fuck I have the chills now."

"Again.. if you do-"

"I'm going." You smirk, "My flight is already booked and.." just as you were about to say something really sweet, you hear Colby groan and Sam appears on the screen, "Ayo!"

You laugh and wave, "Hi again Sam."

"She's looking up Hellriegel Manor." Colby looks up at him and he sighs, "Does that mean you cancelled your flight?"

You scoff, "Please. Do you not have any faith in me, Golbach?" He smirks and rolls his eyes, "You right. Plus you'll have this guys, Mr intimidator here, to protect you." He grabs Colby's shoulders and shakes him slightly.

Colby's face is turning red, but so were your cheeks. You had to admit, it's getting a lot harder for you to resist each other, especially when he is making sure you're okay in the middle of an investigation.

He was and is the one you run to when you're jumping out of your skin scared.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. I gotta go tell my parents that I'm leaving tomorrow." You pick up your phone and set your laptop down before you get up.

"Text us your landing time and we'll be here." Sam says and you give him a thumbs up. He walks away and Colby points the phone back to him, "Tell them we said hey and I'll see you tomorrow."

You smile and nod, "I will, and I'll see you tomorrow."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

You couldn't stop thinking about what Colby said, about this possibly being a bad idea about you going, but you never turned away an adventure with Sam and Colby.

You're not going to start now.

As you walk through the airport, you hear your name being called. You jump slightly and turn, seeing Sam and Colby walking up to you.

"How was your flight?" Sam asks bringing you in for a hug. You hug him back, "It was alright, boring but alright." You look over at Colby who can't wait to have you in his arms, as you lean back from Sam.

"Glad you made it here safe." Colby wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close to him. You close your eyes, happy to be back with them until Sam clears his throat, "Maybe get a room or something?"

"Dude." Colby says loosening his arms from your waist as he turns to him trying not to laugh. You roll your eyes, "You'll never quit will you?"

He shrugs and holds his hands up, "Maybe if you guys would just admit that you like each other.."

"Oh my god." You try to hide your smile, but ayour cheeks regaining that blush of pink like normal doesn't help matters at all, "Can we just go please? I'm hungry."

Colby laughs slightly and wheels your suitcase behind him, "Yes. Please." He glares over at Sam who can't help but smirk at him.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Back at the house, they give you the rundown on what they know about Hellriegel.

"So as you already know, Callum Hellriegel was a very.." Sam trials off as he tilts his head and you raise your eyebrows, "Devil of a man?"

Sam nods, "Exactly."

Colby speaks up, "There's been a mix of good and bad investigations, so it's really hard to tell what exactly we'll be dealing with."

You nod, "Hmm. Well I mean, if it gets too bad we can always high tail it out of there."

Colby nods, "Yeah, exactly. did you read up on anything else after our call or no?" You shake your head, "Since you said you wanted to fill me in, I figured I'd wait. Hear what you have to say." You smirk slightly and he nods.

"How nice of you." Sam says laughing, "But on a serious note guys.." he looks to Colby and back at you, "we truly have no idea what we're going to walk into."

"That's the exciting part though, right?" You shrug and smile, trying to stay positive because you were actually shitting your pants about going to this place.

"Bingo." Sam points and looks at his phone when it goes off, "That's the owner of the manor.." he answers, "Hello?"

You and Colby exchange smiles as you look back to Sam who is nodding, "Alright sick, yeah thank you." He hangs up and looks between you and Sam, "Tomorrow night."

You're kinda shocked but then again, kinda not surprised that it's happening this soon, "Oh great."

"What? Getting scared are we?" Sam teases and you side eye him, "Where is your faith in me, Sam? We talked about this." You laugh and he shakes his head, "I honestly didn't expect him to let us in that easy. It's always been a fight for other investigators to go there."

You smile, "You guys are changing the world, how could they not?"

"You're a part of this team too, y/n.." Colby smiles and looks from you to Sam, "So we are changing the world." He looks back to you, "You sure you're up for this?"

"I'm sure."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

It wasn't until two am when you stared up at the ceiling, wondering if you really are sure about this. The more you thought about it the more it scared you but this is what you do, you remind yourself over and over again.

This is what you do.

Luckily, this isn't the first time you've been in this situation, and each time you are, both Sam and Colby make sure you're okay, along with each other of course.

You let out a sigh, rolling over to face the tv and your phone lights up. You reach out, grabbing it to pull back over to you and you see it's a message from Colby, I know you're nervous about this place and honestly.. we are too, but if things do turn bad, we'll get out of there.

You turn onto your back and a smile rests on your lips and your thumbs quickly tap the keyboard on your screen, I was actually needing that reassurance right now. I can't sleep because I am very nervous about tomorrow, but we've probably been through worse, right?

As you're waiting for a reply, you see a twitter notification pop up at the top of your screen and you laugh slightly, "Fucking Sam."

You click on the notification,

@/SamGolbach: New video popping up soon! @/Colbybrock, @/yourtwittername, and myself are going to be spending the night in the Hellriegel Manor. Stay tuned!!

You like the tweet and retweet it with a bunch of nervous face emojis and Colby instantly likes it.

You click on your group chat with both Sam and Colby, So we're all just up huh?

Sam texts back, Um, no. Only losers who won't confess their love for each other are awake at 2 in the morning

Same texts back again, talking about you Brock

Colby sends you a text separately then replies into the group chat, I'm not up what are you talking about?

You laugh as you type, bring the party down here, I'm kinda freaking myself out

Sam instantly replies, Take it to Colby's room

"Sam!" You hear Colby yell from upstairs and then a door opens, "Only trying to help." Sam says as he comes down the stairs, a shirtless Colby behind him, "Only making it worse, brother."

You sit up, looking back at them, "Can you turn the light on, please?"

Colby nods, flipping the light on and Sam instantly yells, "Oh my god, behind you."

You jump up off the couch, running backwards towards them and you push Sam when you turn to him, "Asshole."

"That wasn't cool, man." Colby shakes his head at Sam and you look up at Colby, "You can laugh." He fights it, and shakes his head, "No.. no.. it's alright."

You roll your eyes and make your way back to the couch, turning on a YouTube video about the manor, "Let's learn all we can shall we?"

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

You don't even know when you fell asleep, you just know that when you woke up, you weren't alone. You look up at a still sleeping Colby, smiling slightly as you listen to him snore softly.

Your attention is ripped away when you hear Sam coming down the steps carrying his backpack, "Mornin' sleepy heads.. or head.. I'll let you wake the beast."

You smirk and shake your head, looking back at Colby, staring at him for a few seconds before tapping his chest, "Hey, Colbs."

He doesn't budge so you tap harder and lean in, "Colby." He jumps slightly and looks at you with an immediate smile taking over his face, "oh hey." He stretches his arm slightly, "What time is it?"

You tilt your head back, "Sam what time is it?"

"Almost time to leave."

"That doesn't give me a-"

"It's nine." He smirks when you look at him, raising his eyebrows as he motions to you and Colby, making a heart with his hands. You wave him off and look back at Colby, "It's nine."

He sighs and sits up, "Okay. So we have an hour until Sam wants to leave."

"You know me so well." Sam says walking over and grabbing stuff off the coffee table. You tilt your head, "More like you drilled it into our heads repeatedly last night."

He mocks you before sighing, "Do you have to fight me on everything?"

You stand up and stretch, "Would I be one of your friend if I didn't?"

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

After getting everything around, you finally make your way to the car.

"I figured we could film the intro once we got there?" Sam says playing around with the camera. Colby nods, "Works for me."

You lean back in the seat, clicking on the message Colby sent you before they came downstairs last night, I really didn't expect you to be awake so this is awkward, but you know you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, right? And I don't just mean that with the ghost hunting.

You smile to yourself, but snap out of it when Sam starts talking and you know he's recording, "We are on our way to Hellriegel Manor, we just left a little bit ago so we should be there in like two hours or so. How are you guys feeling?"

He turns the camera to Colby, "Colby. How are we feeling, buddy?"

Colby shrugs and laughs, "I am ready to try and get answers on whether this is truly a demon or not."

Sam turns the camera back to you, "Y/n. You shaking in your boots back there?"

"No but I will be once we hit that final stretch towards it." You laugh, "I'm excited."

Sam turns the camera around so it's on all of you, "We will keep you guys updated along the way. So far it'll be driving but you guys, luckily get to skip that part." He cuts the camera off and you can't help but laugh.

"What?" Sam asks turning and Colby laughs with you, "I'm laughing because she's laughing."

You sigh, "I don't even know why I'm laughing. I think I'm nervous now."

"Well, we can drop you off here. It's not a long walk back." Sam teases and you know he can feel your glare through the back of his seat, Colby's too.

"I'm kidding. I'm kidding." Sam laughs and it's pretty much just joking back and forth the whole way there because let's face it, you were scared to go there and you were all worried about each other.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Sam clicks the camera on as you drive through the rusted old gate, "We have arrived at our destination." He points the camera to Colby and he gives a big smile as he laughs, "I think I just shit my pants. This place is fucking creepy even in the day time, man." He leans forward, looking at the huge, visibly old house.

"Look at those pillars." Sam says with a sigh, "I have a feeling we underestimated this guys."

You nod, "Mhm." Sam puts the camera on you as Colby parks the car and you purse your lips together, "I just got cold."

Both of them turn back to look at you, "Really?" Colby asks and looks at Sam, "That's not good."

Sam turns the camera around and makes a face, "We literally just pulled up and already one of us is feeling something. If that doesn't say anything about this place.."

"You guys didn't feel that? I mean maybe it was a freak thing, but as soon as we went through the gate, I felt something and then the closer we got to the house I got a chill."

"Wow." Sam is shocked, "Alright, well on that note, we'll see you guys in a second." He ends it and turns back to you, "Are you good?"

You nod, "Yeah, yeah. I'm good." Colby looks back at you, giving you an are you actually look and you nod again, "Let's go."

As you get out of the car, Sam starts rolling again, "Alright guys, we are here at the Hellriegel Manor." He shows the old building, "This place is just.. I don't know."

"I'll tell you what it is, insane." Colby says while straining his voice as he leans into the camera.

You knew tonight wasn't going to be a good night, for you at least. You have continuously felt energy since the moment you crossed through the gate, and some of it wasn't good.

"Y/n?" Colby says walking over to you, "You good? You just like zoned out for a minute there."

You blink a few times and look up at him, "We might not be spending the whole night here."

Sam moves up to you, "Really? Why do you-"

"Something just moved in that very top-right window." You point and Sam moves the camera up to it, "Shit, are you serious? Colby did you see that?"

Colby shakes his head, "Shit. No."

"You Sam and Colby?" An older guy who's followed by two more guys, yells out.

"Hey, yes sir.." Colby says walking over and you and Sam follow him, "I'm Colby, this is Sam, and y/n."

You all shake hands and the guy sighs, "I'm Dean, these are my two sons, Riley and Luke. What all have you heard about this place?"

"Callum Hellreigel is a big name attached to this place, right? He was the one who caused all of the prostitutes to go missing?" Sam asks as he hands the camera to Colby.

Dean nods, "Yeah, in or around 1927, it was rumored that the reason he was killing these women, was for sacrifices, but people who have worked in the house swore up and down he didn't but who knows.." as Dean goes on explaining more about the manor, you suddenly feel a wave of dizziness was over you and you close your eye.

"No shit." Colby nods, "Do you know why he was doing that or .. anything?"

"Whoa. Hey, y/n." Sam moves to your other side and taps your arm, "You with us?"

You slowly open your eyes, "He doesn't like us talking about him." You can tell everyone around you tenses, "Sam once you said his name, I got dizzy."

"He likes you." Dean says wagging his finger at you, "He always likes the pretty ones."

Colby shifts towards you and you look over at him. He hands the camera to Sam and looks back up at Dean who sighs, "You might have the best of luck tonight, y/n."

"Great." You laugh slightly, "We also heard that it's hit or miss with how good or bad it can be."

Dean nods, "Oh yeah. Very much so. We've had people come in who didn't get anything but a few knocks and we've had people who were so overwhelmed within two hours they had to leave."

"That's crazy, dude." Sam says and looks at you and Colby. Colby shakes his head and laughs slightly, "Well we mean no harm, we just want to try and figure out if those old news articles were right."

"There's another figure in the window." You point to the same window and they all look up but it disappears.

"Are you talking about the far window on the right?" Dean slowly turns towards you and you nod, "Mhm."

He nods, "That's where his room is."

"Am I seeing him?" Your heart starts to race and Dean shrugs, "Very well could be." He nods towards the house, "Come on, we'll give you the tour."

"Are you okay?" Colby asks holding onto your arm. You nod, "This is going to be a very good video for you guys.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

"You know. During the day it's not as scary." Sam says with a nervous laugh, "Right?"

One of Dean's sons laughs, "Wait for sundown."

"I don't wanna wait for sun down.. sun please stay up." Sam laughs along with the rest of you.

"Now this room is the room where he held about five woman at a time. They'd come in here and basically wait for their turn with Callum." Dean opens the door and you guys walk into a small room, "There was always a guard, or whatever you want to call them, in here with them at all times."

"Oh wow." You shake your head, "This is.." you look around, "They were scared." Right after you say that, there's a thud and you all look towards the door.

"that sounded like it came from downstairs." Sam whispers, and soon after there's another thud, but closer. Colby walks over and looks, "There's no one out here dude. That was so loud, though."

"I'd say they were more than scared, sweetheart." Dean walks over and lifts up the loose wallpaper, revealing names that were scratched into the wall behind it, "Even the guards would mistreat the women who were held here."

"And he never got caught? How many years did he do this for?" Colby asks slightly confused, "like no one ever thought of check on the missing women from the town that's right down over the hill?" He laughs and looks at Sam who nods, "Right like you'd think that."

As they talk, you think for few moments quietly before tilting your head, "When we walk in, I could have swore I heard a whisper and now that I see this.." you walk over and bend down, "It was definitely Izzie."

"No fucking way." Sam says and walks over, showing the wall to the camera, "so like right when you walked in it was like bam someone whispering Izzie?"

You stand up and look at him, "I swear to god. I thought maybe I brushed against something like my jacket did.." you scratch your jacket off the wall, "but no. It was clearly a whisper."

"Oh my god." Colby says dragging it out slightly, "This is crazy."

"There's two more rooms you need to see, one of them being the basement." Dean motions for you guys to follow him and you make your way to the master bedroom.

"So this is where he stayed most of the time?" Sam asks, "With these prostitutes or whatever?"

Dean nods, "Yep, yeah he basically lived in here and right.." he pauses and walks over to the window and points on the ground, "..over here. Is where he shot himself."

"So wait.." you point to the window and walk over, looking out with a gasp, "oh my god." You look out at the spot you stood in when you seen the apparition in the window.

"Correct." Dean says and turns, "He would bring the women in here one at a time, do what he promised them lots of money to do and then they'd just never leave."

"That's dark, man. Sad too." Colby frowns and shakes his head. Dean nods, "So the other girls caught on pretty quick as to what was happening."

"I can't imagine the fear that was brought onto them as they waited to just die basically." Sam looks around amd Dean points to you, "If you want to try contacting him. You'll probably have the best luck. Lay on the bed if you feel brave enough."

Your heart sinks, "Oh shit, I don't think-" you look at the door quickly, but whatever was there vanishes, "the door way. Someone is watching us."

You walk over, looking out but nothing else is there. You turn back towards them, camera on you, "It's really cold right here."

"You're the first to honestly say they saw something in this room." Dean says and you raise your eyebrows, "Really?"

"Does he move around a lot or does he mainly stay in this room?" Colby asks but jumps when there's footsteps in the hallway. You lean back and shake your head, "Nothing."

"I've had people come in and say there's many, many spirits here." Dean points, "but the one I get feedback on most on the time is the basement. Lots say it's the worst, and I'll show you why." He motions for you to follow him.

Sam cuts the camera off, "I think you may be right, y/n." You walk with him and Colby as you follow the others, "We definitely underestimated this place." You look between them and walks down the steps.

As you approach the slightly skinny basement door, Sam starts recording as Dean turns to you, "You might not like it down here." He looks the door and he reveals a, very unsettling, dark stair well.

You turn and give the camera a fake crying face, "Oh no."

"There are no lights, we did put lights in, but they must not like them, so you have to use flashlights so be careful coming down." Dean says and everyone pulls their phones out and switches the flash on.

Dean and his sons go down first and you and the boys follow, "Hold on, I just want to see how dark it is." Sam switches off the light and everyone covers their lights, "Oh fucking hell."

You immediately grab onto Colby's jacket and his hand immediately goes to the side of your leg, both keeping a hold of each other until Sam turns the light back on. Colby laughs, "that's the, you can't see your hand in front of your face dark."

"Now, keep that in mind because down here.." Dean pauses, "They only had candles for light down here I'm pretty sure.."

You reach the bottom and your heart feels like it's working overtime. You feel dizzy, grabbing onto the first thing you could, Colby's arm, to not fall back.

"Whoa." He wraps an arm around your waist and you nod, "Dean.. let me tell you something.." you laugh slightly and point at him.

He nods, "You don't like it down here do you?" You shake your head, "Not at all." Your eyes scan over what you can see of the old jail cells.

You felt pain and sadness, and just flat out awful.

"Down here, they kept at least twenty more women at a time, five to a cell." Riley points, "Right above the last cell over there, is where the five upstairs were, so that cell you could hear almost everything, because there's a vent, for whatever reason."

"Did they make that vent so they could hear the screams and shit on purpose or?" Sam asks looking over towards the cell.

Dean nods, "I mean, it's very possible because it's literally just a straight shot, so. I wouldn't have put it past him, he was-"

A bottle rolls down the steps and you close your eyes, "No, no, no." You laugh nervously, "There's no fucking way."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Sam turns to Colby, "We didn't even start the investigation yet and a fucking bottle.. rolls down the steps?"

Colby's eyes are wide and his mouth is open, "Did you catch that?" Sam nods, "then sound and then maybe the end of it coming down." He sighs, "Oh what the hell did we get ourselves into?"

"I don't know but I'm scared." You admit, "This isn't going to be easy." You say into the camera and Colby crosses his arms, "What would they do down here exactly? To these women that were just held here waiting?"

Dean shrugs, "All of it.. and right over there around the wall of the stairs." He points and walks you guys over, "He had the women who, in the words of what I read and was told, couldn't please him like he wanted, tortured for hours on hours I guess."

"What did they do with the bodies? Do you know if they buried them or.." Sam asks and Dean shifts around slightly, "I just got a chill, but um.."

"Wait you just got a chill?" Colby steps forward, "It doesn't feel any different to me so that's creepy."

Dean chuckles, "Yeah, so anyway.. it was rumored they tried to cremate them theirselves, but I don't think it worked out, but when we were trying to clear some stuff out around the house, there was a well that was discovered and it had human bones in it, but no one really knows what happened to them they just vanished one day and no one asked questions."

"So there is a lot of pent up negative energy surrounding this manor." One of the guys says, but you're not focused on who. You shake your head, "Some just want to be free." You look at Sam and Colby, "Something is keeping them here and I think I know who it is."

"Oh god." Sam yells and jumps forward, spinning around really quick, "Something just grabbed my shoulder, swear to god."

"You good, man?" Colby walks up to him, and Sam nods, "Yes, yes. That just scared the shit out of me. Like I was just standing here and it felt like someone did this to me. But lightly." He demonstrates by grabbing Colby's shoulder.

"That may happen a lot more when we leave." Dean says and motions with his light to go back up.

Once you make it back outside, he turns towards the house, "Just keep reminding them why you are here and that you're the ones in control."

"Will that actually work?" Sam looks at Dean and he nods, "It'll definitely work for him." He points to Colby and you smile as you remember someone else telling Colby he's intimidating.

"I have been told that I intimidate spirits so.. that's my house now." He makes his voice strained, "No, im kidding. He laughs and Dean shakes his head, "No that's exactly it. Show you're in control and you should be fine."

"Should be, that's not too selling there, Dean." Sam says and looks at Colby. He shrugs, "I mean, it works for me."

"Well, good luck and if you're still here, I'll see you in the morning."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

After getting the equipment from the car and talking for a little bit, it's almost dark so the three of you agree it's best to just start since you were already getting so much activity already.

"You good?" Colby asks as he sets up some stuff, getting it ready. You look up, "Yeah." You let out breathy laugh, "I'm nervous, but otherwise good."

"Oh shit." You hear Sam yell from outside, "No fucking way." You and Colby look at each other and run out, "What? what?" Colby asks going over to him.

You follow behind and he points, "I think I saw what you saw earlier, y/n. I turned the camera on but by the time I looked up, it was gone."

"Yeah, like it only wants you to see it, if it lets you." You run your hands over your face, "Okay so I think we should try and get something before we're basically chased out of here."

You come to regret saying those words, later on.

"Okay, yeah. So the living room area? See if we can get in touch with someone who worked here?" Colby says and Sam nods, "Let's do it."

As you walk up to the door, you turn around and look at Colby, "Did you just whistle?" He shakes his head, "No that wasn't me, was it you?" He points to Sam and he shakes his head, "No."

"There's a light whistle, but it sounded like it was right behind me." You close your eyes and shake your head, "Oh god."

"It's alright. Come on." Colby leads you into the living area and you stand over to the coffee table and set down the EMF, waiting for Sam and Colby to come in.

"Okay. Ill put a flashlight on the mantle here and-"

A loud knock cuts Sam off, "Did you hear that?" His eyes move between you and Colby and you both nod. He lets out a sigh, "Alright."

He starts rolling, "So we are here in the living room area of the Hellriegel Manor, and we've been hearing knocks.."

"A bottle rolled down the basement stairs, this place is absolutely insane already, but now we're here and we're going to start by asking some simple questions." Colby takes the camera from Sam so he can lay a flashlight on the mantle like he said, "We have just a regular flashlight here and then we have the EMF over there by y/n."

You switch it on and move away from it, "Do you want me to start?"

Immediately both the flashlight and the EMF lights up green. Sam and Colby both yell out, "Oh fuck dude."

You freeze, "Um. Okay. My name is y/n. I come with peace and just wanting to find out the truth about what happened here. Is there just one of you talking to us right now?"

You wait a few moments and as soon as you look at Colby it lights up red and the flashlight switches off.

Your eyes go wide as you look at Sam. His eyes search the floor as he thinks, "My name is Sam, I too come with peace, I just want to ask, are you trapped here?"

Colby moves the camera from the EMF to the flashlight, "Y/n. Repeat what Sam asked."

"Are you trapped here?" You ask and it's an immediate green light, no flashlight, "Am I speaking to one person now?"

Red light. Flashlight turns on making all of you gasp and yell. Colby shakes his head, "Dean was right, they must be drawn to her more than us."

Switches green and the flashlight stays on.

"That wasn't even a ques-" something falling from a shelf makes you jump and you bolt in between them, "Oh Jesus Christ."

"I'm Colby. I also come with peace. Was that you that just knocked that stuff over?" A few moments go by and nothing.

"If that was you, can you do it again, please?" You grip Colby's arm, "the hairs on the back of my neck just stood up." He looks down at you, "really?" You nod and Sam brings his hand up behind you, "It's literally only cold right here."

Suddenly you're pushed away from Colby, not hard, but enough to make you lean back.

"Did you just get pushed?" Colby asks, "You pulled me with you tha-"

What sounds like empty tin cans, hit the floor and roll, stopping in the entry way of the living room.

"Thank you." You say, "Am I speaking to the original owner of this house?" You let go of Colby and walk over to the doorway.

"Y/n, stay close please. This house is too un-" Colby gets cut off by the EMF lighting up red.

"Are you saying no to y/n's question?" Sam asks quickly and it flashes red. Your eyes go wide and you make your way back over to them, "Do you want me to stay close to Sam and Colby?"

Flashes red and the flash light turns on.

"Fuck me." You lay a hand on your face and the emf lifts up green.

"No." Colby says almost immediately, "You can't have her."

Flashes green and the flash light stays on.

You look at them, "I have to ask if it's him."

Flashes green again and the flash light goes off.

"Dude this is fucking wild, oh my god." Sam runs a hand through his hair, "Are you okay?" He looks at you and you nod, "Yeah, I'm good."

"I have a very important question for you." You move over and sit in the one chair, "Am I speaking to Callum Hellreigel?"

Lights up red and you feel kind of relieved until you see a shadow move on the stairs, "Fuck, the stairs. Something just went up."

"Are you going upstairs?" Colby asks and waits patiently. The EMF goes off and it's red, "Are you one of the women who were lured here and promised money?"

Lights up green.

"Is anyone else with you?" Sam asks and rests his hand against his chin.

Lights up green.

Just as Colby is getting ready to ask something you stand up, "Something just.." you point up and shake your head, "I just heard come on. Like something said come on."

"Is that you Callum? Are you trying to lure y/n up stairs?" Colby hands the camera back to Sam and looks over at you, no response.

"Okay, so they definitely move around." Sam sighs, "Fuck man. Y/n. How are you feeling?" You look over at them slowly, "Oh I'm great." You stand up, "Maybe we should move.."

"Where to next?" Sam asks and you walk over to them, "Upstairs. I don't think he killed himself."

They're both taken aback by what you said and Colby shakes his head, "Do you feel something towards that?"

You nod, "I have this.. uneasy feeling in my stomach and I get chills thinking about it. I don't think he shot himself."

The EMF reader lights up green and you jump slightly, "Fuck." Sam looks around, "Did you kill your self Callum?"

Nothing.

Colby repeats Sam's question exactly, nothing.

They both look at you, along with the camera and you take a deep breath and shake your head, "get the spirit box."

Sam stops recording, "That's a good idea. Where do you want to set up?"

Colby walks over to you and lays his hands on your arms, "You good to keep going?" You nod, "Yeah I need to find out what happened, I'm nosey." You laugh slightly and lean around to look at Sam, "Maybe top of the steps?"

He nods and you grab the equipment and look at the steps. Your eyes move up and down, getting a weird feeling about it, "Wait." You stop Sam and point to the floor at the bottom of the steps.

Colby starts recording and Sam sets it down, "let me just turn it on." He turns it on and a soft white noise fills the area.

Sam motions to you and you bite your lip, debating on which question to ask.

".. Up .."

"Yo, no." Sam covers his mouth and Colby laughs nervously, "No fucking way."

"Do you want us to go up the stairs?" You ask and chew on your nail.

".. Wall .. name.."

"Are you asking about the names on the wall in the room where the women were held?" Colby asks, "Did you whisper Izzie to y/n when we went in there earlier?"

A soft, 'y/n' is whispered behind you and you let out a slight yell, "Fuck, no. Someone just said my name."

"..Yes.."

"Callum was that you?" You close your eyes and shake it, letting out quiet, high toned "oh shit."

"Bed."

"Do you want us to go to the bedroom? Callum's room?" Colby asks rubbing his eyebrow and pulls you to him when you all clear as day hear,

"Just... her.."

"You can't have her." Sam says looking around, "You can't have any one anymore, do you hear me?"

".. Blood.. shed .."

"Doesn't mean blood shed, like bleeding or?" Colby asks Sam and he shakes his head, "I don't know, man."

"So scared."

"I know you're scared." You say and nothing else comes through.

"Why do you want y/n?" Colby asks moving the camera around, "Are you scared of us? I promise we mean no harm to any of you."

".. Pretty... girl .."

"do you guys feel okay?" You fan yourself, "I just got really hot all of a sudden." Colby hands the camera to Sam and feels your forehead, "You feel cold to me."

You're suddenly pushed backwards away from Colby's touch, "Fuck." He says pulling you over to Sam. He turns from recording the stairs, "What happened? What?"

Colby sighs, "She just got pushed again, dude."

"Maybe we should just go up." You close your eyes as Colby instantly disagrees, "Mm. No."

Sam cuts the camera off, "Colby. If she thinks she can-"

"We don't know what we're dealing with here, Sam. I'm not going to send her into a room alone." Colby argues.

".. Stop .."

"Stop what?" You ask and Sam turns the camera on, "So.. Colby felt y/n's head because she said she was hot and when he did that, y/n got pu-" a loud thud is heard from up stairs and Sam quickly turns the spirit box off and turns the camera to you guys, "Did you hear that?"

You nod, "Almost like.. a body falling onto the floor."

"That's what I was thinking." Coby says nodding.

Sam waits a few seconds more before picking up where he left off in a whisper, "So basically, whatever is here doesn't like us being close to y/n."

"Dean did say that she might be the target for tonight, just because of all the history with this place." Colby says.

"I think we should just do it because it's either his room or the basement and I'll tell you right now I'm not ready to go back down there yet." You chew on your cheek, "So let's just go up there and hit those rooms up there."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

There was a sudden decrease in activity in the other rooms but it quickly picked up when you moved back towards the bedroom.

"I think we should put the REM pod where Dean said he was shot." Sam suggests and you nod, "Yeah. That's good."

You have this feelings that something is watching you, and no it's not just Colby.

"Sam." Colby says, "You don't think.."

Sam stands up after checking the pod, "What?" Colby nods towards me, lowing his voice, "You don't think he's.. targeting her because of me do you?"

Sam glances at you and shrugs, "So you're admitting to liking her then?"

Colby sighs, "Yes, Sam. I'm admitting to it finally." He smiles but shakes his head, "That's not the point, how are we going to do this without any danger coming to her?"

"Why don't we just ask him?" You step forward, "You can be right outside the door."

Colby shakes his head, "No."

There's a loud bang and you jump, "Colbs. I got this. If anything happens, you'll be right outside." Sam starts rolling the camera, "So we are now in the room where Callum supposedly shot himself and y/n has decided to lay in Callum Hellreigel's very own bed. Alone."

Sam turns the camera to you, "How are you feeling?" You take a deep breath, "it is what it is right?" You shrug, but Colby didn't like that answer.

"I'll be fine." You hold two thumbs up and Sam points the camera at Colby, "Wanna tell them what we're doing?"

Colby clears his throat as he holds up the EMF, "We are going to set up y/n with the EMF as well, and she'll ask yes or no questions and hopefully we can get some answers.."

"Then we'll come back in after a little while and set up the spirit box, maybe catch something on that? I don't know how you guys feel about that.." Sam trails off and you nod, "Sounds good."

Colby's whole demeanor changed since you said you'll stay in the room by yourself. You keep looking at him, and he looks at you, but he has worry in his eyes.

"Alight so we're just going to put this in the corner here.." Sam says as he sets up the camera on the one stand, angled towards the bed and window.

Colby walks up to you, cupping your cheeks, "Anything, and I mean anything happens, yell, scream and we'll be here."

You nod, laying a hand on his, "I can handle this." You jump and Sam yells as something falls outside of the room, "What the fuck. That sounded like something massive."

"Shit." Colby says taking his hands away, "Sorry. Sorry." He holds his hands up and steps back from you. Your eyes move around the room as you make your way over to the bed, sitting criss cross, "See you soon."

"You're sure?" Sam asks one last time. You take a deep breath, "Yes." Colby's eyes are on you until Sam fully shuts the door, leaving you in the darkened silence, alone.

"Callum Hellriegel." You call out, "If you're here, can you go over and touch that little box that's on the floor for me?"

The red light flashes, indicating no on the EMF.

"Am I talking to someone else?" Your eyes scan around the room, taking slow deep breathes as you try to get used to the dark, no answer, "I should’ve stayed home." You joke quietly to yourself,  "Is this where you wanted me?"

Instant green light.

You chew on your cheek as a chill washes over your body, "Fuck." You rest your hands on your head, "Did you kill all those women, Callum?"

Instant green light and the REM pod goes off.

"Did you kill them because they couldn't please you?" You rest your hand on your cheek and jump slightly when the EMF goes red.

"Did you kill them beca-" The EMF flashes red over and over again, "Stop!" You say loudly and it's soon followed by a loud bang on the window.

"Holy fuck." You sigh and place a hand on your chest, "Do you want us to bring the spirit box in so you can talk?"

Instant green light.

"Callum Hellreigel.. did you kill your self?" Your eyes move from the REM pod to the EMF, waiting for something, "Did someone else do it?"

Instant green light.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Okay, okay. Was it someone who worked for you?"

Instant red light.

"Was it one of the prostitutes?"

Instant green light.

"Is there anyone else here?"

Instant green light and you suddenly feel like you're being choked. You try to yell out as loud as you can, "C-Colby!" You feel the pressure on your neck vanish and you start coughing as soon as the boys bust through the door.

Colby is right next to you, "What? What? Y/n. Talk to me."

You're gasping for air still as you try to comprehend what just happened.

Sam brings the camera over, almost dropping it when he sees the finger marks on your neck.

"Holy fuck- Colby." Sam moves your hair to show the camera, "Oh my god. Are you okay? Oh fuck."

Colby's eyes are glued to your neck, "Can you breathe? Are you okay?"

"I-I.." you clear your throat, rubbing your hand over the prints, "I believe.. I was talking to Callum, and then I asked if anyone else was here and it went to yes and then i just suddenly felt like I was being choked."

"What the fuck, okay let's just get out of this room, I don't.." Sam sighs and shakes his head, "I don't like this."

As you're gathering the equipment and getting ready to walk out, you're pushed into Sam causing him to stumble a step forward, "That wasn't me." You say quickly as he turns around, "are you okay?"

Colby shuts the door with a slam and sighs, "This is fucking insane.. I can't believe this happened."

"Did you hear that?" You look down the steps, "Something just moved into the living room."

Sam points the camera, the light shining down and there's nothing there, "What the fuck, what the fuck?!"

"Shh. Shh." You shush Sam and look around, "I thought I heard whispering."

Colby lays a hand on your back, "Let's go outside, talk about what happened and then we can figure out what we wanna do."

Colby was just worried about getting you out without anymore damage.

You make your way outside, camera still rolling, bending down to the ground, "Oh my god."

"Okay. So y/n.. she got attacked basically and we're trying to figure out why. She's okay. She's okay.. it's just.. " Sam keeps the camera off of you until you stand back up, "Fuck."

"So." You walk over to them, using your hand to hide your neck from the camera, "As soon as you guys left, it was.. weird, it was fucking weird." You laugh slightly and shake your head, "I asked if it was him. Said no. Then I asked if it was someone else, no answer and then I asked if I was where they wanted me and that was an instant green light."

"What if.. what if it's not Callum?" Colby looks between you and Sam and Sam gasps, "One of the women?"

You hold your hand up, "Oh just wait. So then I asked if he killed all those women. Instant green light. I then asked if it was because they couldn't please him and it said no."

"Wait, y/n.. Did you tell stop at one point?" Sam asks and you nod, "The red light kept flashing over and over, so then I told it to stop and then it sounded like something hit the window. Hard. It was loud."

"Wait what?" Colby looks to Sam, "Did you hear anything?" Sam shakes his head, "I thought I heard her yell stop but it was much quieter than she says she yelled."

"Do you think.. wait.." Colby looks at you, "Izzie. That's what was whispered to you right?" You nod and he shrugs, "What if she killed him?"

"That's actually something that very well could have happened.. He favorited her maybe and she developed this jealously? Oh my god, the story just keeps unraveling." Sam points the camera back to you and you continue, "I asked if they wanted us to bring the sprit box in and it said yes. It also said yes to me asking if someone else killed him.." you look between them, "..and to if it was one of the prositutes."

"Yo, no. Are you fucking serious!?" Sam's mouth drops, "Is said yes to that?"

You nod, "Sure did."

"Izzie probably is intimidated by you." Colby says, "I think we have this all wrong." You run your hand over your head, "Mhm. But it was like not even a second after the light went green I felt this pressure around my neck and I couldn't move. I wasn't even sure if you guys heard me calling."

"I heard you scream Colby, a lot louder than when you yelled stop." Sam shakes his head, "If I would have known we would have came in.." he looks at Colby, "They said about the spirit box.."

Colby shakes his head and looks at you as Sam moves the camera onto you, "I think we should just take a break, give them time to settle, if they will." You suggest and Sam nods, "That's a good idea."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

The whole time you guys took a break, Colby hasn't left your side as you guys discussed and agreed on what you were doing.

He found himself glancing at your neck every so often, wondering if him putting up more of a fight would have kept you safe.

"Colby.." you whisper, "Colbs." You finally get his attention, "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Not your fault. I chose to go in there." You lay a hand on his cheek, "Okay?"

He nods, not really convincing you but you go with it as Sam walks over, "Are you ready?" He looks at you and you nod, taking Colby's hand in yours, "Yeah. We're ready."

"Anything else happens and I'm throwing you over my shoulder and taking you out of there myself." He whispers low into your ear as sam walks towards the house.

You smile slightly, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

He keeps his arm around you until you reach the front door. He walks in but you stop, staring up the steps, "Sam. Don't move."

Colby looks between you, Sam and the steps, "What?" He whispers quietly and you point slightly, "There's a woman.." you raise your voice, "Izzie?"

The figure you see turns from the top of the steps and goes into Callum's room.

"We need to do the spirit box."

You make your way up to the room and Colby walks in first. Then you, then Sam. The REM pod gets put on the floor, and turned on. Sam backs away from it and you take a deep breath.

"We mean no harm to anyone that is here." You say and look around, "Izzie. If you were the one that choked me, can you touch that box on the floor over by the window?"

You close your eyes as soon as it lights up.

"Fucking shit dude." Sam says pointing the camera to you. You open your eyes and step towards the bed, "Did you get jealous of the other girls? Make that light up for me if you were."

You look over at Sam and Colby, who are whispering stuff to each other, and back to the pod as it lights up.

"one more time if you want us to turn on the spirit box." You run a hand through your hair and turn back to them as it lights up a few times in a row.

Colby takes the camera and Sam grabs the box, walking over and setting it on the window sill, "You will be able to talk to us using this box here."

Colby moves over closer to you and Sam and as soon as Sam flips it on, "Why did you choke y/n?"

".. doesn't... belong.."

"She doesn't belong here in general or doesn't belong to Callum?" Colby continues and you chew on your nail as you wait patiently.

".. not.. his..."

"Can you tell us who isn't his? Are you talking about Callum?" Sam interjects, "Y/n doesn't belong to Callum."

"..Mine.. my doing.."

"Are we talking to Izzie or Callum?" You rest your hand on your cheek, "Can you please tell me who we are talking to?"

".. Colby.." 

"What the hell?" Colby groans and laughs slightly, "Can you tell me who I'm talking to?" He asks giving the camera to Sam, "I'm right here."

".. not.. yours.."

You look at Sam then go to Colby.

"..out.. out.. Izzie.."

"Did you kill Callum, Izzie?" Sam asks, "Was it you who shot him in front of the window?"

" .. y/n.. stay .."

You let out a quick scream as something grabs your arm, "No. I'm not staying. You cannot have me." The same bang on the window that happened while you were alone, happens again.

Colby aims the camera to the window, "fuck, what was th-"

".. keep her safe .."

"We are keeping her safe." Colby says as he pulls you in between him and Sam, "Do not touch her. Do not touch us."

You look around, "Shit." You jump, "Izzie. Leave."

" .. Sam .. "

"Okay no. No that's.. no.." Sam laughs nervously, "Do you want us to leave?"

" .. Colby ... and Sam .. "

"Alright we're done." Colby hands the camera back to Sam and turns off the box, "I don't think Callum is a demon. I think Izzie has some jealousy to figure out and she won't be doing that with you." He looks at you and you nod, "Fine."

"That was fucking insane, dude. What the actual fuck was that?" Sam shakes his head, unable to comprehend what just happened.

You hear another whisper as you turn towards the door, "did you hear that?" Sam and Colby stop talking and go quiet as they listen.

You turn towards them, "Please don't go is what I just heard.."

"We're going." Sam and Colby say in unison which makes you all kinda laugh, fear still in overdrive. You spin in a slow circle, "Whatever is in this room, this house, who ever you are, you cannot follow us out of this house. You cannot follow us home. You can not come with us."

As Sam bends down to pick up the REM, Colby lays his hand on your back but you wince and gasp, "What the fuck?"

"What?" Colby asks looking over you, "What happened?"

"Lift my shirt." You turn back around and Sam comes over with the camera, the light on top shining onto your back.

Colby slides your shirt up, "We're done. That's two fucking scratches l, Sam." He looks at Sam and you turn around, "Two?!"

As soon as you stand all the way up, you get dizzy and stumble back slightly into the wall. You suddenly feel like your emotions aren't yours anymore and you feel tears welling up in your eyes.

Flashes of a woman in a long dress and a man undressing her appear in your mind. 

She's screaming. Crying. There's two more guys, but they're standing in the corners, watching it happen.

You feel like you're seeing someone else's vision until everything goes black and you start to regain the imagine of Colby and Sam standing in front of you.

"Y/n.. hey." You hear Colby say as he shakes you gently, "Y/n. Hey where'd you go?"

Your head snaps up to him, "What?" You look around, shaking your head, "I don't.. what just.."

"You weren't you." Sam says, "You went back into the wall and then you were in a stare, Colby tried for like two minutes to get you to look up."

"We.." your chest rises and falls quickly, "I'm so scared right now." A loud thump on the wall behind you rattles the room and you high tail it out of there.

Down the steps and out the door as Sam and Colby follow you.

"Y/n. Hey, hey wait." Colby yells, "Y/n." He walks up to you and takes you into his arms. You freak out for a second until you realize it's him and you let your body fall into his.

"Is she okay?" Sam asks running up, "What the fuck just happened?"

Colby shrugs, "I have no idea. But I see why they don't just let anyone in here."

He looks down at you, arms still tightly around you, "Hey. You're okay. I got you." You tilt your head up, slowly looking back at the building.

You let out a slight laugh, "Did I.. just.. did I just get possessed or something?"

They're both looking at you worried, "I saw a woman.. screaming as a man was taking off her dress and two other men in the corners were watching.. I don't.. was that.."

"We don't have an answer for that, but what I do know is that we're getting far from this place as possible." Colby lets you go as you stand up straight.

You look at Colby and point your finger at him, "Remember what I said to you last night, about us probably having been through worse?"

Colby nods as his hands move up and down your arm.

"Well, this is worse." You laugh anxiously, tears welling up into your eyes again, "What the fuck was that?"

"We're going home. It's okay." Colby wraps his arms around you, "Sam, can you drive home?" Sam yells out a quick 'yeah' as he packs the trunk back up.

"Come on. We're going home."

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Thinking of maybe doing a part 2? Not sure yet, maybe like the aftermath of the Hellriegel Manor?

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[watchmegetobsessed]

ILLICIT TEMPTATION

A/N: italyrry is back in action and so am i.

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: A business trip to Italy brings more than just professional success. One hot afternoon, deliciously cold water and a series of unfortunate events bring out the illicit temptation you both have been fighting.

PART II. TO ILLICIT THOUGHTS

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry Styles will take any opportunity to travel to Italy. Vacation, just a layover, family gathering, he is always open to visit the country he almost considers his second home.

This time, he is on an active quest to expand his business, he’s been negotiating with some possible Italian partners for months now and they seem to be heading towards the finish line. To officiate the deal Harry has headed over to Bolsena, a wonderful town that resides on the coast of Lago di Bolsena, a lake of volcanic origin. And though he usually travels alone when it comes to business, this time he is accompanied by you.

The trip is set to last four days, most of it spent with the Trevisani brothers who are looking forward to do business with Harry in the future. The first two days have been hectic, brunch with Fabio and Vittore, meetings, lunch at some luxury restaurant’s terrace, even more meetings, then business dinner and it all started again the next day.

But today is finally the first day you get to have some free time. Though the first half of the day was still filled with business, now it’s after lunch time and you finally get to go to the beach you’ve been eyeing from your hotel room’s balcony since you’ve arrived.

You agreed with Harry to meet down there, because he had to take a quick call, so you’re the first one to reach the sandy beach with your beach towel under your arm and the bikini you bought especially for this trip under your sundress. In your left there’s a rockier section and it appears to be less crowded so you opt to occupy a spot there. You put down your towel and then take off your dress, enjoying the warm breeze on your skin as you get rid of your slippers and head over to the water.

It’s so refreshing, your muscles relax the moment you sink into the water so it’s up to your chin and then you dip under the surface fully. You wish you could just float around here for the rest of the trip.

A few feet away from where you left your things there’s a rock that reaches over the water, like a natural jumping board. A group of teenagers are jumping into the water, doing flips in the air, the glistening water splashing everywhere once they fall into the lake.

You’re not that big of an adrenaline junkie, but it seems like a lot of fun, so you decide to give it a try and go for a jump. Swimming over you get out of the water and follow their route over a rocky part to arrive to the jumping spot. For a while, you stop at the back, just watching them jump in one after the other before moving closer to the edge, but there’s still enough place that they can keep jumping in while you stand there, collecting your courage.

Right before you’re about to finally take the leap you look around, as if your sixth sense had been activated and when you glance over to your towel you spot Harry.

And it all goes downhill from there.

Harry looks mouthwateringly good on an average day in the office when his body is covered from neck to toe. It’s hard even then to keep your thoughts at check, but what you’re seeing right now can only be described as a violent act against females.

Add the salty air of Italy to the equation, a slight, delicious tan over his inked body that’s usually covered by his designer clothes, a chunky, luxurious pair of sunglasses and… the absolute shortest swimming trunks you’ve ever laid your eyes on, but it’s so low on his hips as he is adjusting the waistband that his V-line could be seen from even across the lake, it’s so delicious, any sane woman would lose their mind over it, then there are those chiseled abs, his bulging pecks and the unruly curls on top of his head…

It makes you lose more than just your mind. Literally.

Because when Harry looks up and he smiles your way you lose your balance and fall right into the water in a way that’s most likely anything but gracious or sexy.

The water closes above you and there’s a moment of shock, but you recover quickly, swimming upwards until your head is above the surface again.

“Fuck,” you cough, kicking underneath the water to keep you floating and you squint your eyes before opening them, but maybe you should have just kept them closed, because the next thing you see is Harry swimming towards you.

“Hey, you alright?” he reaches you and you feel his hand wrap around your upper arm to help you keep you up and his touch sends a wave of shock down your spine instantly.

“Y-yeah,” you breathe out and then you make another mistake.

It’s hard to keep yourself floating when your heart is hammering in your chest and your nervous system is all messed up from the sight you just saw moments ago. Your hands move before you could even think twice and you find yourself holding onto his broad shoulders.

The feeling of his soft, warm skin under your touch and the hard muscles underneath waves goodbye to the last bit of your sanity.

“S-sorry,” you gasp, pulling your hands back fast, but it makes you dip under the water again, so Harry reaches for you and pulls you up, curling an arm around your waist and your body goes into full shock when you feel yourself pushed up against you in the cold water, your hands coming to rest on the base of his neck as he keeps you both up.

“Please don’t drown on a business trip, that wouldn’t look too good,” he jokes and you manage to get a laugh out, but it sounds suffocated, because it feels impossible to fill your lungs when your smoking hot boss’ body is melted against yours in the water.

“Okay,” you breathe out, looking into his eyes that are covered by his sunglasses, so you can’t tell where he is looking.

That’s his luck. Because right in this moment, Harry can’t decide if he wants to stare at your wet lips, your tits pressed against his chest or your widened eyes, framed with long eyelashes glued together because of the water dripping from them.

So his gaze keeps moving between these three things behind the cover of his shades.

“Let’s move to a more shallow part,” he suggests, but he has ulterior motives.

It’s not that he wants to let go of you, hell no! He would do anything to keep you pressed up against him for hours and he even thinks about having your legs wrapped around his waist and that’s exactly that causes the problem, because he can feel himself getting hard and the last thing he needs is for you to discover his erection.

You nod and let go of him, putting some safe distance between the two of you and Harry lets you swim ahead towards the shore. He is raking his head for anything that could help him regain control over his rather hard situation. Slowly, but he finally succeeds and he can feel himself calming down just as you reach a more shallow part. You both stand and emerge from the water and Harry catches a glimpse of your bikini clad body, the crystal clear water is dripping from your curves and in a split second, he is hardening again.

He is just about to drop back into the water to hide his erection when you step on a rock and lose your balance, falling backwards, straight into Harry’s arm.

You gasp as his arms lock around your waist, keeping you from falling into the water ant potentially hurting yourself, but this also means that your ass is now pressed against his crotch… which means that his hard cock is now wedged comfortable between your ass cheeks.

For a moment Harry is sure whoever is up above, they are playing a cruel game with him. Because seeing you in a bikini was already a burning temptation, then having you in his arms in the water and those illicit thoughts invading his mind about how it would feel to have your legs around his waist was pure torture, but this… this is something he will surely think about in the evening when he’s alone in his hotel room, his hand wrapped around his leaking cock…

He considers the chances of you not realizing his dick is pressed against your ass, but judging from the way your body has stiffened, there’s no way you didn’t notice.

You definitely did. You feel every inch of him, you feel how thick and rock hard he is and you think about how it would feel like if he was inside you right now.

Harry clears his throat behind you, his arms still around your waist.

“Are you alright?” he asks and his mouth is right next to your ear, his hot breath is tickling your neck and goosebumps cover your skin from head to toe.

Your voice is gone, all you can do is nod, but you’re still not moving.

“Y/N?” he speaks up again.

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna let you go now.”

And let’s not talk about how my cock just sat between your ask cheeks for a whole minute, he adds mentally.

You nod and put your weight back onto your feet as you pull away from Harry, his arms fall from around you and he moves back quickly a few feet so the water reaches above his hip, covering the bulge in his shorts.

“I-I think I’m gonna… head back to my room,” you stutter, only daring to look at him for a split second.

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna take a nap,” you add and Harry nods.

“See you before dinner. Fabio wants to take us out for drinks after,” he reminds you.

“Great. S-see you later,” you clear your throat and rush out of the water as fast as you can without tripping again.

You gather your stuff and head to the stairs that lead up to the hotel, but allow yourself one last glance back. In the water, you spot Harry swimming further in the lake and the feeling of his erection pressed up against you invades your mind again, making you run up the stairs, taking two steps at once and you don’t stop until you’re locked up in your hotel room. Your bikini is still dripping wet, but between your legs it’s not just because of the swimming.

You strip and then stand under the massive walk-in shower, cold water running down you as you lean against the tiled wall, trying to wrap your mind around what just happened, but it’s impossible and the next thing you know is that you have two fingers buried inside your pussy and you’re chanting Harry’s name as you chase your release.

Fuck, you think when you’ve come, tonight will be your personal Hell.

READ PART III. NOW: ILLICIT ACTS

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[tempe-brennans]

and i'd come back if you'd just call

author's note: soulmate au + apocalypse

summary: you show up in jackson and turn joel's life upside down

warnings: implied smut and handsy touching

word count: 2.7k

There’s gray in his hair. He’s sure he should feel grateful for that–especially now–and some part of him does, he supposes.

He has people.

There’s Ellie and Tommy and Maria. You.

He’s not sure exactly what to do about you.

Besides, he’s more concerned about the ache in his back and the knots in his muscles–much more important problems than the love he’s beginning to think he still feels for you or the sunflower burning on his wrist.

There’s heating pads for his muscles and pain pills for his back–concrete solutions.

You, on the other hand, you’re young and fun and something he can’t quite get his fingers around.

And, you had left him–a fact he can’t quite forget. No matter how much he’d like to.

His throat is sore, scratchy in the way that tells him he spent last night snoring. Sighing as he sits up in bed, he cracks one shoulder and then the other.

His feet don’t want to find the floor. His body doesn’t want to hide behind the curtains in his own home because he can never be sure if you can see him.

Tommy thought he was so funny, making you two neighbors.

Joel does turn, eventually, let his feet land on the too cold floor. Toes slip into slippers he’d left in reach when he’d gotten into bed last night. He reaches blindly for the faded flannel robe that’s draped over the chair in the corner of his room.

He hasn’t had time for such indulgences, too busy running–from life, monsters. Anything. Before, he simply hadn’t wanted them.

But, Ellie had presented them both–a set, though the patterns didn’t match at all–as a gift and he hadn’t been able to say no.

He’s tired of being so sharp, so tough. In his own home, at least, maybe he can rest.

Home.

The thought brings his mind back to you, against his will, and as he pours his coffee he tries to see if your lights are on.

He can’t tell. The sun is working against him. He resolves himself to the fact that he’ll run into you at some point in town, so, really, what does it matter if you see each other sooner rather than later?

Besides, he’s almost positive you aren’t sitting in windowsills, pining after him.

He sits in the recliner Tommy had insisted he just had to have and welcomes the ability to put his feet up. It’s a relic–a handle raises and lowers the foot rest–but, somehow, it still works.

Taking a drink of his coffee, he thinks.

There’s no sound in the house, something Joel still hasn’t gotten used to since Ellie moved out.

I’m 20, she had said when Joel had asked if she was sure she wanted to leave, as if that was an explanation. Besides, don’t you want your own space?

He didn’t, if she wanted to know the truth. He wanted to hear her downstairs cooking breakfast or the sound of her snoring through the crack in her bedroom door.

He knew why she had gone, though. It was the same reason he had left home the moment he turned 18.

Freedom.

So, he could understand it, even if he wasn’t entirely fond of it.

He sees her every few days anyway.

Coffee now gone, he knows his day has to start, even if the town now feels like a loaded gun is waiting around every corner. He dresses–a flannel still happily coasting between cozy and too threadbare and jeans. He cracks his front door, feels the bite of the winter wind, and shuts it firmly.

An extra jacket wouldn’t hurt.

x

“I’m telling you,” Joel mumbles, “she probably doesn’t even remember.”

Tommy quirks a brow. “Are you kidding?” Shaking his head, he laughs. “You spent the better half of a year together. The tattoos–”

“I don’t wanna talk about the tattoos,” Joel dismisses. “Besides,” he mutters, “it was eleven months.”

“Oh,” Tommy hums. “My mistake.”

Silence and then, “You know someone will notice, right?”

Joel tilts his head. “You see me wearing a lot of short sleeves in the winter?”

“You can’t use the weather to hide forever, bro. The minute Ellie–hell, anybody–notices the two identical sunflowers on your arms?” He shakes his head. “Secrets out.”

“Yeah?” Joel asks. “What secret is that?”

His little brother leans in, whispers, “You can still find your soulmate after the apocalypse.”

“She’s the one that left.” Joel sighs. “Obviously, she didn’t care that we were soulmates.”

“You don’t even know why she left!” Tommy exclaims, exasperated.

Joel quirks a brow. “Somehow I haven’t had a lot of time, what with the apocalypse and all.”

His brother claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got nothing but time now.”

x

Joel walks the streets of Jackson, spitting snow beginning to fall around him.

Maybe Tommy is right. It’s not like Joel doesn’t have some extra time on his hands, a strange concept after the last twenty years, he has to admit.

Maybe he should take advantage of it.

It’s that thought that’s rattling around in his brain when he collides with someone else.

“Sorry!” He reaches out, blindly, tries to catch the person or their belongings–something. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” a voice says. It’s a voice he’s never forgotten–couldn’t forget, even if he wanted to–and he kicks himself that this is the way he’d run into you again.

Literally.

“It was really,” you stand, catch sight of his face for the first time, “my fault.”

He’s older now, grayer and a little softer around the edges, but, still, he can see the moment recognition lights on your features.

“Joel?”

He nods, suddenly sheepish. For once, his mind is completely blank. It can’t begin to come up with an adequate greeting for an old flame that, maybe, still burns somewhere behind his rib cage. He settles on an all too casual, “Hi.”

You smile, a soft thing. “Hi.”

On instinct it seems, you take a step closer and hug him. Though it’s been years, the feeling of you pressed against him, your arms around him, it’s familiar.

He wants to hate it, but he doesn’t. Not even a little.

He barely resists the urge to press a kiss to your forehead, take a minute to inhale your scent, before you pull away.

“S’nice to see you.”

Joel nods. “You, too.” Somewhere between the truth and a lie.

“Your hair, it’s…softer,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” Joel reaches up, runs an idle hand through it. “Haven’t had a lot of time for haircuts, I guess.” He shrugs. “I kinda got used to it.”

You nod. “It’s been a long time.”

Joel quirks a brow. “Whose fault was that?”

It’s too sharp, too biting, and he can see the results flash across your face.

Shaking your head, you glare at him, blow out a breath. “I should have known you hadn’t changed.”

You turn on your heel, away from him, and he wants to reach out, tell you he’s sorry, but something won’t let him.

He thinks it’s his heart.

“I’ve changed plenty!” He calls after your shrinking form. “Changed enough to know I should stay away from you.”

You look over your shoulder–just for a second–long enough to cut him to the core. “The feeling is mutual!”

He sighs and continues on his own path, towards his own lonely house, entirely too close to you for comfort.

x

“So.” Ellie sighs. “That went well.”

Joel chuckles, rolls his eyes. “You think?”

“We can fix it,” she says, sitting on the couch closest to him. “It’ll be fine.”

“Sure about that?,” he asks. “It’s not a leaky sink, you know.”

Her eyes light up in the very particular way that tells Joel she’s had an idea he won’t be fond of.

He’s suddenly nervous.

“That’s it,” she exclaims.

“What’s it?”

Ellie leaves the room, obviously in search of something, and ignores him.

“Ellie,” he calls after her. “Ellie, what’s it?”

x

It’s her scheming that puts him on your porch, in fact, toolbox in hand and looking for something to fix.

Real or fake, it hadn’t really mattered to Ellie.

He should never have told her he had been a contractor.

The door opens and you glare at him, unsurprisingly.

“What do you want?”

He spits it out, before he can change his mind, run back home and hide.

“I’m sorry for earlier.” He shakes his head. “You left…before. And, I was angry and seeing you again…” He trails off, settles on simplicity. “I’m sorry.”

Something in your face softens as you step aside to let him in.

“I’m sorry for leaving, you know.”

You take him off guard, turn his pulse to a gallop.

“I was…I was afraid,” you murmur, skipping over his own apology in a way that’s entirely you.

Of course it’s the way you’d let him know things are okay.

“I should have told you that, though, instead of disappearing.”

He nods, swallows down a memory he doesn’t exactly want to relive right now, whispers, “It’s okay.”

You nod, smile at him. “You want a drink? Some food?”

He nods, places the toolbox in the floor next to your couch.

“That’d be nice.”

x

Joel isn’t sure how long the two of you have been talking–minutes or hours. Maybe days. Easy familiarity settles over the pair of you, and things are like they used to be.

He’s glad for it.

“Were there others?” Joel asks, words slipping out before he can stop them.

It’s the question that he somehow desperately wants the answer to and also never wants to hear.

You nod. “A few.” But, then, “None like you.”

It’s more honest than he expected, like your heart has opened to him once again.

You’re vulnerable. He knows you hate that.

“That makes sense.” He nods, rising to his feet, hand curling around the handle of his toolbox, imagining you want him to take his leave. “I’m pretty unforgettable.”

You laugh, look at him with something he would have called affection, once upon a time. “Yeah, you are, Miller.”

Something buzzes inside of him at the knowledge he can still make you laugh, even after everything, and he ducks his head, starts to head for the door.

“Joel?”

He turns, finds apprehension on your features.

He aches to set you at ease.

“Yeah?”

“Could you…would it…” You shake your head, shoulders squaring like you’re heading into a fight. “Would you want to stay? The night? With…with me.”

In a minute, he forgets it all. The pain and heartache and anger disappears with one look at your eyes.

“Yes.”

Simple–the way it’s always been between the two of you.

x

You crawl on top of him in a way he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined over the years.

His hands find a resting place on either of your hips, squeeze the flesh there lightly.

“Hi,” you murmur, grin on your face.

“Hi.” He smiles.

It’s different when you’re with your soulmate.

Joel had been with others, sure.

Tess comes to mind, but he quickly shakes the thought away–along with the memory of her death.

But, every time, even when stars popped up behind his eyelids and warmth erupted through his every limb, it wasn’t what it had been with you.

The best way he could think to describe it was…more.

As you lean down, press a kiss to his lips, he finally admits to himself how much he’d missed it. You.

x

Joel feels you pull away and squeezes you closer. “Where you goin’?,” he mumbles, already half asleep.

“Shirt,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, nuzzles his nose into the hollow of your throat.

Chuckling softly, you say, “S’winter, Joel.”

He holds you even closer–if that’s possible. “I’ll keep you warm.” Then, just to tease, fingers dance over your hip bone, inches from the crux of your thighs. “Any way you want.”

“Joel…”

“Or, are you too old for this game?” He hums, getting a rise out of you too tempting to ignore. “You get soft on me while you were away?”

Your own hand–cold from it’s trip beyond the faded quilt that covers you both–dances along the soft skin of his stomach, curls around his still too sensitive length. He jumps, hisses out a breath, interest already simmering at the base of his spine.

“I can still play,” you purr. “Can you?”

Your hand works him over, languid strokes finding a pattern that makes his skin buzz.

Joel rises, mouth desperate to find yours.

He’s always liked to be kissed–especially by you, especially when you’re touching him the way you are.

You indulge him, lips parting to let his tongue tangle with your own. He can’t help but grin into the kiss.

x

In the morning, he wakes alone. Part of him isn’t shocked. Part of him is heartbroken all over again.

Quickly, he gets dressed–avoiding mirrors with the hopes of missing any evidence you’d left behind of the night before.

He goes to Tommy’s, doesn’t even look towards your house as he walks down the street.

x

“You’ve been in love before.” Tommy shrugs. “Maybe it could happen again. Nothing says you have to be with your soulmate.”

Joel hadn’t thought about it when he’d fallen in love with Sarah’s mother.

He hadn’t had much choice, if he’s honest. One look at her and he had been done for.

So, the fact she didn’t have a sunflower on the soft skin of her forearm wasn’t of much consequence. The fact she had her own tattoo–purple dahlia petals curling around her own wrist–had never mattered to her either.

They had shared a life and love and had turned that love into something that lived outside of them.

Sarah.

It was only a few months after she was born that Joel had woken up alone to the sound of Sarah’s crying.

He had adjusted, though. The two of them had made a team and found happiness all on their own.

Until…well, Joel didn’t really like to think about that day–that last day. He preferred to imagine her laughing, head thrown back in joy.

“I know,” he murmurs. He adds, almost under his breath, “I don’t think I want to fall in love. Not if it’s not with her.”

Tommy ducks his head, sheepish all of a sudden.

“What is it?”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell you.”

He leans forward, insistent. “Tommy, what is it?”

“She told Maria that she was…thinking of leaving Jackson.”

Joel is off Tommy’s couch and out the door before Tommy can ask where he’s going.

Joel suspects he knows.

x

His knocks are incessant, barely a pause between them.

“C’mon,” he murmurs to himself. “Please don’t be gone.”

The door opens, shocking Joel, and he almost falls through it.

“You can’t leave Jackson,” he pants. There’s an ache in his side, a pulling at muscles that scream with use more often than they don’t these days. He’s certain he shouldn’t have run to make sure he caught you.

You shake your head, hands coming to rest on either side of his face.

It’s a gesture full of affection and hope ignites in his gut.

“I’m not leaving,” you murmur.

Joel’s tongue is heavy, suddenly too thick to form a reply. “You…you’re not?”

“No.” Gently, your thumb rubs back and forth over his cheekbone. “I thought of something to stick around for.”

“Yeah?” Joel hums. “What’s that?”

“You.”

Joel feels the heat flush his cheeks. The emotions he really feels are too much–too real–so, he settles for a joke.

“That makes sense.” He nods. “I’m pretty unforgettable.”

“Yeah.” You laugh, duck your head for a minute before your eyes meet his again. “Yeah, you are, Miller.”

x

Later that night, with most of your closet mingled with his own, he pulls you close to him in bed. His lips ghost over your forehead and an arm wraps around your side.

He glances down at his wrist, takes in the bright yellows of the sunflower petals. With gentle fingers, he finds your wrist, brings it to his mouth and kisses the yellow of your own petals.

There’s gray in his hair, but, right now, he couldn’t feel more grateful for it.

[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul Hill x Fem!

Reader

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Word count: 13.5K

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

I invite you to listen to the playlist I made that goes along with the story.

Notes: **please read** This story is told partially from John Pruitt's pov and partially from readers, as such, when it's John's (Paul) it will refer to him as John, seeing as he had no need for the alias when it's from his pov. But when it's from readers, she will be referring to him as Paul Hill. Thank you!

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Crude oil is destructive to say the least. It is thick, and cloying; dense and dark and it holds no mercy for anything it touches. It kills and pollutes and fuses itself to anything it touches like some dependant parasitic bond. Not that it knows any better.

At one time, Crockett Island was a home off the Eastern coast to close to 500 residences. There was a harmony and calmness to that time; back when the island had summer visitors, and talks of an airport, and no one had to worry about how to pay for their groceries or if they could afford to pay for house repairs after a bad storm. Back when people were alive and helped eachother and laughed.

As the Breeze approached the marina of Crockett Island, there was a passenger who stood outside, leaning against the railing as he remembered Crockett when it was a secret haven. Then that horrible accident…Now, it was more akin to a shelter to the last 127 souls who remained. The brisk maritime wind tousled his black curled hair and flickered into his eyes.

Not that he minded too terribly- he didn't mind much of anything.

John Pruitt sucked in a full breath of the sea air- something he hadnt been able to do in decades when his old self's lungs had began to weaken. It nearly brought tears to his eyes to have been blessed with this second chance as he took in the mass of land before him. His home. His duty. John knew what he had to do. A needle of anxiety poked at him as he hoped his large cargo was still safe in the hold of the small ferry. Of course it was, but he couldnt help but worry until it was safely tucked away in the rectory.

His gift.

“I’m here to help…just here to help…” He repeated in his head.

The ferry lurched as it docked, though his sturdy frame barely flinched. John blinked, and adjusted his satchel one last time before coming to the off-boarding ramp. He slowly and shyly looked at the other passengers, and had to press his tongue to his teeth to keep from acknowledging a familiar face that stood only a few feet from him.

Riley Flynn.

It had been years since he had seen that face, and he felt a swell of happiness at the prospect of having another addition to his flock to receive this gift he so eagerly wished to bestow upon them. He could hardly wait to see each face and see them properly with his rejuvinated sight. See how they’ve grown and aged. He couldn’t wait to help them.

John stood off to the side after exiting the boat as he waited for his trunk.

"Whatcha waitin' for?" Came a gruff voice that John knew well.

He turned to see the island handyman, Sturge, and a small smile pulled at his cupids bow, "My trunk…should be the largest thing on there I’m afraid." John said.

Sturge huffed a little, but nodded, "Yeah its comin', you need a hand gettin' it to where your goin' we got a..." The man droned on about helping the man transport his precious cargo, but unfortunately John had inadvertently tuned him out after something had caught his eye; someone to be precise.

It was the shrill chime of a bicycle bell that had initially drawn his attention, though now he was entranced by the young woman riding the very bike that had made it.

The same wind that had combed through his own hair was now blowing yours back as you came to a stop by the small marine building for the fishermen; a large parcel was fastened to the back of your bike. In fact you were so engrossed in calling to the fishermen on the dock, while unfastening the goods from your bike that you didn’t notice the supposed stranger with his brown eyes glued to you. Staring at how the men approached you and tried to sneak a look at what you brought for them; of course he also was not blind to the evident leers you recieved from the same men. Men he knew were married and had children who he had baptised over the years.

Yet here he was practially on their same level as he watched you; transfixed by the way your hair would get caught in the breeze, and how your cheeks were a lovely pink from the cold. how you had a certain incandescence to you that brought up the spirits of the worn down fishermen.

In John's old age, he hadn't been able to see you properly since you were born; cataracts and dementia coupled with a few other ailments made you into a foggy memory for him, even now. But he knew you. He knew you had been a lovely little girl, and had decided to remain on the island and open a small bakery; John could recall Bev mentioning it a few times that you made food for the Crockpot luck each year. He remembered thanking you...not that he could properly appreciate your gift. You were a familiar face to St. Patrick’s, too.

It was only now that he could recall baptising you some twenty years ago when he had just broached 60 years...and he could see what a stellar young woman you had grown into.

Beautiful.

John had mumbled something to Sturge about only needing help to get out of the marina, and his hand gripped the top of his bag absentmindedly as his eyes flickered over you handing out pastries and sweet treats to the men.

You smiled so brightly that it truly must have been one of the many gifts you were given in life from God. Your calling to brighten up the cloudy days of Crockett island.

A patch of sunlight.

As John pulled the crate up the stairs to the rectory and pushed it across the floor, the solitude finally let him start to think. He knocked on the trunk twice, and slumped against the side as his mind began to wander. John Pruitt had been a priest for well over 60 years; he had seen and heard and dealt with just about every scandal, thought, sin, doubt and joy you could think of. Which was why he knew that there was a divine reason behind your delivery to the fishermen coinciding with his arrival.

It was no random coincidence that your face was among the first he saw upon returning. God’s plan was at work, and John felt anticipation fill him at the thought.

You were a good girl, just like your parents raised you to be, and it wasn’t as if you had a reason not to be. You had made a comfortable life after your family had either left or passed. Moving was expensive and you liked the quiet. It was a simple life and an easy one. Habitual and concise.

You went to church on Sundays and attended daily mass with Leeza. She loved your cinnamon rolls, and you liked to sneak a few into her bag. John remembered noticing that after daily mass one day. It made his chest swell with what he told himself was pride and admiration; not pining and adoration. It excited him to see someone so full of life, even if it was quietly. But that excitement was a double edged sword, after all it too made the Father dread it when he felt it in him. That excitement would settle low in his stomach and make him lose his train of thought.

A test. It was all a test.

The first time you saw the man was when you were leaving the dock that morning. It was strange to see a new face on Crockett, let alone a handsome one at that. You had wished you were heading in his direction so as to give him a welcome; he had such a large trunk with him that you wished you could have given him a hand too. But alas you were needed in the opposite way back down Main Street.

You petalled down the road, and dropped off a few more deliveries down the island to the elders who couldn’t venture too far. Your routine every other day from 10:30 in the morning for an hour.

John knew that too. He remembered feeling someone cycle past him with a soft greeting everytime he visited town after mass. Everything was starting to click back into place as his memory was replenished.

You finished your route, and hopped off your bike as you came to the little bundle of shops in town.

You knew Monsignor Pruitt was returning the next day, and you found yourself hopeful that he hadnt exhausted himself…you were also excited for Bev to calm down after weeks of her relentless, poor moods…and that was saying something for a woman who already lacked a pleasant temperament. The Monsignor always seemed to calm her…perhaps it was that she was able to abuse his position for herself-

You took a deep breath to calm yourself as your temper flared at the thought.

The following day, Saturday, was your day to yourself. Your little shop remained closed until Sunday afternoon, and your appreciation for the downtime was great. You took extra time for yourself, and sat down to read that book that you had promised to read last year; tried a new recipe for dinner and baked yourself a fresh batch of cookies. It wasn’t terribly interesting, but it was easy, and you liked that.

As you brushed your hair out for sleep, your thoughts wandered to that strange face you had seen exit the Breeze the day previous. You wondered if he was visiting someone or if he was some kind of inspector for the island…so little happened on Crockett that new faces were so obvious. You were surprised no one had mentioned him during your day at the shop.

You shrugged it off.

It wasn’t your business.

The rosary you clutched as you prayed beside your bed dug into your skin as you squeezed it unconsciously. Some nights your worship came with difficulty…you mind wandered and you wondered if you were doing the right thing…praying to the right god. Not that you would tell anyone that.

You didn’t sleep well that night. Somehow you repeatedly awoke every few hours to a deep sinking in your gut and prickle up your neck that kept you from returning to sleep. The restlessness had you surrendering just before dawn, and you wrapped a thick blanket around yourself as you sat in front of your window that just peaked over the water. Your bleary gaze was heavy, though you felt yourself sober when you swore you saw a dark figure move into the thick bushes. You jumped, and felt your blood freeze, but when you leaned a little closer to look out, there was nothing but the gentle sway of the trees in the wind. It was so easy to dismiss what you had seen as simply your tired mind playing tricks on you.

You rubbed the heels on your hands into your eyes, and sighed as you stood.

Coffee. A coffee was needed.

The dirt road was muddy with the approaching storm that would be on the horizon in a few days. You hoped this one wouldn’t be too damaging.

You followed behind Leeza with Dolly, and told them what you had baked that morning for your shop, while Erin and Wade listened; enjoying how the air smelled of petrichor and pine. There was a comfortable chatter amongst everyone as they grew happy to welcome their Monsignor back to Crockett.

You sat yourself in the middle, in the same seat you always took. After months of Father Pruitt being gone, you routine was beginning to settle again.

The small organ began playing, and you stood to start singing with everyone else, but then as the alter boys passed you and you watched them, there was an unfamiliar voice behind them. You slowed your singing as you were once again distracted; sure enough, there was a much younger man who passed down the aisle in a gold chasuble and his hands held in prayer.

That same man from the dock.

You felt confusion fill you, and evidently you weren’t the only one as the churchgoers exchanged confused glances with eachother. You looked over at Wade, hoping he might look a little less confused as the mayor, but he mirrored every other face.

Knowing you weren’t getting any answers from your peers, you directed your attention to the pulpit as the stranger walked up to it.

“Good morning,” the man began, “I know I’m not who you expected to see this morning. I’m Father Paul Hill, and I was sent by the diocese to fill in for Monsignor Pruitt. Just know that I’m only here to help, and I look forward to meeting you all.”

You blinked in surprise at his explanation, thought you supposed it wasn’t entirely strange- just unexpected. Had something happened? You remembered how so many islanders had advised the Father not to make the journey, and now you were wondering if you all should have insisted harder.

The man looked a little nervous, but hopeful as he looked around to his new flock. But as his gaze passed over yours, you noted it paused for a moment. You smiled a little a him in hopes that it might make him feel a little welcome, and you briefly wondered if he recognized you from the marina.

There was a lilt to his strong, low voice that made you listen. He was compelling and direct; certainly not what you were used to with Monsignor Pruitt. He had always been a wonderful preacher, but for the last decade, he had grown slow and drawling.

You remembered your mother saying something about “It’s not about the sermon or who’s giving it, it’s just about being reminded of god and our mortality in this life.” And while you had always agreed with the sentiment, there was something about being invigorated while at church that was making your fingertips tingle.

You could already tell that Father Hill was appreciated amongst the churchgoers. There was a softness in their weathered faces as he spoke, like he was indeed connecting them to God.

As everyone filed in for the sacrament, you fell in line and felt your palms start to sweat. A part of you was thankful that Bev was there to provide the wine and your…replacement; you didn’t want to have to stop the church proceedings just to explain why you couldn’t drink the wine.

The discovery of your ethanol allergy had come as a distressful lesson when you had first drank the sacrament as a child. You still remembered what a fuss everyone made and how you had been rushed to Dr.Gunning who had only graduated from medical school recently. From then on your Monsignor had been very understanding and blessed your separate cup of grape juice every mass from then on.

When you accepted the wafer, and accepted the smaller cup from Bev, you noted in the back of your mind that the priest before you looked a little shaken as you drank. You paid it no mind- he was new and he likely had his quirks.

But it was no quirk. The Father felt his shoulders sink, and blood drain from his face as he watched Bev hand you that cup. He felt his idiocy fill him, then the subsequent dread and horror that followed his realisation.

You couldn’t drink the communion wine.

You never had.

A flash of the first day you tried it made his head hurt as he recalled how distraught your mother was upon learning what had happened. He tried to push the worried expression on his young face away but he was sure it was now more of a grimace.

You couldn’t accept the gift.

Panic clouded Johns mind as he continued to give the sacrament to each of the islanders. The devil on his shoulder proposed that it simply wasn’t your fate to be given the gift. But John had learned to ignore that horned heathen well, and he knew he must do something to guide you with the rest of his flock.

No lamb left behind.

As you filed out to leave, you walked behind Annie Flynn and her son Riley.

He had left years ago when you were still in your mid teens, and he didn’t exactly leave a lasting impression on a teenager. They stopped for a moment to speak with the new father, and while you wanted to say hello to the pastor, you hated to linger and get in people’s way; you knew you would see the Father again, and so you went to skirt around Annie, but as fate would have it, their conversation ended quickly, and the older woman took you by the arm as her son left.

“This is the beating heart of Crockett herself!” She beamed at you while you stood there suddenly locked in conversation with the young priest.

Annie had always appreciated your positive attitude and good nature. You found yourself always trying to cheer her up on her worst days while she worried herself sick about her husband and her son on the mainland. She was a mother through and through, and you often held her as a place-holder for your own flesh and blood since you saw your family only a couple times a year since they moved away.

And Annie seemed content with that. She had always wanted a daughter. The way she gushed about you then to the Father and introduced you had you trying to brush off the praise with a few failed “Oh no I-“ and “I’m not-“ and so forth. Your flushed cheeks had another agenda entirely however when you finally looked up at the Fathers gaze.

It was those soft brown eyes of his that struck you first. So focused and yet so…sad. Like he might cry at any moment. You wondered if his eyes stung.

He was handsome in a weathered, timid sort of way; couldn’t have been more than mid forties. He looked as if he had seen years of life beyond his age. Perhaps years of absolving sins had taken a toll.

“She is our baker here on Crockett…helps liven up the plain variety of food we have.” She half joked, thought it was mostly truth. Crockett was a place of bread and butter- basics. So a treat of some kind was greatly appreciated, and you were happy to deliver just that.

“Ah yes…the Monsignor mentioned his love for your pastries.” He smiled genuinely and nodded as if recalling being told, “I’ll be sure to stop by.”

There was a boyishness to him that endearing enough to settle your nerves.

Your eyes widened in surprise, “He did?” You asked.

You were certain Pruitt wouldn’t be able to recall something so insignificant in his declining health and old age. It had only been a few years that you had been running the shop, and you knew he hadn’t been fully coherent long before that. A poetic connection between him and Crockett Island you supposed.

Father Paul seemed delighted by your shock though, and the crows feet around his eyes deepened, “Yes he was quite adamant I assure you. I believe you’re also a regular face I will be seeing and that it may just be you and Leeza at times.” He added.

You clasped your hands in front of you to keep from fidgeting.

“I- well I try to be.” You looked away timidly, and shuffled your feet as Annie smiled at you. You weren’t used to someone being so passionate about small things- let alone a man.

“Oh she’s just modest.” The older woman said.

Father Paul chuckled, “Modesty is a virtue. Now, I noticed you weren’t able to drink the sacramental wine, is there something I should know?” He seemed so curious and invested.

You nodded, “I’m afraid I’m allergic to something in wine- ethanol. I’ve always been given plain grape juice instead…the Monsignor was always kind enough to have it ready. I hope that won’t be a problem-“

Father Paul shook his head as he rushed to put your mind at ease.

“-no no not- not in the least I assure you. Your presence and dedication is more than enough…you still receive the lords blessing even if it is from a sweeter drink.” He mused.

“Thank you, Father.” You replied and looked down again so as to hide the warming of your cheeks again.

Annie smiled and hugged you, “Well then, not to cut this short, Father but I’m starting my shift in a half hour. I’ll see you then?” She asked you.

You nodded, “Sure will. I’ll make us some coffee. I’m sure the sheriff could use some too.” You called after her as she walked away and bid the father farewell. Leaving the two of you to stand together. You turned back to Father Hill as he towered over you, and fought to find something to say as your nerves kicked in. You were usually good at finding conversation but you felt like you were a kid being forced to talk to some family member your mom insisted you knew.

You took a deep breath. “It was-“

“I hope-“

You both spoke over each other, and both looked at one another apologetically. You shook your head and smiled a little to ease his embarrassment, “Please you first, Father Hill.”

He looked at you for a moment for confirmation to ensure that he wasn’t being rude then he began again, “I was only going to say that I hope to see you here again…it’s enlightening to see a youthful face in a church.” He grinned- a curl of his dark hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at you.

You returned his grin, though yours was a little forced in comparison.

Attending church was a routine ingrained in you since childhood, and now it was just something expected of you. You knew the day you didn’t attend would make the talk of the town and you were never in the mood for Beverly to come knocking on your door to berate you.

You could still remember a couple years ago when you were sick and she brought you a batch of soup for you to help…the offer had been kind enough, but the soup itself had made you want to curl into a ball and chew on a dead seagull.

“I assure you.” You echoed his words from earlier, and he smiled. “I’ll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your day, Father.” You said, and slowly stepped past him.

He turned his body to follow you. John told himself it was manners to speak to someone with your whole attention, and while that was true, he simply needed one last proper look at you before you left.

“Likewise, y/n.” He called to you as you walked down the steps. Out of your peripheral, you could see Bev still bending by the ear of one of the community members, and you made quick work of sending her a tight smile then hurrying along the path to the road. She returned the forced expression; not that she knew you forced it. Practice makes perfect.

The hairs on the back of your neck began to stand on end as you descended the hill from St. Patrick’s. There was something in the back of your mind that told you not to look behind you, but against your better judgement, you did just that. A pair of soft brown eyes were trained on you as you walked.

The Father’s stare startled you and made your stride stutter.

He was intense and direct. He wasn’t like most of the islanders, and he made you uneasy somehow, but regardless, you cast him a friendly wave, and continued on your way- but that same prickle on the back of your neck simply wouldn’t let go.

John watched you go until your head disappeared down onto the main road and out of sight. He felt his nerves pick up as he said his last goodbyes and returned inside the church. He sat amongst the pews and stared up at the four walls around him. The weight of the gift he was tasked to reveal was growing heavy. He wished so badly to bestow this marvel to every dedicated church goer, and he would.

To every single one except you.

Why you?

Certainly you were in some way special; that had been revealed to him when it had been your face for him to first see upon returning.

Fate.

But if that were the case then surely your way to salvation should be easier…yet here you were unable to accept it; all because of an allergy.

John sighed as he made up his mind to proceed as he did with the rest of his flock. He hoped you wouldn’t taste the blood in your juice tomorrow- if you did he would simply have to find another way for you to accept it.

No lamb left behind.

The walk into town that usually brought you so much peace now came with an impending sense of foreboding. You knew that nasty storm was nearly at your doors, but storms had never bothered you too much. No, there was something in the air that made you all too aware of your heartbeat, and your breath and how your skin felt. You barely paid attention to anything around you as your leisurely pace unconsciously changed into one of hurry.

It wasn’t until you had just passed by the general store, and didn’t respond to Hassan’s greeting that you snapped out of your trance.

“Y/n? Y/n you alright?” He called to you as you strode right past him.

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Sh-sheriff, I’m so sorry…” you stopped in your tracks and furrowed your brow as you fought to find an answer for your odd attitude, “I’m…I think I’m just a little out of it today.” You laughed.

The Sheriff glanced you over for a moment, then nodded slowly. “There’s a fresh pot inside.” He tipped his cup filled with black coffee to you. He was a nice man. Exhausted…mistreated, but caring.

You smiled and nodded, “I’ll come by in a few minutes. Thank you.” You hoped your smile would reassure him. You didn’t need to worry an already stressed father and someone you would consider a friend. An awkward older friend who needed a break but a friend nonetheless. “Want an eclair? Got a few extra that I made this morning.” You asked.

He shook his head gently, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to give me my own form of insulation for winter.”

You gasped in faux shock, and shook your head, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The pebbles and dirt crunched under your boots as you stepped up to the little entrance of your bakery beside the general store. As soon as you stepped inside, you suddenly felt a little safer…at ease. As if you had anything to be afraid of.

You suddenly felt very silly.

Ridiculous.

There had only been one change that day, and that was the charismatic Father Paul Hill.

Had you become so sheltered on that little island that you were afraid of a stranger coming into your community? Surely not.

No. You hadn’t felt fear in the man’s presence so who would you feel it now?

Ridiculous.

Stop it.

You closed your eyes and did your best to clear your mind of any ominous thought and any thought about the new Father.

Out of sight. Out of mind. Not your business.

You strode to the back of the shop and prepared your morning deliveries; it was always the same. It was easy. And you knew it was appreciated. Feeling important was a virtue in a small community that was run into the ground.

Making people feel cared for made you happy.

The day came and went just as it always did, but you couldn’t help but feel like the island had turned a little off its axis. Like something had just nudged it into a slight other direction. Your suspicions were only enforced and justified when almost every one of your regulars mentioned the new pastor to you as they selected their desired sweet or savoury treat from your display case.

“Such a striking young man.”

“Too modern.”

“Nothing like our dear Monsignor…but I can’t say I’ve stayed so engaged during a homily in years.”

“How long do you think he’ll stay?”

“Where do you think he came from?”

And so on.

You had hoped any mention of the man would remain in your own thoughts, but it was as if he had swept through the town like a stiff winter breeze.

By the time you sold your last cheese bun and lemon tart, and closed up shop, there was a very real wind that surged right down Main Street. The cool air pricked right through your thick tights under your skirt and made you made a mental note to dig out some warmer ones.

That storm was due that evening. It had been the talk of the town all day, right after the endless conversations of the invigorating preacher. Once you had gotten home, you felt it start to push up against your boarded windows. The wind howled, and the lights flickered as the sky darkened outside; you took that as a sure sign to light a few candles.

There was something ethereal in the light from a candle. So beautiful. If you caught the flames out of the corner of your eyes, sometimes it looked like they had little halos.

You smiled softly at the thought.

You never stayed up late on storm nights. In fact you slept earlier than usual. You knelt beside your bed and clasped your hands in prayer.

“Father, as I lie down for sleep tonight, wash over me with the warmth of Your love. In Your mercy, soothe my pain, whether in my body-“ you paused your recitation when that familiar prickle began its way up the back of your neck like it had for the past two days. You listened intently, but there was nothing but the wind.

“-mind or soul. Grant me a restful night of sleep so that when I awake, I'm strengthened to do Your will. Amen.” You decided against thinking too much of the unease, and settled under your blankets and closed your eyes.

You didn’t dream that night. In fact it felt as if you had merely shut your eyes for a moment before you were opening them again at the sound of your alarm.

The storm had blown itself out by the time you took your wooden shutters off your windows. There was a sliver of light coming over the horizon as you peered out at the water. You stared at it intently, and clenched your hand into an absentminded fist.

You tried the lightswitch in your kitchen, and praised the lord that it worked. You wondered if Sturge had been up even earlier than you to fix the power lines.

The outside of your house was a mess complete with a crab trap hanging off your fence. Nets, ropes, bushes, clothes, coolers, toys riddled the streets as you walked in the dim light to your shop. But then after only a few minutes, your nose picked up a smell. You were used to the strong smell of the ocean, especially after the storms, but this was different. You started towards the beach, and nearly gagged when you got closer. You had to cover your mouth once you stood on the sand.

From left to right, the beach was littered with the corpses of cats. You knew there were quite a lot on the island, and had seen the odd dead feline, but this was as if something had wiped out every cat and dumped them by the shore.

Anxiety filled you as you stared.

“Oh my-…”

You spun around to see Hassan standing beside you; uniform half buttoned and a bag over his shoulder that you knew had his lunch. The two of you exchanged looks of distress, and you visibly started to shake the longer you looked.

“What…what would…Hassan what-…” you looked up at the man, and he only shook his head. At a loss for words.

“Cmon. I’ll walk you in. Gotta…gotta call the mayor.” He wrapped an arm around your back to direct you away from the mess, “We’ll take care of it.”

You nodded and followed his lead away from the beach and into town, but you found yourself remembering that prickle up the back of your neck that night, and wondered if it had had anything to do with the slaughter. Was there some predator that had somehow made it onto the island without anyone knowing? Was someone going around killing cats? Had the solitude of Crockett Island finally made someone snap and rip every feline to shreds?

The call of your name cut through your thoughts.

You looked up and saw that you were ex standing outside your shop, and the poor man who had walked you there looked even more distressed at your quietness.

“Thank you…thanks Hassan…I’ll…let- let me know if you find anything out.” You said quietly but gave him a small smile of reassurance.

“I will. Take care okay?” He said, and you nodded, but he was already disappearing up the steps into the general store.

You nodded to yourself, and unlocked your shop and stood inside.

Then you took a deep breath.

And got to work.

By the time 8:30 came around, your nerves had calmed, and your nose was filled with a far more pleasant smell of muffins, and tarts and sourdough.

You brushed off your hands, and bundled up the deliveries for that day, then quickly locked the shop up and left for mass. As you walked, you found yourself ever so slightly reluctant. Nervous like your first day of school.

It wasn’t until you heard the sound of Leeza and Annie behind you that you snapped out of a daze that had settled over you.

“Good morning, dear!” Annie called to you as you stopped and waited for them.

“Morning. You all survived the storm just fine?” You asked politely and began walking with them.

“Oh we were fine. Just a breeze.” Annie said good-naturedly, “Sure was strange what with all those cats this morning though hey? Heard Dolly saying they’re still trying to work out what happened.” She said a little hushed.

You nodded, “I know…the Sheriff and I found them this morning…scared me half to death…”

“They’ll figure it out I’m sure.” Annie dismissed the conversation; you could tell she was worried. She always worried.

Not wanting that to be the last conversational subject between your little group, you changed the subject.

“Anything exciting happening at school today?” You asked Leeza.

She shook her head, “Nah…but I think we’re starting on this project that I’m excited about…” the girl began on a tangent regarding her science project. It was nice to listen to someone prattle on about something that would be insignificant in a few years…it was somehow refreshing. Somehow you felt like an older sister to Leeza, and having her confide in you so honestly about mundane things made your heart swell.

The three of you entered the church, and just as always, you sat in your usual spot in the middle, across from Leeza and Annie. And you waited.

“Our processional hymn this morning is number 400 in the red hymnal. “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Please rise. “ came the voice of Father Hill from the door of the church.

A shiver made you twitch, and you blamed a draft in the church. You stood just as you always did; not needing the hymnbook but still holding it out of habit.

You sang, and kept your eyes trained on the text as the Father passed, his hands pressed in prayer as he walked up to the pulpit and continued his routine. You could feel the heavy presence of Bev Keene permeating the air, and you subconsciously ground your teeth. You knew if she had her heart in the right place, she could be a magnetic, beloved member of any community.

But sadly she didn’t have a heart to have it in the right place to begin with. Soot and malice was what sat beneath that gold cross she wore.

“Before he was given up to death, a death he freely accepted, he took bread and gave you thanks…”

Your eyes glazed over at you listened to that voice of his. Not that you weren’t hearing his words, or the message behind them; you were paying attention. But just like being read a story by your mother at bedtime versus a babysitter you had only just met, there was a certain comfort to be found in the former. Yet somehow, where Father Hill ought to have been less comforting, he brought great solace to his homily. It felt as if he was the one you were so used to listening to. Somehow he had eased himself into the Monsignor’s shoes seamlessly and had begun to preach his own gospel that melded with the tone you had become accustomed to since childhood and lulled you into a safe haven of worship.

“…He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said…”

There was an effortlessness in his sermon. You wondered if he had started preaching very young.

With only 4 islanders in the church to worship, Father Hill stepped down from the pulpit and began offering the Body and blood of Christ to each. He saved you for last, you noticed, and for good reason as he retrieved your smaller cup and returned to you. You cupped your hands in front of you, and waited dutifully.

“Body of Christ, y/n.” Came that gentle voice of his like he cared deeply that you accept the blessing.

His long fingers graced the pads of yours so slightly as he placed the wafer on your fingers, and you failed to hide the hitch of your breath as you murmured “Amen.”

Then as he held your small cup for you to drink from, you failed to see how his gaze caught the sight of your pink tongue peaking out just over your teeth as you went to drink. John didn’t know why he noticed that; he supposed he noticed many small details now. Seeing your tongue now must have reminded him of any smaller animal with its mouth open- a small rabbit, a mouse, a cat, a-

A lamb.

The juice tasted strange that morning and somehow thicker than usual. You wondered if it was just in your head after being so shaken from the cats…

Annie took it upon herself to walk Leeza to school that morning, which left you to exit the church alone. On a day like that with the sun shining, you found coming out of the house of God almost ethereal. The light poured in through the single-paned windows and illuminated the dust particles that drifted so gently.

Once you stepped outside, the fresh air filled your lungs and you let yourself smile easily up at Father Paul as he stood patiently.

“Good morning, Father Hill.” You said, craning your neck to look up at the man.

“The beating heart herself!” He smiled, reiterating Annie’s analogy of you.

A good memory.

And a good sense of humour.

The warming of your cheeks was obvious , and John felt a little tug in his chest at the sight of it. Little flower pedals colouring your cheeks.

“She- I’m…”you tried to find a way to humble the dramatic compliment, but failed, “I hope you made it through the storm alright, Father. One hell of a welcome.” You said, trying to redirect the conversation, and to your mercy, Father Hill went along with it.

He nodded.

“It was quite nice actually. Being plunged into darkness almost feels like a renewal of some kind.” He said thoughtfully as his mouth seemed to threaten to tug into a smile.

“Quite sobering.” You agreed, “I’m glad it didn’t chase you off. Don’t know how many times I’ve seen someone buy a summer home here then flee the moment they have to endure a storm.” It was true. A little funny too.

The Father chuckled and nodded, “A fearsome thing to behold, but still a reminder of our creator…the power or lord holds, whipping storms against our rocks and shores just to knock on our doors and say hello. Almost reassuring.” He rambled a little.

You tilted your head, “That’s a very thoughtful way to look at it. Certainly more poetic than what you’ll hear from most of the locals.”

“And what would they say?” He shot back playfully.

You breathed out a laugh.

“One too many curse words for my liking, Father. And a couple confusing analogies.” You said.

Father Hill chuckled and somehow you half expected him to pat your head and tell you to run along. The Monsignor used to when you were a child so it wouldn’t be entirely foreign.

“Well we all have our ways of dealing with hardship-“

“Ah you’re still here, y/n!”

During your conversation you hadn’t noticed how the two of you had come to shift closer to one another; but when that cutting voice of Bev Keen startled you, you took an instinctive step away from the man with whom you had been speaking.

You forced a polite smile, “I am. Just asking how Father Paul made it through the storm-“

“The rectory has always been just fine.” She shot at you with a tight smile as if trying to end your time there quickly.

John could see your lips pull down so slightly into a tiny frown when Bev cut you off; he felt a flicker of irritation. Odd.

You recovered, acting like she didn’t mean any harm. “I’m sure it has. But just because a place is safe doesn’t remove fear. The Father here seemed to have handled it just fine though like you said… “In the storms, winds and waves, He whispers “fearnot” for I am with you.”.” You smiled up at the Father, and he returned it gently.

“Psalm 107:29…truer words could not exist for Crockett Island.” Father Paul said fondly to you; he had a way of speaking to those around him like there was a bubble around the two of you as you conversed. Like nothing else could take his attention from you.

You took in a breath and clasped your hands in front of you when you could feel the gaze of Bev scorching you, “Well thank you for a lovely service today Father, Bev…always a pleasure.” You said to both, but only made it several steps before Father Paul called after you.

“You’re always welcome here.” He said you name so gently. You noticed too that his tone was almost pleading…perhaps encouraging. Did he think you would stop your routine one day?

“I appreciate that Father Hill!” You smiled and waved as you turned to continue on your way; Paul’s lingering stare and Bevs look of distain following you as you went.

Your ear ached as a pull in you almost forced you to turn around and look back at St. Patrick’s again…but you didn’t. Somehow you felt it was in poor taste to do so. You had been startled by being watched once, and you were certain your nerves would not benefit from it again.

Instead, you hurried along, and made it down to the bakery quickly. You waved at a few locals who entered the general store and unlocked your door to grab your deliveries for that day. You always felt a pang of sadness when you looked at your list of houses and saw old customers crossed off; having passed or moved, but you supposed you ought to feel joyous for those who remained.

One by one you completed your deliveries. There were only 15 houses to visit, give or take a few from day to day. You treasured those houses.

You peddled up to one of the houses you frequented, and grabbed the order you needed. You almost bounced up the steps and knocked. It didn’t take long before the door was opening after the voice inside called that they were coming.

You were then met with a familiar face.

“Good to see you. Morning going alright?” Sarah Gunning was always a little direct, but kind. You supposed a good doctor ought to be both.

You nodded as you handed her the two loaves of bread and bundle of fruit cakes. “Not too bad…was a little shaken by the…uh…the cats this morning but nothing a sunny day like today can’t fix!” You assured her. “How’s your mother?”

Sarah nodded, “I heard…smelled it too. She’s alright, thank you y/n.” She took the package from you and gave you a tight smile.

“Good…see you soon.” You chirped, and began backing down the steps.

You turned around and strode out the front yard, but sighed when you noticed one of the straps that kept your goods in place at the back of your bike was loose. You knelt down and retied it. You supposed everything on this island was falling apart just a little.

When you straightened, however, you gasped and nearly toppled over. “F-Father Hill! I’m so sorry-“

The man stepped back a little.

“Im sorry I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He put his hand up to show he meant no harm, face apologetic.

“No…no that was on me, I’ve been a little in my head lately.” You said, having a hard time meeting his gaze.

“We all can be a little distracted.” He said. A slightly awkward silence fell between you, but it was he who broke it. “You know the Gunnings well?” He asked, and nodded to the house behind you.

You followed his gaze and nodded, “Not terribly, but I remember seeing Mrs. Gunning in church when I was a kid…I just deliver to them now. Mrs.Gunning’s health hasn’t been the best for years and her daughter Sarah cares for her…I just try to help out where I can.” You smiled.

There was something nagging at you though. Something odd. Of course you hadn’t fully realized that this stranger already knew who lived there; you were so used to everyone knowing everyone.

You did notice how the man before you shifted when you mentioned Sarah’s mother. He seemed almost a little more compelled to listen.

“That- that’s kind of you.” He stumbled a little over his words, “Giving to those in need that’s very selfless…a trait that can be hard to come by though we all possess it.” Father Hill forced a smile that crinkled the sides of his eyes.

“We all have traits in us that we can chose to embrace or not. Good and bad, Father.”

His smile turned a little more genuine then. “Ah yes, the never ending duality of man.”

“ “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed.” John 3:20.” You quoted a little absentmindedly as you saw Beverly pass by on the main road. The distraction kept you from seeing how the man towering over you had his eyes go wide, and looked away for a moment.

You both stood there for a moment, then you ducked your head a little and pulled your bike towards yourself. “Well Father, I’ll leave you to it.”

Father Hill nodded, and pursed his lips ever so slightly, “Good to see you…”

You slowly walked past him and back to the road, but stopped when he muttered something that you wondered if he meant for you to hear.

“Thank you.” He said.

You looked back at him, brows pitched in confusion.

“For…taking- taking care of everyone.” He ended his sentence a little weakly, and you tilted your head a little to the side. An odd man.

“It’s my pleasure.” You decided on. It seemed to be what Father Hill wanted or needed to hear, and you both parted ways.

You paused at Main Street, and turned to look up at the Father as he ascended the stairs to the Gunning house. This time, it was his turn to glance back at you as you watched him. You waved and smiled, and didn’t wait for his response before you were pedalling away.

John had been standing just out of view of Sarah when he had said goodbye to Leeza, and saw you knock on Mildred’s front door. He stayed there, enjoying how much life you held inside you. Youthful and magnetic. Of course the ease in staring at you had nothing to do with the fact that your dress swayed around your legs and picked up so slightly in the wind.

He watched how startled you were by him when he approached you…so cautious yet so trusting. A lamb weary of wolves just looking for her Shepard.

I will be your Shepard sweet lamb…let me. Bend for me…for God.

Then that quote…oh you were no mere lost soul. No you were thoughtful. John felt excitement fill him at the thought of how you would benefit from his gift. He would be lying if he said you saying his true name didn’t startle him. A coincidence, of course.

Then when he turned back and saw you already watching him. Then that peak of your thigh when you hopped onto your bike…John was…

John was distracted.

An ideal lamb to guide yet so concerning. Not a blind lamb…no you were good. You were caring, and strong. Hopeful…hopeful like a man overboard who knew he had to weather swell after swell of water but kept treading water because he knew he was strong enough despite his muscles wanting to give out.

Instead of staying afloat like that man, John lost his breath.

Then he gasped in the salty sea water and breathed you in. Gulped you down his throat like a greedy boy to nourish his body and fill his lungs.

The next morning was thankfully an uneventful one.

Hassan and Wade had managed to get the dead cats cleaned up by the evening of the day before, and you weren’t sure when the last time was that you were so happy to have nothing happen.

Until that evening.

You were fairly proud of your abilities to make delicious confectioneries for Crockett island, and as you stared down your journal of recipes that sat in your lap, you pondered which to chose for the approaching Crock-potluck. You knew there would be a great deal of food already there, but you also knew that something freshly made for desert changed an atmosphere fast.

You were just looking through your various cookie and sweet bread recipes when a knock on your door made you jump. It was rare that you had visitors, especially at this hour. Certainly Erin had come by numerous times for slow walks around the island in the evening from time to time, and then Annie sometimes ran down to your house if she needed an ingredient…but somehow you felt that the person knocking was neither.

It was soft and timid.

You uncurled yourself from your nest of blankets on the couch, and strode to your door, then opened it with a pleasant smile on your face. It faltered only a little once you saw who was standing there.

“I- I uh…I’m sorry for this intrusion so late but I have a favour to ask of you if I may.” Came that low rumble of the man’s voice as he stood in the dim light of your porch.

You blinked, “What can I do for you Father?”

Father Hill shifted a little- an awkward smile on his face as he looked to the side as he stalled.

“This is my first uh- Crockett Po- crock-“ he stumbled a little and you smiled.

“Crock-potluck.” You corrected him.

He laughed a little, “Yes. And I wanted to have something to bring. Something my mother ingrained in me as a boy and well I was hoping if…if you could lend a helping hand so to speak.”

You bit at your cheek to keep from smiling too wide at his request. Here was this man likely twice your age, taller than most trees, fumbling with his words when he preached for a living. He was endearing.

“Well Father…it is getting late.” You started, and his face instantly turned to that of a kicked puppy.

His eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth tugged down so slightly.

“Oh- of- of course how silly-“

“-and I was going to make something for the potluck anyways…so having an extra pair of hands would be a godsend.” You finished.

John chuckled and stared you in the eye when your nose scrunched up so slightly at your tease.

Funny girl.

“Come in, please…make yourself at home.” You ushered him in. You were thankful that Bev didn’t live near you lest she see her dear Father Hill enter the home of a young woman alone.

Of course, John knew that you were indeed preparing to make something. Just like most islanders, you kept your drapes open even at night, and while he had just meant to take an evening stroll and check in on you- his dear lamb- John had found himself standing just outside your window watching you for well past a half hour. You flicked through that book of yours that John remembered seeing on your counter just two days ago when you had tested a recipe from it. You hadn’t seen him that night either. So domestic and sweet in your own space…

It was only when he snapped out of his trance-like state that he felt a little perverse in his current situation and told himself that he must have a reason for being there so long.

Thus the need to make something for the potluck.

John Pruitt had never made something for the potluck.

But he would not just leave your house that night after watching you through your window.

No. No he had a purpose for being there.

Of course he did. Why else would God have guided him there on his walk?

It wasn’t as if he was subconsciously drawn to your little home.

A moth to a flame.

You watched the older man remove his boots, and unzip his grey hoodie, and remove it to fold it neatly onto your couch. He looked so domestic and human.

“We’re going to make a cult classic, Father…I hope that’s alright. Safer for large numbers.” You explained as you flipped to your browned butter chocolate chip recipe. You slowly walked into your kitchen as you reviewed what you needed, and Father Hill trailed after you.

“This might take a couple hour- oh!” You started to say, but jumped when you turned around and bumped right into his chest.

He chuckled, “I think I might need a bell on me…I’m afraid I have a talent for startling people lately.”

You waved it off, “It’s just me…I’m just- I…” you sighed and looked up at the man as he waited patiently for your explanation, “Can I…can I be completely honest with you, Father Hill?” You asked a little timidly.

He nodded- open and calm, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You sucked in a breath, “You’re…well you’re a new presence here on the island…a welcomed one! But because you’re new…you startle a lot of us because we’re simply not…used to you. We’ll get there but in the time being…I think that’s why. I’m- we…we’re glad you’re here.” You stumbled and then when he smiled softly at you you suddenly worried that you had offended him, “I’m…I’m sorry I don’t think that came out right…”

“No no please…it makes perfect sense given how isolated the island is…I take no offence.” He said good-naturedly and waved his hand.

You sighed, and looked down, “Alright well…let’s get started. You might want to roll your sleeves up though it can get messy, Father.” You perked up as you changed the subject, and began to walk to your counter where you had already taken out a mixing bowl and, whisk and measuring cup.

“I am at your disposal, young lady.” Father Paul came to brace himself against the counter edge beside you, looking down at you thoughtfully.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, but kept your head down enough for him to not see, “Can you get me the butter from the fridge? Should be on the door.” You asked, and pulled out a small saucepan.

He nodded, and retrieved the butter for you. As he looked for it, you glanced over at him, and found your eyes drawn to his exposed forearms from him rolling up his sleeves. You looked away almost instantly, embarrassed for having been looking at your priest like that.

“You know this is the first time I’ve done this. Gotta admit it’s a bit exciting.” He said as he popped the butter beside you on the counter proudly.

“Baking is always fun…especially when things turn out yummy.” You smiled and put two large cups of butter in the heated pan. It started to sizzle. “We brown the butter to give the cookies a sort of nutty flavour…makes it a little tastier even if they’re just chocolate chip cookies.” You explained. He watched over your shoulder, enrapt.

“Did you always want to do this?” He asked you.

You blinked, “The- the cookies-?”

“No.” He laughed, “No, being a baker.”

“Oh. Well…not exactly. I grew up here and when you grow up in Crockett you have a lot of time to think…sometimes too much. I guess I knew I would end up doing something here and when I got older I got into baking and in my spare time I got really good at it…took years but before I knew it I was graduating and had a pretty fortuitous hobby. It was actually Dr. Gunning who suggested it.”

“Sarah?” Came his voice behind you.

“Yeah, Sarah was in the general store when I was there to get some milk and we got to talking…I had made her mom a few loaves of bread that she used to like and Sarah said I should make something out of my skill. And here I am!” You laughed, and stirred the butter as it browned and thinned.

“Wonderful…” he said softly.

You nodded, “She’s a nice lady. You’ll get used to her- just a little direct. Think it comes with being a doctor.” There was a moment of silence between you; only filled with the bubbling of the butter, “Alright, can you go into the freezer and pull out the flour, and measure out 3 cups of it into the bowl there?” You asked the man behind you.

“I certainly can.” He confirmed.

“Oh! Can you get 4 eggs as well?” You asked quickly.

He hummed and looked through your fridge for what he needed, and placed everything by the bowl. The counter was so much lower for him that he almost had to hunker over with his height to work.

He looked so…normal. It was sweet. A little odd to see your pastor baking with you but it was nice. Somehow it made him feel more human than just a man who absolved your sins and blessed you every morning.

The two of you worked together, and you came to find that Father Hill was eager to learn. He was methodical and took his time to do things right. Listened. Before you knew it there was a massive bowl of cookie dough on the counter and your oven was full of baking sheets.

“Each sheet should only take about 15 minutes so this shouldn’t take more than another hour.” You said, “If- if you need to take off I can finish-“

“A good man does not abandon his task, not to worry.” His tone was stern but he was smiling. You returned it.

“Well…” you breathed as you looked around for something to do, “I can put some music on if you like? You’re welcome to look around.”

He nodded, and you went to find something to listen to, “This used to be my family’s house. I’m afraid I only have their old records…Hope that’s okay?”

“More than.” He called out to you as you went into the living room.

You flipped through a few envelopes, and settled on one from Jeff Buckley. It was mostly slow, and you could still talk if you wanted to. You set it up, and as the needle sat atop the vinyl, a calm song began.

“Who’s this little ray of sunshine?”

You turned and followed Father Paul’s voice. He was standing in front of a few picture frames hung on the wall that you kept from when your family lived there.

“That was me.” You laughed, “That was right before Easter I think…I was 5.” You said thoughtfully.

“You looked happy.” He smiled.

I was. You thought.

“I loved Easter. Mostly for the chocolate…” you both chuckled a little, “But…now it’s just the time of year that I like. Spring. Revival…blossoming of plants, birds chirping…everything just seems so much more alive. The world starts to hum with God’s greatness during Easter, I think.” You thought aloud, then looked up at Father Hill once you ended your musings.

He was already watching you; hanging onto every word.

He remembered how much you enjoyed Easter. “One more chocolate, Monsignor? Pleeease?” He could still hear that little voice.

“What do you think, Father?” You asked him.

“I have to agree.” He hummed. You noticed that his eyes were almost glassy-that same teary look you had noticed when you first met him. Like he may weep.

“I think Monsignor Pruitt was partial t-

DING!

You both jumped apart and looked behind you at the sound of your timer sounding.

Had it been 15 minutes already?

You both returned to the kitchen and you began removing the sheets of golden treats. “If you can put them on the cooling rack while I take them out that’ll help a lot, Father.” You smiled.

“They turned out so nicely.” He mused as he followed your orders, “I supposed I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

You laughed a little, “It’s just trial and error until you figure out your best method.”

Modest girl.

John grinned at you from the corner of his eye while you placed the last hot sheet on the counter.

The two of you continued the routine until the last round was in the oven, and you were starting to feel more at ease with the man. Almost playful. He certainly was a young priest, and every bit a red blooded man; his humour was dry, and he smiled easily. His laugh was infectious, though you could tell he didn’t do it often. You supposed the church wasn’t exactly a place rich with humour.

The record had nearly finished after almost an hour of listening, and the two of you were leaning against the kitchen counter listening. You swayed gently to the music, but then perked up when a favourite of yours began to play.

“I love this song…” you muttered under your breath and turned your head in the direction of the living room.

John looked down at you in recognition of what you had said, but in the low light of your kitchen, and the softness in your face, he couldn’t help but be reminded of being young. Not just himself but the island. Back when the people who were not partners used to be children he had baptized. Back when there were dances in the old town hall that had since burned down decades ago.

You reminded him of…a better time.

An easier time.

You were so occupied in your little bubble, that it took you a moment to notice Father Paul coming in front of you with his hands out.

You looked down at his palms, then up at him, and he waited patiently. You slowly placed your hands in his, and he pulled you away from the counter and began to sway with you. So gentle, then he tentatively brought your hand up to his shoulder and he brought his other hand to your waist; guiding you through a little dance.

Neither of you said a word.

Not there was anything to say really.

Somehow the two of you just felt very…human.

Your neck hurt from looking up at his dark eyes, but you didn’t stop. He watched you just as closely as you moved slowly through the room in small circles.

“…You know I used to be alone before I knew you…and I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not some victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The smell of baked cookies surrounded you, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

But in that moment, it didn’t feel absurd.

It felt like two kindred souls enjoying some shared time. Any obligations or expectations melted away as you felt the warmth from his hands meld into your tendons and heat your sinew. His fingers holding yours felt more akin to a cradle and his breath between you was like smelling your childhood.

Your heart ached.

Perhaps it was that no one had held you in years. Let alone danced with you.

Hugs and pats on the back were about the extent.

“…and it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not someone whose seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The two of you slowed until you came to a standstill in the kitchen, simply standing less than a foot from eachother. When the timer dinged this time, neither of you jumped away. The sound certainly brought you down to Earth, but somehow you only found yourself staring up at the man. You weren’t altogether confused, though you were curious and a little nervous.

Why had he done that?

Why did you do that?

You had felt so comfortable…like this was an old friend of yours who you had just seen again after years apart.

John gazed down at you…his mind rich with turmoil and deep contemplation. When he had taken your hands in his, it had been as if God had moved through him.

Compelling.

Like God had told him to embrace the good of the past, and remember what he was working towards. To restore exactly that.

After a few breaths, Father Hill released your hand, and you both quietly walked to the oven.

The last batch now sat on the cooling racks, and you sighed.

“I’ll pack these up and bring them by the rectory before service tomorrow, Father.” You broke the silence.

Father hill nodded, “Thank you my girl.” He said softly.

You nodded and looked down at your hands, “Thank you for your company.” Then looked back up at the man before you.

He tilted his head to you as if to tell you that you were welcome or that it was his pleasure.

He slowly unrolled his sleeves, and you picked his sweater up for him from the living room.

You almost felt bad to watch him go. It might have been nice to talk to him for a few hours more.

He finished tying his boots and graciously took the sweater from you, and slipped it on over his collared shirt.

“Goodnight, y/n.” He murmured as he opened your door.

“Goodnight, Father.” You whispered back.

He stayed a moment longer, and smiled gently at you, then he was gone.

You stood in your doorway, watching him go, and as he left your sight, you found yourself returning to your senses. A wave of embarrassment chilled you when you realised what you had just done. Yet somehow you didn’t feel entirely guilty. It had felt as if some kind of blanket had enveloped the two of you just like when he conversed with his flock after mass- a bubble around you.

You packed the treats away after cooling, and silently went to sleep. You didn’t let yourself dwell.

-

“It’s great to see so many of you here today. But I do have to ask, why not every Sunday? Christmas, Easter, I get that. But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent. Why is that? What’s so special about today? Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It’s hardly a crowd-pleaser.The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins. Sin. This darkness, this blackness that spilled into us. That darkness, we wear it on our forehead today. Just a smudge of it. Uh…A smudge of death, of ash, of sin for repentance. Because of where this is all actually heading, which is Easter. Rebirth, resurrection, eternal life. Life that rises again…” Father Paul stood before you at the pulpit, presence commanding as ever.

“Even out of blackness, love rises again. Even out of sin. And this island, it will rise again. Even out of disaster, rebirth, restoration, eternal life. Jesus sees you. Sees you, best of all, and he sees you true. Because, don’t forget, who did he seek out? Who did he turn to, to build his church?His apostles. Jesus’ first disciples, they were fishermen. One of his first miracles, right? The nets are empty, fishermen desperate. Jesus says, “Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch,” and when they pulled up those nets, a bounty of fish.” You could practically feel the worshipers buzz around you as their heart rates picked up, just like yours.

“He sees you. Oh, yes, he sees you, brothers and sisters, and he will resurrect this island, and he will again fill your nets. It’s great you’re here today, but please keep coming back. Those doors, they’re always open, as the gates are always open. You just bring yourself. God will do the rest. As Psalm 60 tells us, “God, You have rejected us, You have broken us down, You have been angry. Restore us again.” Do you know what psalms are? They’re songs.The word psalm from the Greek psalmoi. It means “music.” Songs of prayer. Songs of praise. That’s who we are. That’s who we must be. That’s what it means to have faith, that in the darkness, in the worst of it, in the absence of light and hope, we sing. “Restore us,” we sing to the sky. And He will, my friends. He will. That same hand that dealt you your hardship, that same hand will make you whole.”

A single tear fell from your eye. God works in mysterious ways, and you could almost feel God working through Father Hill that day. As if God truly was trying to tell you that he was there with you. And Father Hill spoke as if he knew something good was to come- as if God had shown him.

And you believed him.

As you stood, you could hear Annie trying to urge her son to accept the cross of ash, and you gave her a small reassuring smile when she filed in behind you.

“Y/n remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The preacher murmured to you. Your face was bright that day, happy. John suppressed a smile.

“Amen.” You said quietly, flicking your eyes up to his. He stared down at you steadily, calm as ever.

“Bless you my child.” His was was low and serene.

It was a peaceful stroll down to potluck. You watched as birds started to flit in the trees and chirp; bees starting to buzz, the gentle sound of the shore. Rebirth.

You checked behind you every so often as you walked in case you saw Father Hill; you had brought the cookies to the rectory that morning before service, and when you had offered to help carry the three large containers after, the Father had declined.

You had insisted.

But he insisted harder.

It was wonderful to see the islanders enjoy the little festival. Sharing with each other and laughing. It didn’t happen often. It was as if everyone pushed off their exhaustion just to enjoy that day. Problems could wait until the next day.

You made your way through the locals that you knew well, and stopped a little longer with some. Annie stood with Ed, and you noticed them smiling; perhaps it might seem like a strange thing to notice, but you knew all about Ed’s troubled back, and how their marriage was a little exhausted…it made your heart glow a little to see them happy. Most everyone seemed happier if you were honest, and it wasn’t just that day.

Your legs began to ache after a half hour, and you took to the edge of the festival to sit. You liked this. Watching everyone around you.

“Mind if I join you?” You looked up to see Father Hill walking over to you, a cup of juice in hand.

“Please do.” You scooted over to give him a little more room.

He sat with a soft grunt.

“You did your hair different.”

You turned to him. And your lips parted in surprise, “Wha-“

“I’m sorry- I noticed during communion. Just came to mind.” He said a little awkwardly though no less sweet.

Your mouth fell open a little, “I did. First day of lent…I like to do a little extra for it.” You rambled.

John smiled at you.

You looked pretty.

Not that he could say that.

But you did.

“The crockpot luck…I hear it’s a yearly staple for the island.” Father Hill said to you as you both looked out over the festival.

You nodded, “Sure is…”

John turned to you then; your tone was a little more reserved. Like you weren’t saying all you wished to.

“You’re not a fan of it?” He asked curiously.

You thought for a moment. “Can I be-“

“Honest?” He cut you off. Echoing your words from the night before.

You smiled, “Yes.”

“Please do.”

“I-… Lent is supposed to be a time of fasting and repentance and prayer…I just…it seems strange to have a festival on Ash Wednesday.” You said quietly.

He nodded, “Perhaps a little unorthodox.”

“I think I’ve always found it just…a little odd. Our Monsignor was the one who came up with it, you know? Coined the name. I just…I can’t help but wonder if his theology was a little…uh…off.” You mused, looking down at your hands.

Father Hill regarded you for a moment, and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I know you didn’t know him…he was a nice man…but…he was- is just a man. Man has his faults.” You shrugged, then turned to the man beside you, “No offence, Father.”

He chuckled and sipped at his cup, “None taken. I appreciate your candour.”

You pursed your lips.

You weren’t usually so unguarded.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Why did you say that?

This was the second time you had inadvertently said something to insult him within 24 hours. You felt shame start to rise in the back of your throat.

“I don’t want you to worry about offending me, y/n. I’m a friend and an ear to listen…if ever you want to talk.” He said, staring out at the sea of people, then back at you.

You sighed and nodded, “Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

He smiled.

Then you remembered something, “Father?”

“Hm?”

You shifted a little awkwardly, “I want to first thank you for maintaining my uh…specialized sacrament, but I just wanted to ask- have you changed the juice?” You asked him.

He thought for a moment, “I don’t believe so. We just got a new shipment…I can check if it’s any different…why?”

“It…it’s just…it tastes very strange. Almost metallic. I don’t know how else to describe it.” You thought back to how the taste stayed in your mouth after only a sip.

John shifted in his seat. You knew. He would have to find another way of give you the gift.

“I’ll find another one to give you. Not to worry.” He said, and patted your hand.

“Thank you, Father.” You chose not to dwell on him touching you.

“Well, I should return to my flock…trying to get to know everyone.” He said, then pushed himself up off the bench.

You nodded. You knew he was only temporary, but it was kind of him to try and get to know the members of the community while he was there.

He was charming and approachable, it wouldn’t be hard for him.

“Of course, enjoy!” You called after him. He waved back at you, and you scrunched your face up as the sun hit your eyes.

You sighed to yourself and after an hour, you began to make another round of the park. The town had truly lucked out with such a beautiful day for such a special day. After such a nasty storm just a few days ago, it was surprising.

You watched at the sun started to lower in the sky. Things were starting to wind down, and some had began to return home-

“Pike!”

You whipped your head around in the direction of the scream. On the other end of the park, you could see a crowd forming. You knew Pike was Joe Collie’s dog, and by the sounds of it, there was nothing good happening. You knew he was old, and loud, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. You hoped he hadn’t bitten someone.

You crossed the field in just a couple minutes, and when you came to stand in the crowd, you felt yourself grow lightheaded. Pike was laying in a puddle of foamy bile and blood- the light leaving his eyes. You could hear Joe accusing Bev, and saw Sarah knelt over the dog…it was horrible.

“Alright everyone…back up.” Hassan waved his arms to try and disperse the crowd. Everyone began to walk away, and you could feel a solemnness come over the islanders. Like somehow they had all been snapped out of a trance and remembered their troubles.

You pursed your lips, but ultimately backed up as well. You wanted to help, but you knew there was virtually nothing to do. Pike was dead.

You kept to yourself for another hour, the as the afternoon dragged on, you started to collect the now-empty containers that had once held the cookies.

“Thanks for that, y/n.”

You looked over at Wade who was taking one last helping of…something brownish. A casserole of some kind.

You smiled, “Oh it was no problem. It was actually a group effort between the Father and I!”

His brows shot up, “Really?”

“Yeah he wanted to bring something. Wasn’t that nice of him?” You picked the empty containers up.

“Yeah…he- he seems like a real nice fella.” He mused, moustache twitching.

You nodded, “This was great, Mr. Mayor. See you Friday?”

He chuckled- you knew he was just fine with Wade, but you also knew he liked when people used his title- made him feel important. And you did your best to remind each person of their importance when you could.

“See you Friday, sweetheart.” He conceded.

You waved him off, then began your way back home.

John stood on the edge of the park watching you go. He had initially taken the spot to gaze at Sarah, but his gaze had been drawn when you were speaking with the mayor.

They really did love you.

And he understood why.

He watched you disappear down the road, dress fluttering in the wind.

•••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian

[horrorisunknowntoyou]

Tone indicators.

Simon "ghost" riley x gen reader

Spoilers for MW2, especially the mission 'alone'.

Trigger warnings: gun shot, injuries, self blame and mentioned of childhood abuse.

You were... quiet.

Too quiet in fact.

Through out your whole time being in the military, you kept yourself distant from people. You were highly selective in who you could befriend and trust.

It wasn't your fault you were like this, growing up in abusive, neglected household. And having to be consistently be on alert and deciphering your parents moods etc. It taught you some skills to see through people lies and bluffs. You knew to be observate to every little thing a person does. And if they did one thing you didn't like, you immediately kept your distance away from them.

However as mentioned earlier, there was some downsides in these skills you obtained...it was hard to make friends within people your age.

You would watch other soldiers talk to each other from a distance, laughing, telling stories, family life. And honestly you wanted that...you didn't like being alone but no one liked how you were.

Even yourself.

But that changed when you met a man with a skull mask. Your presence wasn't obvious, you were mostly ignored until something with your speciality came up, like an art kid with a drawing assignment in English class.

But, you soon befriend the quiet man, it took alot of time but he soon put his trust in you. Gently lending a hand to you or sitting next to you without a word and letting you ramble about nonsense.

In all honesty when Simon first saw you, you had this eyes that reminded him of a lost puppy. In which he promptly gave you the nickname K-9. Because of your alertness and observation skills in people. But he mainly just referred to you by name.

And since then you two became inseparable.

You two would be paired in missions at times, sometimes during meetings or small things you would tap on Simon's hand or shoulder to alert him of something. Either they be lying, or something wasn't right.

For example

1 tap = hey, or look

2 tap = be alerted, something not right.

3 tap = this is bad.

4 taps = person is lying.

Etc. You get the jist of it.

So when you two were assigned to the mission of working with Mexican special forces along side soap you didn't bat too much of an eye towards that. But there was something in the back of your head that just didn't feel right.

During this you got to know Alejandro, Soap and others, you had alot of fun joking around and talking to them. They were like family.

And after you guys completed the mission involving the missile, a sense of dread chilled down your spine. Your chest felt heavy, Graves tone felt off...

Something was not right.

How could you not seen this sooner?

We're you blind sided?

Did you second guess yourself?

Ghost gently tapped your hand to see what's wrong as everyone walked to the gate. You quickly grabbed his hand and tapped 3 times.

Graves noticed this as they were in a middle of capturing Alejandro. He pulled out his pistol and shot y/n.

" your too alerted for your own good. " He says firmly almost mocking you.

" Y/N!"

Ghost, immediately grabbed you and hid behind a truck, his palm pressed against your wound. Soap in the other hand, fired back at the shadow company, jumping over the railing and heading down town.

Ghost had to cover your mouth letting you bite down on his thumb due to the pain and to not make any noise. Once the coast is clear he went off the other side of the road.

He went inside one of the homes, setting you down on some kitchen tiles.

"how you hold'n on? " Ghost says at you.

"physically I'm alright, but mentally no." You mumbles, as you went over to a table and with your knife, cut a piece of the fabric off to use a make shift bandage for the time being as Ghost tries to contact Soap.

Once you stop the bleeding, you looked over to Ghost. "Johnny is alive?" He nods, as your peered over to him " Simon...I'm sorry I should have noticed sooner...I'm- I'm so sorry.."

Ghost sighs, "There's nothing for you to be sorry for. Don't blame yourself."

"but-"

"Enough. First thing first, is we meet up with Johnny and figure this out." He lends his hand out to you. " Come on, I don't want to loose you in this"

You nodded and follow his suit, finally getting yourself connected with Johnny.

As you three make yourself unnoticed by the shadow company.

" y/n, how you holding on? " Soap asked.

" fine, for now...Graves didn't shoot any major organs. How about you? "

"messy."

You snickered at his comment, as you made way through a bloodied home, checking for supplies.

" good to know, you can still laugh during times like this" soap commented.

You just rolled your eyes, " what else can I do?"

---------------------

Eventually, you and ghost found an church.

"Tell johnny to meet us here, for now, we need him alive." You gestured.

Ghost nods, " Good idea, I'll take sniper position, I want you on look out, alright? Don't push yourself. "

" aye, aye captain." you playfully salute to him, as you can feel him rolling eyes at that comment.

As Ghost takes position, you kept an eye out, mainly listening to Ghost and Soap's banter. Once an awhile joining in. But soon Soap noticed your speech was off abit.

"Ghost, something is wrong with y/n you need to check on them."

"What?"

" Their speech, it's slurred...sounds like their drunk. It's best to keep them beside you. "

"slurred? Bloody hell. "

Ghost immediately heads down, and grabs you by the shoulders and shake you awake.

" y/n hold on! Johnny is near and I need you awake, this is no place to close your eyes, You hear me?"

You nodded, rubbing your eyes, soon the shadow company started to barge in. Ghost immediately helped you up to your feet.

"we need to hold it down till Soap comes and get a vehicle out of here. Do you think you can hold on till then? "

" yes sir. "

"atta (y/g)," he pats your back " let's get moving, they aren't asking for forgiveness are they? "

You smile, " no sir. "

------------

You shot at the shadow company, making your way outside, seeing soap outside the gate steps.

" Ghost! Soap's here! "

Ghost nods, shooting the rest of the shadow company inside, and runs over to some crates and jumps down. As you made over, he catches you and sets you down.

"Soap! We need a vehicle, on me-!" He says as he steps down the wet concrete steps. Running and taking cover, making sure both soap and y/n are following behind.

" stay sharp, they know we're here and they know it's us. They'll send more." Ghost informs soap.

As more of the shadow company appears in the plaza, gunning them down.

As you ran across the plaza shooting at the shadow company, you see a truck up ahead.

" trucks with lights on, up ahead! That's out exfil! " You alerted the other two men. " There's not much space, but I can still fit in the middle! Hurry!"

Ghost, jumps in taking the driver's seat, as soap takes in shotgun.

You never been so glad to be in middle seat for once.

"alright Johnny- you made it..." Ghost says out of breath. You smiled at soap, nodding in agreement tired at this point.

" we made it. L.t..."

soon shots are fired on the truck, glass shattering in the back. Ghost instinctly, cover your head down. Both to cover you and to look behind them as he reverses the truck. Immediately stepping on the gas and hauling ass out there.

--------------

Once at Alejandro's base, the twos boys, made sure it's safe. Once case was clear, Ghost gestured you to come over.

The two men talked to Rodolfo their plans to break out Alejandro and " los vaqueros".

In the meantime Ghost, tells you to keep watch of the base, and to rest a bit. You needed it.

You wanted to argue but by then you were too exhausted and nodded. Before they leave for the prison break, Ghost walks over to you and pressed foreheads together, his hand on the back of your head.

You smiled as you were laying on a pile of hay.

"Love you too, Ghost I'll be okay.... " Your hands gently pressed against his cheek.

"You worry me too much." He mumbles.

"Of course I do." You mumbles, closing your eyes.

"Rest well. " He gently lets go, and walks out to follows the others outside.

A/n: I'm so sorry if this sucks lmao, but I genuinely tried! I hope you like it either way! :D

[sushiwriterhere]

right where i want you

summary: "Standing there, staring at the cotton balls in the trash, some part deep inside of you decides that it’s now or never with Rhett."  rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: rhett abbott x f!reader word count: 6.1k warnings: sub!rhett, pseudo enemies-to-lovers!, mentions of violence, choking, dry humping, overstimulation, aftercare, potentially ooc, no use of y/n.  notes: uhhh walk him like a dog bitch walk him like a dog🗣😼 i'm not even gonna lie to y'all i've never seen outer range but lewis pullman is in my brain. pls let me know what u think! thank you to @sebsxphia for encouraging my rhett brainworms and to @rhettabbotts for reading a snippet ! my other works are here tagging: @lewmagoo @wkndwlff @bobfloyds @sometimesanalice @bradshawsbitch @roosterbruiser @withahappyrefrain @theharddeck - pls let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

You work a comb in steady, circular motions over your horse’s coat, watching as the dust and pollen raises into the soft afternoon light. Just under the background noise of the stable, you hear boots crunching and you immediately know who it is. All your time away hasn’t changed a thing, it seems. 

“Rhett Abbott you leave me alone or I’ll yell at the top of my lungs, I swear.” You don’t even turn around to look at him, as if not making eye contact would mean he’ll leave. He won’t. And he never does.

“How’d ‘ya know it was me?” You hear the way he kicks at the dirt of the barn floor with his boots absentmindedly, and you try to not let his presence rile you up too much since you know that’s what he wants.

You still don’t turn around to face him. “Because y’never leave me alone.” 

“I’m jus’ sweet on ‘ya. Couldn’t help it if I tried. Besides, missed ‘ya while ‘ya were away at that fancy east coast school o’ yours.”

“Well, have you tried?” You ignore the second part of what he said–you’re back for the summer, and you really haven’t been gone all that long even if your parents act like you’ve come back from the dead.

That pulls a laugh from him. 

For as long as you can remember, Rhett Abbott has been a pain in your ass. You were slightly younger than him but that somehow never stopped him from always finding a way to be in your presence. Your dad being Wabang’s sheriff didn’t seem to deter him either, especially when your dad started getting real prickly about having boys around. 

“Nope,” He lets his lips pop dramatically on the ‘p’ sound, then pauses as if to consider his next words, “Plus, you’re real cute when you’re mad.”

All you want is to turn around and throw the rubber brush you’ve got clenched in your fingers at his stupid, smug, face. You know the exact expression he’s wearing in that moment because it’s the same one he’s had every other time he’s taunted you. 

“Decide if you love me or hate me, Rhett Abbott. Quit wastin’ my time.” You hiss, and this time you do turn around. You refrain from throwing anything at him, though. 

“Aw, don’t get too upset now,” He pushes himself off the stall door he’d been leaning against and makes his way into your personal space.

You level him with a scathing glare before going back to grooming. Even the way he breathes around you seems to raise your hackles and you wonder if all this tension is ever going to resolve itself. If he’s ever going to leave you alone.

“I didn’t come by to bother ‘ya, honest.” He murmurs.

You don’t grant him a response, but he stays where he is, undeterred.

“I wanted to see if you’d come out tonight, everyone’s been missin’ ‘ya. Whole town’s in uproar that you’re back.” 

“I’ll think about it.”

That seems to satisfy him as a grin spreads across his face and he spins on his heel, whistling jauntily as he strolls out of the stable.

You’re loathe to admit it, but it makes something twist in your stomach at the thought that Rhett came by to invite you out, to tell you he missed you. That everyone missed you. You shove that feeling down, though. Rhett’s always just been a nuisance and the fact that he seems to have gotten far handsomer while you’d been away is not part of your calculus.

-

For all his insistence that he actually likes you, has been thinking about you this whole time, Rhett sure is more than happy to let some buckle bunny cuddle up to him. You swallow something down, not jealousy, but what feels like a lump in your throat. He’s a liar and you’re a fool. Rhett Abbott will never be anything but a good for nothing, sonofa—

You storm out of the bar in a huff, not noticing the way Rhett’s eyes follow you over the head of the bleach blonde who’s grasping the collar of his flannel. 

In missing Rhett’s gaze, you also miss the way James Earl follows you out. By the time you’re in the parking lot, it’s too late to turn around. James is between you and the door. 

He calls your name and it makes all the hair on the back of your neck stand up, “Wait up!”

“Leave me alone, James.” You really don’t want to deal with him right now, you don’t want to deal with any men, for that matter. 

“I said wait.” His voice turns acidic and you pause before turning around slowly. There’s nowhere else for you to go but back into the bar, and you’re certain he won’t just let you walk off while you try to call your dad.

“Now that you’re back, I’m going to take you out to dinner.” James looks almost like he has good intentions, but you haven’t lost touch with the way news travels in Wabang just because you were separated by a few states. 

You know what the girls who stayed behind say about him. You heard the stories in high school about how he treated his girlfriends–always holding their arms too tight, a little too possessive. There’s nothing about him that you like, or even want to tolerate, at all.

“No, thank you, James. I really should get going.” You try to sound sweet, try to turn on the charm in hopes that he’ll change his mind. 

You turn your phone over in your hands, unlock it, and try to act nonchalant. You remember the Swiss army knife tucked in your bra if things get rough. 

His demeanor switches in an instant.

“You think just ‘cause you’re the sheriff's daughter you can just walk around like you own this place, huh? Too good for us with your fancy college? All of Wabang swoonin’ over a stuck up, prissy, little bitch.” The words are like poison, but you try to stand your ground, “Why I ought’a teach you a lesson.”

When James stalks your way, one hand starting to reach for you as you reel back in fear, you realize just what he intends. The world slows to a molasses, you’re outside your body as you freeze, unable to do much but witness what you know is about to happen to you.

Instead of James’ hand around your wrist or in your hair, Rhett’s voice breaks the moment, “Earl, I’ll make ‘ya sorry ‘ya ever look’d at ‘er if ‘ya don’t step away right now.” 

There he is, illuminated by the bar deck lights, one hand on his belt as he stalks into the parking lot. You’d call him your savior if you don’t blame him somehow; if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in whatever girl was giving him attention in that moment maybe you wouldn’t be here. 

“Like hell you will, Abbott. Leave us alone, this is none of your business.” James whirls around, his attention momentarily off you.

You think you can make your escape, make it back inside the bar where there are more eyes and call your dad to get him to pick you up. Instead, you watch as Rhett and James come face to face, both acting like macho idiots. 

They soil your plan for a hasty escape. It’s Rhett who makes the first move and shoves James, hard. In a split second they’re yelling obscenities at each other as Rhett grabs him by the collar to shake him and clock him across the face. His knuckles split open on James’ face and you aren’t sure if his nose is broken from the blow or not. 

“Stop it!” You try to at least get Rhett’s attention, maybe use his feelings for you for good, but it does little as James tries to gain the upper hand. “Rhett Abbott you fool, get off’a him!”

All at once, a few other patrons spill out of the bar doors at the commotion. You’re standing a few feet back from the pair as they tussle; there’s blood strewn in the dirt and you hope not too much of it is Rhett’s. Suddenly they’re being pulled apart.

You march up to James and stick a finger in his face as he struggles against the men holding his arms, “You ever try that shit with me again I’ll make sure my daddy gives you exactly what you deserve.”

His face is twisted up in a snarl, and he looks like he’s considering spitting in your face, “Still hiding behind your daddy? Figures.”

He’s hauled off in a moment before you can respond, no doubt to get cleaned up and have someone take a look at his nose. Maybe even to face your dad. You whirl around to start shouting at Rhett next, but he’s simply standing there, hands hanging loosely by his sides. No one’s restraining him anymore, they’re all dealing with James you guess, and you realize that it’s just the two of you in the parking lot at that point. 

You make your decision in an instant, “Give me your keys.” 

You don’t get closer to him, you just hold a hand out and look at him expectantly. Rhett doesn’t move. 

“Rhett Abbott, you damned fool, give me your keys so I can take your stupid ass home.” 

He has the audacity to smile wolfishly at you, cheek bruising, and say lowly as he walks to you, “Tryin’ to take me home, sugar?”

Snatching his keys from his fist, you turn around without responding. You don’t check if he’s following you, some part of you knows you don’t need to. 

You climb into the drivers side of his truck and start it, only barely waiting for him to get in and buckle up. Switching it into gear, you start driving. It’s deathly silent in the cab as you drive, ignoring far too many traffic laws along the way for someone who was raised by the sheriff. Rhett fidgets in his seat next to you. 

As you weave down the back country roads to his place, you distantly recall the time during high school when he’d bought the truck. All week, girls had flocked to him, begging him to teach them to drive stick (they all already knew) or even just sit in the back. Trucks were a dime a dozen, but Rhett Abbott’s was special in the eyes of all the future buckle bunnies. 

You’d watched the chaos from afar until he’d lifted his gaze from the girl tugging at his flannel to look at you. You’d looked away quickly, too embarrassed to be caught staring at him despite your continued insistence you didn’t like him in the slightest and that he never crossed your mind.

He never did end up giving any of the girls a chance. He wouldn’t even let them touch the keys.

Now here you are, driving his truck like it’s your own without a single complaint from him. 

When you pull up to his house, you get out the same way you’d gotten in–without a word and barely waiting for him to catch up to you. It’s almost instinctual, the way you grab the house key from next to the truck one, unlock the door and shove inside, only knowing that he’s inside too because of the way the door slides shut softly instead of slamming. 

Once inside, you flick on the kitchen light and round on him, “Now why’d ‘ya have to go and start shit with James Earl, huh?”

Rhett looks like he’s just been scolded by his mother for leaving his socks on the floor at his ripe age, and he scoffs harshly. You don’t miss the way his knuckles are split and crusted in blood. There’s a bruise blooming high on one of his cheeks. 

“I’m the one startin’ shit? He was tryin’ somethin’ with you!” He takes a step toward you but you don’t move, “Earl’s a piece of shit and he got what was comin’ to him. I don’t regret a goddamn thing.”

“I had it handled.” Your defense is instinctual–knee jerk, even—everyone wants you to be fragile, to be something that needs protecting, and you’re sick of it. 

“Did ‘ya?” You’re toe to toe now, and his shoulders are heaving. “‘Cause what I saw said somethin’ else.”

For a moment, you think he might kiss you. It takes all of your mental effort not to shove him and start shouting at him for how stupid he is, so instead you raise a single eyebrow and plaster on your most disapproving expression possible. 

“I’m not arguin’ with you, Rhett Abbott. Get your damn first-aid kit and lemme clean ‘ya up.” 

For once in his life, he listens to you. Eventually you find yourself kneeling in front of him as he sinks into the couch. You’ve turned on one of the living room lights, but there’s still just barely enough light to make out the details of his face and the way he tore up his knuckles on James Earl’s nose and cheeks. 

“Now keep bein’ all tough, I better not hear ‘ya bitchin’ about the antiseptic hurtin’.” You don’t have it in you to actually hurt him though, so you keep the press of the rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton balls gentle. 

He draws his shoulders up by his ears regardless, hissing lightly when it stings. Thankfully, only his pinky knuckle is actually split open on his right hand, so he won’t be entirely useless at work. His left hand is in worse shape, with three of his knuckles bubbling blood where he managed to cut them open. Both hands are bruised.

He doesn’t comment on your position at his knees. 

“Earl’s nose better be fuckin’ broken.” Rhett finally breaks the silence as you finish cleaning his hands. 

You don’t grant him with a response. Instead you stand to your full height and make your way to the kitchen to throw away the cotton balls now soaked with his blood. Standing there, staring at the cotton balls in the trash, some part deep inside of you decides that it’s now or never with Rhett.

When you return to him, he hasn’t moved a muscle. He simply tips his head back to look at you. Slowly, you put one knee up on the couch next to his thighs, then the other, and all of a sudden you’re kneeling over his lap. The hem of your dress just barely brushes his jeans. He looks like he’s holding his breath and he barely exhales when you let your full weight rest on him.

“I need to make sure he didn’t break yours.” It’s a lame excuse and you both know it, but you know he won’t call you on it, not when your bare thighs are warm against his denim-clad ones. 

He smells like outside, like the evening sun, and something that tickles your nose; it’s uniquely Rhett. Privately, you wonder if all his clothes smell like him, and if they carry that scent even when he hasn’t worn them in a long while. 

Shifting in his lap, you cradle his face and turn it toward the light. As if he’s trying not to spook a wild horse, he very delicately places his hands on your thighs. He doesn’t grip them, doesn’t let his fingertips twitch, just rests his calloused palms against your bare skin.

“Looks fine to me.” You breathe out, realizing how close your faces are.

“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” He’s trying to sound flirtatious, trying to sound like the casanova his reputation makes him out to be, only he’s breathless and his face is flushed and you can feel his pulse racing.

You hate when men think they can just take control of you in bed because they’re a man and you’re not. But with Rhett, you can tell you’ve got him right where you want him by the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and the way his hands rest on your thighs, fingertips just barely brushing the hem of your dress. 

Letting go of his face, you brush imaginary dust off his shoulders before letting one hand rest flat on his chest, and threading the other up into his hair. It’s silkier than you ever imagined despite the way you know you can safely assume he does jack all to take care of it. He’s so damn pretty it makes your chest ache.

Both of you are silent, only the sounds of your breathing barely audible. Ever so gently, you slide your hand from his hair to the base of his neck. He’s like a foal in the way you’re unsure of how he’ll react to your hand placement, a new sort of touch. His heart hammers in his chest beneath your palm.

He doesn’t bolt or react strongly. Instead, he swallows thickly against your hand, blinking slowly at the sensation of your fingers tucked neatly around his throat. You’re not squeezing in the slightest, just letting your fingers rest around the warm, tanned, skin of his neck.

“Are you going to behave, Rhett?” Your voice is low over the sounds of the night outside.

He nods as you flex your fingers gently, testing the waters, and his eyes flutter shut. Rocking your hips experimentally, you feel the way his grip tightens on your thighs and the way he’s hard against you. 

He likes it. He likes the way you’ve got a hand around his throat, the other resting gently on his chest. He isn’t fighting you, he isn’t arguing–for once in his life, he’s quiet in your presence. 

The realization of how obedient he’s being sends a skittering sort of arousal through you. You see yourself pulling on jeans tomorrow and finding his fingerprints on you. You see him staring at himself in the mirror in the morning, lost at how to cover up the evidence of what you’d done to him the night before.

“You’ve spent all this time pullin’ my pigtails, and now that I’m here you can’t even form words.” He keeps his eyes closed and nods ever so slightly.

You want to hate him. 

Oh how you want to hate Rhett Abbott. You want to hate the way he’s spent the last however many years following you around like a stray dog, poking fun at you and riling you up, just to have your attention. You want to hate the way he probably spent more time chasing boys off than your dad did. More than anything else you want to find it in you to feel something other than the way he’s burrowed himself under your skin. 

“Whatever,” His voice is strained and he clears his throat before opening his eyes again, “Whatever you want, sugar. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“And if I want to get up right now, and never see you again?” You aren’t going to make this easy on him. 

Yelling at James Earl is one thing, almost beating him to a pulp is another. You can protect yourself, you’re not a damsel in distress, and above all Rhett needs to learn his place. You’re grateful he was there, you are. But you didn’t need him to go and get in trouble on your behalf.

“Now, sugar, I find it hard to believe—”

You move as if to stand up, going to remove the hand from his neck to use one of his shoulders as leverage. Before you can get far, really even one inch away from him, one of his hands is flying from your thighs to clutch at the wrist of the hand that’s leaving his throat. He holds you there, and you can feel the way his pulse is racing. He maintains the way he stares into your eyes, but this time his are wide, almost as if in fear that you’d actually get up and leave. 

“Try again.” You don’t change the way half your weight is off him, but you let him hold your wrist.

“Whatever you want, goes.” He swallows slowly before speaking again, “Will you just–Will you please sit back down?” 

He doesn’t let go of your wrist.

You ease yourself back into his lap and run your free hand in between you till you reach his erection. It sends a thrill through you to feel just how excited he is by all of this. You want to hear him say please again, you want to see how far you can push your luck with him in the palm of your hand. You want him to beg.

You laugh lightly, if not a bit cruelly, as you squeeze his cock over his jeans, “Does this turn you on, Rhett?” You pause to watch how his pupils dilate at your tone before pressing on, “Not much of a big, bad, man now, are ‘ya?”

To your surprise, that doesn’t set him off. Most men wouldn’t let you put your hand around their throat, much less question just how much of a man they are. But he barely reacts beyond his chest rising and falling, his hands moving back to fully settle on your thighs and this time, gripping tightly. 

“Like I said, whatever you want, sugar–I just want ‘ya to use me. Be good for something,” He licks his lips and exhales shakily, “Be good for you.” 

Jesus. His sincerity bleeds through in the way his face is flushed and he maintains steady eye contact. He doesn’t waver for a single moment. 

Something sick twists in your chest. Never before has a man been so willing, so pliant, for you. They’ve always tried to take what they want from you, always tried to make you submit. But what you actually wanted was this, Rhett’s eyes gazing pleadingly up at you while you sit in his lap. 

“So this is what you wanted all along, huh? Always following me around, playing pranks on me, just wanted me to get my hand around your throat and use you?” You’re goading him on, trying to discern exactly what he wants you to say, what he’ll let you get away with. 

With that, you lean close as if to kiss him and he closes his eyes lightly in anticipation, but at the last second turn your head so you can drag the tip of your nose across his cheek. The shudder that runs through him at the feather-light sensation is delicious; it makes you laugh lightly at how affected he is. His breaths are starting to come heavier, already betraying him if he tried to hide how badly he wants this. But he isn’t hiding, not in the slightest.

Now that you’re this close to him, the scent of him is overwhelming. It floods your mind and makes you almost lightheaded as you realize just how badly you want him. Part of it is that he’s so pliant, so willing, but the other part is the truth of the matter that you finally have to admit to yourself: you don’t hate Rhett Abbott. 

In fact, his whole years-long performance has only meant that his constant presence is lingering somewhere at the forefront of your mind regardless of whether he’s around or not. When you’d gone off to college, those nine months had been odd without him around. You’d half expected him to show up to walk you between lecture halls or push some frat boy off you at a party.

(What you don’t know is that Rhett did almost go out to visit you. He’d looked at plane tickets, at how long it might take him to drive. He decided against it when he remembered every time you’d rejected him or told him to, very unkindly, “fuck off”.)

“Can I kiss ‘ya?” His voice is rough and he licks his lips again, like it’s a nervous habit. 

You press a gentle kiss to his cheek and giggle softly to yourself when he whines and says, “That’s not what I meant and y’know it.”

Finally, you press your lips to his. They’re soft and warm and he’s so much better of a kisser than everyone else you’ve been with that it almost knocks the wind out of you. But he keeps you grounded, especially when his hand moves up to your jaw so he can coax it open. The way he licks into your mouth makes you let out a startled gasp. 

You don’t expect it to feel so good. It’s one thing to sit in his lap and flirt, it’s a whole other to taste him and understand why girls chase him endlessly. You can’t stop the way your hips move against his and he keeps one hand on your thigh while the other goes to your tits. His hand dwarfs your chest and he gropes you haphazardly. 

“Fuck, you’re even better than I imagined,” He sighs, pushing up against the hand that’s still around his throat. 

“I haven’t even taken my clothes off, Rhett.” You tease, wanting to see how far you can push him, see if you can still get a rise out of him.

But it seems he’s given up the fight now that you’re right where he wants you. He smiles gently as he pulls back to look you in the eyes, “I could finish in my pants like a damned teenager with you like this, sugar, doesn’t matter.”

Rhett Abbott, womanizer, absolute menace in your life, admitting that he’s got it so bad for you that he could come in his pants just from having you near him? You could’ve guessed that he wanted to fuck you, but you always thought it would be more of him getting his rocks off and letting you fend for yourself. It never would’ve occurred to you that this is how he’d be in the moment. Him admitting how weak he is for you makes your head spin.

You press yourself ever closer to him, licking into his mouth and trapping his hand between the two of you where it had been stroking your nipples through the thin fabric of your sundress. He manages to free it, though, and slides it down your side to where your thigh creases. He wraps it around you there and the the sheer size difference between his hand and your hip makes a twisted sort of want course in your veins.

The first press of his thumb against your clit through your panties sends a jolt through you. He keeps your hips moving in a steady rhythm against his as he works steady circles over your clit. His other hand won’t stay still as it runs up and down your back, rubs your nipples, yanks on the tips of your hair ever so slightly. It’s mind-numbingly filthy, the quiet of his house filled with both of your gasps and moans, your hand still on his neck. 

“Cum for me, sugar,” Then, as if he’s anticipating your chastisement, he adds, “Please.”

Your orgasm rips through you like white hot lighting as you gasp into his open mouth and he moans right along with you. You realize you’re chanting his name over and over like a prayer, completely unwittingly. He doesn’t let up with any of his movements, prolonging your pleasure til it folds into something more biting, just on the edge of overstimulating. 

“Fuck, Jesus,” He gasps, and after a moment, “I’ll be thinking ‘bout that til I die,” He rasps out, settling both of his hands on your hips and leaning his forehead against yours. 

You want to tease him about taking the Lord’s name in vain but you hold back. For a moment, it’s quiet. Your hips are still against his as you take in what just happened. It begins to dawn on you that he’s still hard under you, but he isn’t making any moves to change that. 

He starts to shift under you like he’s considering standing up but you stop him by leaning into him. 

“Ah ah, I’m not finished with you yet,” His eyes snap to yours in surprise.

“Rhett Abbott. Tellin’ me I could make you cum in your pants like a teen boy?” You lean back ever so slightly with a light snarl on your face, finally tightening your fingers to a tight grip in a way that makes his eyes glaze over, “Prove it.”

Pressing the heel of your palm into his crotch, you watch as he eyes scrunch shut and he grinds up once, twice, three times before a he releases a shaky exhale. You watch as he comes, as he pants and whines through his orgasm, the denim under your hand growing warm and wet. He doesn’t stop grinding and thrusting up against your hand til it draws a pained moan from him. 

“Can I–Can I keep going?” He tries to make eye contact but his eyes are too unfocused from pleasure, “Like it when it, ah, when it hurts.”

God, this is what you’ve been missing out on the whole time? You let yourself rock steadily in his lap as he grinds up against your hand and leans forward to kiss you messily. You wonder if he let the other girls he’s been with do this to him. But something tells you that isn’t the case–you really don’t want it to be.

The whines and gasps he’s letting out as he’s writhing below you are something from your most far-fetched fantasies. You’re only slightly stunned as you feel him get hard again below you, though it seems to draw out the pain more than the pleasure given the way his face twists up and the hiss he lets out. All at once he settles; and then he goes to lift your wrist away from his crotch. 

It’s terribly tender, the way he pulls away from you to press a kiss to the palm of your hand and smile widely at you. You almost get whiplash.

“What are you playin’ at?” You can’t help but settle back into your old ways–the Rhett Abbott you’ve known for so long has only really been around to aggravate you, the heartfelt way he’s looking at you sets you off kilter. 

When he laughs at the way you’re starting to get irritated, you try to pull your hand from his to no avail and it makes the heat rise in your face, “Knock it off, Rhett. You’re bein’ an asshole.”

But he just keeps smiling at you as he pulls your other hand off his neck so that he can place both on his shoulders and cradle your face, “You’re so beautiful.”

As if anticipating the way you’re going to react to his words, he pulls your face to his so that he can press your lips together once again. It’s nothing like before. Before it was all tongue and your lips barely meeting through the gasps and moans being pulled out of you. This time it’s something so warm, so delicate, it makes your chest hurt in a different way. 

“I hate you, Rhett Abbott,” You manage to gasp out once he pulls away fully, a sparkle in his eyes. It doesn’t have any heat to it, lacks all the rage it used to–this time, it just sounds like you might be trying to tell him you love him. 

He ignores you in favor of standing with you still in his arms and declaring, “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up and go to bed.”

Somewhere between your orgasm and when he kissed you that final time, you think he might’ve figured it out too–that you don’t hate him and maybe you never have. Because you let him carry you through his dark home without protest. You let him undress you wordlessly, without fanfare and without ogling your naked form. He simply drops your soiled clothing into a laundry hamper and starts undressing himself.

You watch him strip as he turns on the shower and gestures for you to follow him in when he steps in. For just a second you stare at him, halfway in and halfway out from under the stream of water, the way he’s staring at you expectantly. 

He still has that bruise on his cheek from where James Earl hit him what feels like a lifetime ago. His knuckles are still split in some places, just turning that particular shade of red in others. He’s a goddamn vision under the yellow and white fluorescent lights of his bathroom. It makes you want to hold your breath for fear that you’ll disturb the moment somehow.

The shower proceeds without a hitch. It’s oddly lacking sexual tension, though you notice that he’s still half hard. You have half a mind to sink to your knees and suck him off, just to prove your point, just to show him you mean business. But the way he gently washes you as if he’d done it a million times before stops you. You let him clean you up between your legs without a protest.

When he opens the bathroom cabinet to reveal various creams and lotions after you’ve both stepped out and wrapped yourselves in towels, you feel yourself start to get angry. Is he seriously showing you all the products he buys for all the other girls he brings home?

Instead, he smiles sheepishly at you and rubs the back of his neck, “You always smell so good, I spent ages tryin’ to figure out which one you were usin’. Just bought all of ‘em at some point.”

You feel floored as the fight leaves your body. You don’t have a way to be upset about that. Wordlessly, you pick up one of the bottles tucked in the second row and hand it to him. 

“It’s this one.” 

The grin that spreads over his face is one of such genuine happiness it makes you want to squeal and run for the hills at the same time. You wonder distantly if he’ll ever stop making you feel like that–simultaneously like a trapped animal and like you’re the only girl he’s ever seen. You wonder if this (there’s a ‘this’?) will last long enough for you to find out.

He lends you one of his shirts and you’re pleased to find out that it does hold his smell. It sits long on you, settling around your knees, making you feel just a bit like a sexy ghost with the way it hugs your chest. He pulls on a pair of briefs before flicking off the overhead light and then throwing back the covers and patting the space next to him.

“You’re a vision for a blind man, sugar,” His voice carries through the otherwise silent room, “Now come to bed.”

It’s something out of a daydream, climbing into bed with Rhett Abbott. You’re immediately enveloped in his scent, the way his arm lays heavy around your waist and pulls you close to him. For once, you don’t fight him.

“You okay there, sugar? Been awfully quiet.” His voice is low right next to your ear before he turns away momentarily to turn off the bedside table light. His arm is back around you in an instant.

Wiggling yourself around in his arms, you turn so that the two of you are nose to nose. He smiles that smile again, the one that fills you with warmth and makes your stomach twist. There’s barely enough light from outside to really see him as your eyes adjust to the dark, but you know his face.

“I don’t think I hate you.” 

He starts laughing. It shakes his shoulders and makes the bed creak. His eyes screw up and you can feel the way his stomach moves against yours. You feel your shoulders go up by your ears and you try to pull away, embarrassed that he’s laughing.

“I’m sorry, sugar, c’mere,” He tugs you even closer to him than before, if possible, “I’m not laughin’ at you, I’m laughin’ only ‘cause I never hated you. I don’t really think you hated me either.”

“Hey!” You’re indignant, “Rhett Abbott, who’re you to tell me how I feel?”

“Alright, alright, sugar, I’ll take ‘yer word for it. My heroics do it for ‘ya?” You barely catch the way he winks at you in the dark, but it makes you want to bite him in retaliation.

“The way you almost got the snot beat outta ‘ya? Sure.” Scoffing, you turn yourself over so you’re facing away from him again, only you don’t move out of his arms. 

He huffs lightly in protest, but lets it go in favor of nuzzling into your hair and pressing his lips to the crown of your head. It sends a warm sort of heat through you. You’re not ready to fully give in to him yet, but you think he might be growing on you. You’ll just have to see.

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Lucky Break Chapter 2

Yandere Straw Hats x Reader

5k Words

Beginning / Previous / Next

It’s fortunate that Orange town isn’t very big. You weren’t running around for long before you saw a crowd of people partying, and much to your horror, Luffy was there. In a cage, and tied up with rope.

Creeping closer, you take note of everything going on around him. That giant ship you saw earlier is there too, so you can assume that the people holding him hostage are also pirates if their flag is anything to go off of. You’re not sure why they’re all so jovial right now, but you’re hoping that you can use this party they’re having to get to Luffy undetected. 

Part of you wasn’t sure about this. It would be very easy for this to go wrong and for you to get into serious trouble. You may not personally know these people, but if they’re keeping someone in a cage, you can assume they aren’t exactly friendly. Still, regardless of the risk, it doesn’t feel right to not try and help Luffy. Especially not when he’s offered to help you despite possibly having nothing to gain from it. Even if it’s scary, you have to help him.

There’s at least one obvious problem here, you majorly stick out from these pirates. The general fashion around here could best be described as sea-faring-clown-chic, so your normal clothes made you stand out significantly. You inch a bit closer and are relieved to find an abandoned, colorful jacket. Hastily, you slip it on and untie the (still damp) bandana from your wrist. You fasten it over your head to hide your bandages, no use in trying to blend in only for your injury to call attention to you.

After checking to make sure the coast is clear, you crawl over to the cage Luffy is in. He lights up the second he notices you, “Hi Lucky! What are you doing here?”

Oh yeah, just announce your presence, why don’t you?! You shush him, “Keep it down! Why are you in a cage?” At the very least, he looked too chipper to be seriously hurt.

“Nami said she would be our navigator if I helped her out, so here I am! Not sure what the plan is though,” he says all this extremely casually, like this was the most normal way to add someone to his aspiring pirate crew.

“Who the hell is Nami?”

Luffy scooted around until he was facing a big tent close to the ship, “She’s over there, the girl with the orange hair. She’s a thief that steals from pirates, but she promised she would join us if I did her a favor!”

You couldn’t help the incredulous look that spread across your face. Surely he isn’t that naive! How did someone play him this damn hard over the course of like half an hour since you last saw him? “Luffy, she obviously tricked you!”

“You don’t know that! Just give her a chance, it’ll probably all work out,” he was way too relaxed and confident about this. “Hey, since you’re here can you go get me some food? No one’s bringing me any and I can’t reach it.”

Paying his request no mind, you cut to the chase, “Luffy, focus, do you know where the key to this cage is?”

He tilted his head and hummed as he thought about it, “Hmm, I think the captain has it, he’s the one who put me in here. He’s that guy with the big red nose!” Luffy motioned his head towards the tent Nami was in. You looked over and saw him. You’re pretty sure he is genuinely a literal clown. You can’t decide if that’s going to make stealing a key from him easier or harder.

How are you supposed to slip into a tent and check his pockets for a key? You’re trying to avoid being noticed, so that’s going to be very counter intuitive. Oh well, you’ll need to figure something out if you want to get him out of there. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

You try to leave and make your way closer to the tent, but one of Luffy’s hands clamps onto your ankle. “You’re going the wrong way,” he states plainly.

Oh god, his arm is doing that stretchy thing again. It takes all you have to not shudder at the disturbing visual. “What do you mean? I need to get closer to where he is.”

“Not that! I’m hungry, go get me some food, please!” He was full on whining now, giving you the most pitiful puppy eyes you think you’ve ever been subjected to.

“Seriously?!”

He nods his head with fierce determination, “I’m very serious about food! Oh, and make sure it’s meat!”

He’s looking at you expectantly and has made no move to unhand your ankle. Groaning, you comply and agree to get him his damn food. He is currently a prisoner, but his top priority is somehow food.

Much to your chagrin, the nearby table with all the food has a lot of people milling around it. Hopefully, if you keep your head down, grab the food, and go, no one will pay attention to you. It’ll totally be fine! Just act normal and like you’re supposed to be here and no one will look at you twice!

You casually strut up to the table, hoping to grab and go. You’ve barely even touched the meat before someone behind you speaks up.

“Who the hell are you? And why are you wearing my jacket?”

A chill runs down your spine. Oh god how could you let yourself get caught this quick? Now you’re gonna get thrown into the cage with Luffy. No! You can’t give up that easily, there has to be a way out of this.

Taking a deep breath, you put on the most annoyed expression you can and turn to face the owner of the voice. He looks hungover as all hell and is clearly pissed that you took his jacket. You scoff at him, “Are you shitting me?”

Your sharp reply takes him a bit off guard, “Wha- No, I’m not ‘shitting you’! Who even are you?”

“Seriously? I just told you my name last night and you already forgot it?” If he looks this hungover, that must mean he got really drunk last night. Hopefully, you can use that to your advantage.

“You did?” His eyes trailed upwards, visibly wracking his brain for any memory of such an event.

“Yeah,” you snap at him. “Right after I joined. Quite the warm welcome I’m getting here, being forgotten and then having you cop an attitude with me.” You cross your arms over your chest and scowl at him.

“Is that why we were partying so hard last night?” He said this so quietly that you doubt he’d meant for you to hear it. “Wait, that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing with my jacket! Give it back!”

You slap his hand away when he makes a grab for it, “Hell no, I won this fair and square from you! If you didn’t want to lose it, you shouldn’t have bet it during our drinking competition. That, or maybe learn to hold your liquor better, lightweight.”

His face flushes at this, “Oh come on, I just got that after losing my last one!” He ran a hand down his face, muttering something along the lines of ‘this can’t keep happening’. Pleadingly, he looks at you, “Please give it back, I’ll make it up to you I swear!” 

“No, I don’t think I will. I like this jacket, thank you very much,” you don’t like it, the colors are downright obnoxious, but you need this to blend in. Hopefully it’ll work better now that the person who it belonged to is out of the way.

Confident that you’ve successfully pulled off the greatest gaslight of all history, you grab some food and make to leave, but he calls out, “Wait!”

Shit! Did you not have him convinced? “What now?” You hissed at him.

He put his hands up in front of him defensively, “Calm down, I just wanted to ask what your name was again. I promise I won’t forget it this time!” The poor guy actually looked like he felt bad, you were starting to feel a little guilty for gaslighting him as hard as you just did.

Shifting your (Luffy’s) food to one hand, you extend your hand to him, “Just call me Lucky.”

“Lucky! Yeah that’s right, I remember now!” He lied through his teeth as he accepted your handshake. “Mine is Piero, I don’t know if I told you that or not.”

“You did, but thanks anyways, I guess,” you say dismissively.

Finally, it seems your passive aggressive attitude paid off, and he quickly excused himself. You let out a dramatic sigh of relief, almost not being able to believe you pulled that off. Now you’ve got someone on the inside that’ll vouch for you if anyone else questions your presence.

You scurry back to Luffy, who had managed to slip out of the ropes since you left him. Excitedly, he stretches his arms out to grab the food before you can even get all the way over to him. He barely gets out a ‘thank you’ before he’s inhaling what you fetched for him. At the rate he’s going, it’ll be gone in like 2.5 seconds.

Not wanting to get roped into another food run, you hurry away from him and towards the tent. Your plan for now is to eavesdrop a bit before making a real move. You grab some food and water, and make yourself comfortable on a barrel near the flap of the tent.

While you mostly got something to eat to help make you look more casual, you couldn’t help but scarf it all down at almost the same pace as Luffy. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you were until you took your first bite. It tasted great too, but it’s hard to tell if it’s actually good or if you’re so hungry that anything would taste like a fine dining meal to you right now.

Nami and captain clown were talking, but it was hard to understand what they were saying with all the background noise. Despite allegedly having a big blowout party last night, they were having another one today which made it basically impossible to pick up on a quiet conversation.

Chugging the last of your water, you inch even closer to the flap and lean in to hear better. It didn’t help much. You still have no idea what’s being said. Maybe you catch a word here and there, but it’s not enough to really help you.

Against your better judgment, you lean against the fabric a little bit more, but it comes loose and you tumble head first into the tent. Right in front of the captain who is going to be way harder to fool than some random shiphand.

Him and Nami gawk at you. You stare back, frozen temporarily from this stupid mistake. No, no, no, this is really bad! You force out a laugh, “Hahaha, oops! Sorry about that, captain! I’m so clumsy!” 

Your attempt to stand and run away ends before it can even begin. Your leg is tangled up in the fabric from where the tent came apart. ‘My christ this is going terribly,’ you internally curse at yourself, frantically trying to get your leg loose.

Your panic only increases when the clown stands and stomps his way towards you. The second you freed your leg, you were grabbed by the front of your (stolen) jacket and yanked to your feet. He loomed over you, and all things considered, was surprisingly intimidating. “Captain? Why would someone who isn’t in my crew be calling me captain?”

Welp. Here goes nothing. “Because I am in your crew? I know I just joined, but you didn’t forget about me, did you?” You weren’t bold enough to try the aggressive approach again.

His eye twitched in annoyance, and brought you way closer to his face than you ever wanted to be, “What are you trying to pull? Do you think I don’t know who is and isn’t in my crew? Do you think I’m stupid?” He all but snarled at you. Shit, this isn’t working as smoothly as it did with Piero!

“I-I’m not trying to pull anything! I mean we did party pretty hard last night, I’ve already had to reintroduce myself to several people today!”

He quirked an eyebrow at you, but didn’t say anything, so you continued talking, “Yeah! You can go ask Piero, we were talking just a minute ago!” You’re not sure that relying on someone you were pretty mean to was smart, but you were panicking. 

The clown laughed at this, he laughed so hard that he dropped you and clutched his sides as he cackled, “Piero? Anyone could convince that drunk they’re a part of this crew!” You were frantically crawling backwards to try and get away from him, but he stepped forwards and dug his heel into the jacket to stop you. “Who else can vouch for you, hm?” He had a huge condescending smile on his face, absolutely positive you wouldn’t be able to deliver.

Having made it just outside the tent, you whip your head around looking for any possible way out of this. Not far away from you, you spot your best chance.

“Richie! R-Richie knows me!” The lion perks up at the mention of his name, peering over at you. As odd as it sounds, it kind of makes sense that he’s here. Somehow, your current situation is so bizarre that a lion being a part of a group of clown pirates is the most reasonable explanation for why it’s here.

“The lion? You want a lion to back you up?” He looks absolutely dumbfounded at your choice, and you can’t blame him. In any other scenario, you would think this is the dumbest thing ever, but this isn’t exactly a normal situation now is it?! 

You aggressively nod your head, “Yeah! It’s not like he would accept just anyone!” He would if food was presented, but he didn’t need to know that, “S-So if he recognizes me then you’ll know I’m telling the truth!”

He stares incredulously at you for a moment, then smirks, “Alright, go ahead. If he doesn’t eat you then I’ll believe you.” He gestures for you to go approach Richie while snickering. 

Despite your previous encounter, you couldn’t help the pit of anxiety in your gut as you approached the lion. Sure, he was nice after you gave him some food, but you didn’t have any more food on you right now. For all you know, that alone would be reason enough to tear into you.

Richie watched as you approached, tail flicking back and forth as you got closer. Out of the corner of your eye, you see some guy (with bear ears on his head?) watching this interaction curiously.

“H-Hey buddy, remember me? We’re still cool right?” He tilted his head at your words, and leaned forward slightly to sniff at your hand that you had extended towards him. You stare unblinking at the animal, praying that he doesn’t start acting the way an apex predator should and rip you apart.

Instead of ending you, he simply licks your hand and rolls over onto his back. Once again, all your survival instincts are replaced with the burning desire to pet a cute animal. “That’s a good boy! I knew you remembered me!” You cooed at him while vigorously petting his exposed tummy.

You hear gasping behind you, “Richie??? You don’t even let ME give you belly rubs!” Bear ear guy cried out.

Looking over your shoulder, you see the captain slack jawed. Evidently, he had not anticipated that this would actually work in your favor. Finally, you see a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. You might be able to pull this off after all.

“Such a sweet boy! At least you didn’t forget about me!” 

“Captain Buggy, who is that?” Buggy? That’s the captain’s name? 

Buggy stomped over to you and dragged you to your feet again, “What the hell is going on with you? Who are you?”

“My name is Lucky, and I already told you that I joined your crew yesterday. You said that you would believe me if Richie didn’t turn me into a snack,” you were irritated that he was still pressing the issue. Why couldn’t he just go with your lies and move along? 

“I’m the captain, if I want to keep questioning you then I will,” he snapped back. As he says this, your eyes are drawn to a key dangling from his belt. That must be the key to Luffy’s cage! It’s so close too, you need to find a way to get it off him without being noticed. 

“I did what you said, stop sticking your nose in my business just because you forgot!”

Gasps resound around you, immediately making you question if this was a bad move. Glancing around, you see all the merriment has come to a screeching halt as they all stare at you. Some are violently shaking their heads, like you just said something wrong.

“Whaaaaat?!” Buggy shrieked. “Did you just say my nose has bigness???”

“Huh?”

“You did! How dare you?!” His voice is so high pitched now that you’re sure he’s only going to be heard by dogs soon.

“No I didn’t! I told you to keep your nose out of my business!” You over enunciate every syllable in hopes that he won’t mishear you so severely this time around. It was a lost effort.

“You said it again!” He was now shaking you back and forth in rage. 

Pain shot through you with each shake, your head was throbbing right now. This was so stupid. You almost had him, and then it all goes to shit because he keeps mishearing you. You can’t let your cover get blown so stupidly! Luffy is depending on you and you have no idea where Zoro is! You’re going to have to make a bold move if you want to get that key.

Grinding your teeth, one of your hands snap forward and grab his shirt. You yank him towards you, so close that your noses are now touching. His eyes shoot wide open and his screeching stops. “Listen to me! I didn’t say a damn thing about your nose, you made that up so you could have something to get bent out of shape over! It’s not my fault you’re embarrassed that you forgot about me, so quit trying to turn this around and make it a me problem!”

It is dead silent. You could hear a pin drop from across town, you’re sure of it. Everyone is watching you two with varying levels of abject horror. Buggy’s face was already tinted red from yelling at you before, but now it was so flushed that it was blending in with his nose. His fists, which were still clutching onto your jacket, were shaking. 

You could only pray that this wasn’t the dumbest move you could have made. For all you knew, this guy would kill you for this transgression. God, you hope he can’t hear your heart pounding out of your chest right now.

Finally, he shoves you off of him and spins on his heel to stomp away, “Fine! But you’re on thin ice, Lucky!”

Everyone was staring at him as he left with their jaws damn near on the ground. You cannot believe you just pulled that off. You decide to slip away while they’re distracted, not wanting their attention to turn to you. You’ve already garnered way more attention than you ever wanted to, all you want to do now is free Luffy and get the hell out of here. Now that you’ve got the key in your pocket, that should be easy enough.

Before you can make it back to him, someone grabs your arm and yanks you into an empty tent. Oh, come on! You whirl around to give whoever did this a piece of your mind, but froze when you recognized her as the orange haired girl Luffy told you about. 

“Nami? What do you want?” 

Her expression morphs into one of shock, “What? Wait, how do you know me?”

“Luffy told me about you,” and how she tricked him, not that he’d figured that out yet.

“You’re with him?” She gave you a once over, “There’s no way you’re a pirate, you look completely out of place.”

“What’s it matter to you?” You huffed and crossed your arms, glaring at her, “Look, if you don’t want anything, then I need to get going.”

Nami purses her lips, thinking over what to say next. She sighs before continuing, “I just wanted to know why you had enough of a deathwish to try and pick a fight with a pirate, but I suppose I know why now.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, looking terribly annoyed by the situation, “If I were you, I would leave while you can. Get out of here before you get hurt.”

“I plan to, but not before I get Luffy.”

Nami’s eye twitches, “Leave him too, nothing good will come from associating with a pirate. I don’t know how long you’ve been with him, but look at you! You’re lucky that Buggy didn’t kill you a minute ago!” She snatches your loosely tied bandana off your head, “Not to mention whatever happened to earn you that!”

You grab onto the bandana and try to pull it out of her hand, but she just holds onto it tighter. “Mind your own business! He’s helping me out, so I’m going to help him too whether you approve of it or not,” you told her very matter of factly. Who is she to tell you what to do?

She lets go abruptly, causing you to stumble back. For a moment, she fixes you with a hard stare. Then, she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, “Fine, do whatever you want. Don’t come crying to me when it comes back to bite you.” She walks past you and leaves you alone in the tent. 

You’re not sure what that was all about. Nami really had nothing to gain from telling you to leave, so you can’t fathom what compelled her to pull you aside like that. “It doesn’t matter,” you mutter under your breath as you put the bandana back on. For now, all you need to worry about is getting Luffy out of his cage and finding Zoro so you can all leave. This place isn’t that big, so Zoro should make his way over here soon enough if he hasn’t already. 

Feeling confident in your plan, you step out of the tent and look over to where the cage is, only to find a cannon pointing right at it. That wasn’t there before!

Your stomach drops at the sight, and your heart rate spikes again. Dammit, how can this many things keep going wrong all at once??? Looking at who’s standing by the cannon, you spot Nami. What?! Was she telling you to back off because she wanted to blow Luffy the fuck up???

You want to run up and stop her, but several of your “crewmates” stop you. “Sorry, Lucky. I know you probably want a chance to use a buggy ball, but that Nami chick needs to prove herself first,” one of them has an arm around your shoulder to keep you in place and another has an arm linked with yours.

It’s finally dawning on you just how dangerous pirates can be. It’s one thing to think about how they could hurt you, it’s another to see them cheering someone on to kill a guy with a fucking cannon. If Nami wasn’t the one about to light the fuse, you would think that her previous talk with you may have been genuine concern. These guys were insane!

Nami makes eye contact. Much to your relief, you can see her hesitating. Frankly, she looks sick at the thought of setting it off. You shoot her the most pleading look you can while trying to shake off the people holding onto you.

Luffy, bizarrely, looks entirely unconcerned. He’s just watching Nami with a blank expression, which then switches to a more coy one. You can see his mouth moving, but can’t make out his words over everyone chanting around you. 

Apparently, Nami was taking too long to make a move, because another pirate approaches and snatches the box of matches out of her hand. Shit! You’re now frantically trying to wiggle out of the pirates’ grasps, much to their confusion. “What’s your problem? Just relax and enjoy the show.”

Several things happen at once. The pirate that stole the matches lights one and reaches for the cannon’s fuse, you break free from the pirates holding you back, and Nami whips out a staff and beats the pirate with it. She looks to you and yells over the ensuing chaos, “You have the key right?! Go get him out!”

Ignoring the question of how she knew, you sprint for the cage. Skidding to a stop in front of the lock, you pull the key out of your pocket. You jam it into the hole, but it doesn’t budge. You try again, twisting it in every direction, but nothing happens. “What the hell? Why isn’t this stupid key working?”

“It doesn’t fit? Oh, I guess that wasn’t the right key then,” Luffy says nonchalantly.

“What do you mean this isn’t the right key?! You said the captain had it!” 

“I mean what I said. I said I thought he had it, I didn’t know for sure,” he shrugged his shoulders, still not taking this situation anywhere near as seriously as he should.

“You should have made that clearer!” You shouted as you violently threw the now useless key away, nailing someone in the crowd with it on accident.

“Why are you yelling so much? It’s not a- whoa whoa whoa the fuse is lit!” Luffy’s tone finally left its neutrality and became panicked. Your head snaps towards the cannon and you see that he’s right. Shit! Nami didn’t stop that guy in time!

There are some stairs behind you. Maybe if you can push the cage down them Luffy will be safe (well, safe from the cannon at least)? You put all your strength into pushing it, but it’s barely moving. There’s no way you can get it out of the way in time! Nami is trying to snuff out the light with her bare hands, but several pirates are charging at her now that she’s revealed herself to not truly be with them.

“Nami, behind you!”

You don’t know what to do. On one hand, you need to get Luffy out of here, but on the other, you don’t want to just stand by while Nami is killed after she tried to help you!

Thankfully, you didn’t need to decide what to do. Just before the pirates could deliver a blow to her, they’re brought to a halt by a green haired swordsman.

“Zoro!” Both you and Luffy cried out in relief.

Gasps ring out on the crowd and the entire atmosphere changes instantly. Everyone who was ready to rip Nami apart before was now backing away in fear. Murmurs of ‘pirate hunter’ could be heard as everyone became deeply unsure of themselves and their next actions.

“Just how many of you were planning on taking on one girl?” with the same ease you saw him disarm the pirates from earlier, he sent all four pirates hurtling into the crowd. He glances over his shoulder, “Are you hurt?”

Nami, who had definitely burned her hands only seconds ago, shakes her head and mutters out a ‘no’. Zoro nods and fixes the already tense crowd with a cold look, his mentioning that he hung up being a pirate hunter doing absolutely nothing to quell their anxieties. 

Despite everyone else’s open terror, Buggy remains calm, even smirking at the situation. “I don’t care if you’re still calling yourself a pirate hunter or not, having your head would make my name even more feared,” he pulls out several knives as he walks towards Zoro, who is watching with what could only be deemed boredom. 

As Buggy gets closer, Zoro sighs and unsheaths his other two swords. Much to your confusion, he puts one of them in his mouth. Now you may be a recent amnesia victim, but that doesn’t seem quite right to you. However, upon noticing the lack of confusion from everyone else here, you do find yourself questioning if maybe this is more normal than you’re remembering.

Everyone watches with bated breath as Buggy runs right at Zoro. It only takes a second for all three of Zoro’s swords to cut right through his opponent. Buggy falls to the ground in pieces and you recoil at the sight. It’s not like you were fond of him or anything, but seeing someone get hacked up like that was stomach churning regardless of personal feelings.

One could typically expect killing a pirate crew’s captain to be met with rage or sorrow, but there was something genuinely chilling about their reactions. They were laughing. Like there was a joke that the rest of you were all missing out on. 

You ignore your discomfort to look at Buggy’s corpse again, and you notice something odd. He isn’t bleeding.

“Weird, his body had no resistance,” Zoro joined you in staring at the body, now also sensing something was off.

“Wow, was he really that weak?” Luffy wasn’t reading the room whatsoever. You’ve barely known this guy, but can’t help but feel like this is typical for him.

The dry chuckling erupts into downright maniacal laughter. You look around desperately, trying to figure out what was going on, and your blood runs cold when you see what it was.

A knife had been stabbed straight through Zoro’s abdomen by Buggy’s disembodied arm.

[pretty-red-garnet]

Angel

Daryl Dixon x Fem! Reader • France • Light Angst/Fluff

!Spoilers! For The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon episode one! Don’t read this if you haven’t watched yet! Also, thank you so much to the anon who requested this. I had a lot of fun writing it.

PS: Ignore the canon divergence lol.

Heavy limbs is all Daryl feels as he begins to become conscious again. He's huddled on an overturned boat, his frozen fingers gripping your waist to keep you afloat with him. It seems even unconscious, he's always thinking of you and your safety before anything.

The coast is close, and he fights against his droopy eyes to look towards you. Your eyes are still closed, and he panics and swats at you to wake you. When you do, your groggy too, glazed over eyes looking towards his.

"We gotta get to the coast," Daryl tells you, his voice rough with thirst. You nod, still disoriented, but he appreciates that you don't fight him when he lugs you off the boat and drags you towards shore.

You and Daryl crawl on the sand, fingers ripping into the sand in an effort to ground yourselves. Sand sticks to the icy water soaking the two of you. Daryl spots a little sand bucket full of water ahead, and rushes to it. After a single eager gulp, he hurriedly hands it off to you. He watches the water drip down your chin, giving himself just a moment to relish in the fact that you're ok and breathing.

You and him had gotten in quite a bit of trouble since venturing off in an effort to find his brother. It ended in getting taken aboard a huge boat and— thankfully— escaping on a much smaller paddle boat. And now your landed on an unfamiliar shore.

"Where do you think we are?" You ask, breaths still heavy and fast. Daryl shrugs, leaning back onto his hand and grabbing the bucket when you offer it.

After a quick moments rest, you and your partner are back on your feet. You both wander the area, looking around for any sign of where you could be. The town you end up in is small. Buildings surrounded by the sea. It looked like it would've been a spot out of a travel pamphlet from before.

"Y/N," Daryl suddenly says, looking towards a sign. You step next to him, eyeing the sign to try and read the words through the age and decay.

"Is that..." you start, examining the unfamiliar language. "French?"

You and Daryl both look towards each other, both having an expression that could only be described as exhaustion. It seemed to Daryl that you and him just couldn't catch a damn break. How the hell would he get you home?

"Looks like we're not in Kansas anymore," you say, deadpan. Daryl's frown deepens and gives you a halfhearted thwack on the shoulder for you ill-timed joke. "Tough crowd."

You and Daryl spend that night in a little fishing boat. It's long abandoned, dirt and dust covering every surface, but it gives some cover from the biting wind. After eating a fish Daryl caught, you both huddle together under layers of blankets on a little cot. You're wrapped around him and despite the exhaustion that drapes over you, you still can't sleep.

"Judith would like that," you mumble. Daryl follows your eyes and sees you gazing at the penguin plush. "She's never seen a penguin. Well, just in books."

Your voice is quiet, thoughtful. Daryl knows what your thinking about, he's good at that now. After so many years with a person, you can almost read their mind. And Daryl knows that you're missing Jude and RJ, especially after listening to that tape. That you're thinking about the childhood they're missing out on, about trips to the zoo and seeing penguins, begging their parents to buy them an overpriced souvenir. The childhood they should have.

The childhood you and Daryl are missing out watching.

"We'll have to bring it back for them," he says. You don't say anything back. "I'm gonna get you home, alright?"

You tilt your head to look in his eyes. Daryl hates that he sees fear and worry in yours. He tries to ebb it away with gentle caresses.

"I'm gonna get you home," he repeats, firmer and while looking you in the eye. You relent, nodding and smiling softly at him, and he leans to brush your lips against his in a silent promise.

It seems the bad luck that hangs over you and Daryl like a dark storm cloud isn't planning on dissipating anytime soon. You and Daryl venture deeper into the city and stumble upon a big abandoned building.

     "Maybe I should've taken French in high school," you murmur, eyes squinting at the unrecognizable words written on a sign outside of the building. Daryl just shrugs, and carefully begins to enter the building.

     It ends up being filled with walkers. Guttural groans and decomposed flesh surrounds you and Daryl. You and Daryl are taking care of your own groups, dividing and— hopefully— conquering.

     "Daryl!" You screech out, the sound of a body dropping following. "These are not normal walkers!"

     Daryl looks at the dead walkers and sees what you mean. Something leaking from them is burning the ground. Acid.

     It's not a second later Daryl is grabbed roughly, acidic fingers clamping down on his forearm. He lets out a yelp in pain, one that makes you kill your batch of walkers in half the time with the help of the extra adrenaline. Daryl sees you in the corner of his eye rushing towards him after he's able to pry the walker's hand off his arm.

     "Oh my God," you say, breathlessly staring at the burned hand print on his arm. Your fingers shake violently as they move to touch him, before they move away again. You look up at Daryl, his face pinched in pain. Tears collect at the corners of your eyes.

     Daryl's heart clenches in his chest at the sight of you, nervous and scared. Teary eyes and trembling like a leave. He reaches up to lightly dab at a few stray tears that leaked from your eyes, shaking his head.

     "I'm fine," he says, slowly and quietly. "Just a burn, I'm not infected or nothin'." His fingers now stroke your hair, trying to get that terrified look out of your eyes. "It's somethin' on the walkers, it's not a scratch or bite. 'M fine."

     You nod, and throw your arms around his waist. He hugs back without a thought, hiding a wince when your coat brushes against his wound. He doesn't mind, he'll take the pain if it means your arms are around him, holding him so tight he's afraid he'll lose feeling in his legs any second. Your face is buried in his chest, and he leaves little kisses on the crown of your head.

     When you finally pry yourself away, you're quick to pull a bandage out of your bag. Forcing Daryl to sit, you tentatively wrap the bandage around his arm. You place a sweet kiss on the outskirts of his bandage when you're done, smiling at Daryl when he huffs out an amused snort.

     You were always like that. Kind, and attentive. Always putting him and your family ahead of yourself. It was something that Daryl fell in love with first all those years ago. Although it tends to worry and annoy him on occasion.

     "I'm gonna be fine, alright?" Daryl reassures when he sees the worry isn't completely washed away from your face. You nod, lacing your fingers with his and leading him out of the building.

     Just when it seems the day couldn't get worse, it does. You and Daryl find a girl with her father, and thankfully she knows enough english for a trade. A little med kit for some apples and rabbit.

     What at first seems like the first score of the day ends in Daryl and his partner sprawled out on the damp ground. Both have matching knots on the side of their heads and Daryl a gunshot wound, yet both look and reach out towards each other. Daryl's eyes slip close before he can help it.

Daryl wakes to a start. His limbs and eyes are heavy, and he hears a woman talking— chanting?— in French. His eyes are blurry, but he's pretty sure he's looking at nuns surrounding him, one of them— the one that's speaking— has a heated fire poker, so hot the tip is a bright orange.

He yelps and shouts, trying to break free from the women's grip, but between being outnumbered, in pain, and exhausted, he doesn't move much. Daryl's eyes fly around the room in a panic, trying to catch sight of you, but there's no such thing. Once the molten poker hits his skin, the pain blinds him and he's out again.

Daryl wakes again much later. Maybe hours, maybe days later, he's not sure. He spots a nun pouring water from a basin in a large tub. Despite his body not functioning up to speed, he sits up anyway. At that moment, she turns towards him.

"You feeling better?" She asks, a foreign accent marking her words.

"Where is she?" He grumbles out, voice like sandpaper. "Y/N, where is she?"

"She's in another room, eating. She came to see you, you were still sleeping," she explains. "I'm Isabelle."

Isabelle explains the situation to Daryl. How the cauterization to prevent the spread of infection from that acidic walker, where he was, and how you were, all while removing the bandage on his arm. She makes some other conversation, but Daryl is mostly quiet, too busy with thoughts of you. However, Daryl isn't panicked, just concerned.

He doesn't feel the woman or any nuns at the abby had ill intent. They could've just left you both to die, but they didn't. Instead taking total strangers back to their home. Daryl does just want to see you. To make absolute sure you're safe and alright.

After Isabelle leaves, he takes her up on her offer of a bath. He can see the steam from here, and after the freezing cold ocean water from the other day, he needs it. He also doesn't need you worrying about his wound, so keeping it clean was a good first step.

He makes it quick and hasty, already out with a towel when Isabelle enters with clean clothes. Daryl feels a little exposed, only dressed with a towel, but Isabelle is quick to exit once she gives him the clean clothes.

Daryl hurries out the door once he's dressed. He doesn't really know where he's going, but he follows the noise of chatter. He peeks his head in the room he hears the most noise and spots you, talking with a couple of the nuns and eating soup.

"Hey, Angel," you say, dropping your spoon in your soup when he makes his presence known. You stand, placing your hand on his cheek and pressing a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth.

"You alright?" Daryl asks, tentatively touching the bruise on your temple. You nod, smiling when you kiss his wrist.

"Isabelle said your arm looks good." You sit down and Daryl follows suit. One of the women places a bowl in front of him, and he's quick to dig in and slurp up his soup.

     "Told you, 'm fine."

     "I know, but if I don't worry about you, who will?"

     Isabelle gives you and Daryl a tour of the convent. She introduces Laurent to you both and explained the miracle of his birth, how he's special. Daryl scoffed, but he could tell you were a little intrigued with Isabelle's plan of getting him to a better place. Somewhere safer and where he could be happier.

     Daryl would've flat out refused if it weren't for you. You convinced him to help out the women on their journey. Isabelle promised she'd help get you and Daryl back home, or at least access to a radio. It didn't seem very promising, but one look at you and he folded.

     You always called him your angel, but in truth, you're the real angel.

After all the introductions and outlining the plan of getting Laurent to wherever he needs to be, it's dinner time. Laurent was a strange kid. He liked to talk and sometimes he'd get all philosophical and ask Daryl deep questions. His odd questions and badgering took up most of the day. You mostly just giggled at Daryl and his usually half-assed answers.

At dinner, the other nuns regard Daryl nervously. You had quietly joked to him that's it's his 'intimidating energy,' as you called it.

"But don't worry, I find it really hot," you had said in a whisper while the nuns set the table. Daryl blushed and moved to hide his face from you, which just made you giggle.

The only ones that speak English are Isabelle, Laurent, and another nun named Sylvie. The three translated any conversation between you, Daryl, and the other women. It was mostly them asking questions to learn about you and Daryl.

"She wants to know how long you two have been married," Isabelle asks, translating a question from the oldest nun, Mother Superior.

"Oh," you had said, stumbling a little. Daryl could feel heat flush his cheeks and ears. "We're not married."

Sylvie and a few of the other women had made a slightly surprised face, and Mother Superior looked just aghast when Isabelle translated.

"Don't you two live together?" Laurent asks, ever on top of things. "And haven't you been together for years?"

"Yeah..." you say with a shrug. "Guess we just never thought to."

"There even a point?" Daryl asks. "No courts, no paper to sign."

It seemed nobody had to translate for the oldest nun this time. Maybe it was his tone or nonchalant shrug while he said it, but it seemed she got the point. She made a noise of astonishment, shook her head while muttering a player and making the motion of a cross. Daryl honestly thought it was a little comical, never did he think he'd be discussing marriage with a bunch of nuns, in an abby, in France no less.

"It's about taking a vow in front of God," Sylvie says. "A show that you love each other and you'll be together forever."

Daryl could feel the awkward tension radiating from you in waves. You moved your food around your plate, slightly unwilling to make eye contact with the nuns. Daryl just shrugged. He knew he loved you, he knew he would be with you forever, he knew you felt the same, he didn't need a big show to prove that.

Daryl never gave marriage a huge thought. Before he met you, he was sure he'd never even fall in love. After you, he was so deeply head over heels for you, he never thought he needed a big wedding to prove how much he loved you. He showed it everyday, at least he tried his best to. Maybe he wasn't the most romantic or emotionally inclined, but he tried to make you feel loved and happy.

Besides, you'd never hinted at marriage. If you did, maybe it'd be a different story. You'd never said you wanted a wedding, did you want one? Did you want to be married, and thought he wouldn't want it? Daryl's not sure.

Now that he's thinking, really thinking during the semi-awkward silence that replaced the once lively conversation, maybe you did want marriage. Daryl remembers all those years ago when Maggie and Glenn married. They didn't have a huge wedding or anything, just a ring and a small celebration with some scavenged champagne. He remembers how happy you looked, how fondly you gazed at the happy couple.

He remembers how he made a comment similar to the one he just made, about no point of being married. You had nudged his shoulder and told him to be quiet, that it was romantic. That it didn't matter there were no marriage licenses or wedding gowns or honeymoons, they were happy and in love. How they just wanted to be husband and wife, just because they were committed to one another.

Daryl looks at you seated next to him, and it's like something changes. Maybe calling you his wife wouldn't be so bad.

Isabelle leads you and Daryl to separate rooms. After the big news of you and Daryl being unwed, Mother Superior didn't want you both staying in the same room. It was bizarre to Daryl, but you wanted to respect their wishes. So he conceded, and allowed Isabelle to take you away from him.

You blowed him a dramatic kiss as you walked away, like you were going off to war or something. He played along anyway like he always did with you, grabbing the kiss and bringing it to his chest just to see you laugh.

Now, laying in bed without your steady presence beside him was unwelcome. He felt strange, like he was missing a vital part of him. He couldn't even remember the last time he's slept without you. Even those years he was out in the woods looking for Rick, you were there, always right beside him.

He tossed and turned, fiddling with a little scrap of stained white fabric he had clutched in his hand. It was from his angle wing on his vest. A small piece had peeled off after the long trip in the ocean, and he had shoved it in his pocket without thinking.

Eventually, Daryl stood. Maybe he'd get in trouble with the nuns in the morning, but he doesn't care, he needs you. He carefully pushes open his door before making his way towards your room. He enters your room without knocking, letting out a relived sigh when he sees you laying in bed.

"You didn't even knock," you say, sitting up in bed. "What if you had just barged into one of the nun's rooms? Don't think they would've liked it much."

"I must have God on my side." You snort and shake your head. He walks over to you and sits on your bed, pushing you back into the pillows.

"What're you doing here anyway? Got lost?" You tease, a smirk on your face that Daryl kisses away.

"Missed you," he murmurs against your lips, before pulling away just barley to trail feverish kisses from your jaw to your neck. You groan.

"They won't like this much you know," you say, heated breaths fanning out across the top of Daryl's head. "We should respect their wishes. We're in their home."

"Whatever, we're helpin' them with their mission, ain't we?" You push Daryl away lightly, and so he pulls away. You're giving him a concerned look that makes Daryl worry.

"Yes, but they're also helping us. They're helping to get us home, and I don't wanna risk anything." Daryl sighs, the breath causing your messy hair to flutter slightly. He smooths it down tenderly.

"I'm gonna get you home. Don't gotta worry." You grasp his hand playing with your hair and kiss his fingertips. He curls his fingers around your hand and lifts it to his lips, placing careful kisses to your knuckles.

"I do hate sleeping without you," you admit, voice quiet. He nods, placing your hand gently to rest on your stomach, still holding it.

"Guess I just have to marry you then." Daryl had intended it as a joke, but realized he was serious about halfway through. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he gazes at you, hair fanning out on the pillow with an adorably confused look on your face.

He's not sure what took him so long to realize. But he's never been so sure of anything in his life. He wants you to be his wife. You're already his everything, his forever, he wants it to be official. He wants to hear you call him your husband, he wants you to be his and him yours in every sense there is.

"Are you joking?" You ask, a furrow to your brow and a tilt to your head. He shakes his head, his insecurities begin to evade his mind.

"I love you," he starts, unable to meet your questioning gaze. "I never thought about marriage, never thought anyone could love me like that." You push his hair from his face and caress his cheek, regarding him with a look so full of love he knows he's made the right choice. "But I wanna do it with you, if you want."

"Why now?" You sit up, pressing your palms on either side of his face. "Is it because of what the nuns said?"

"Kinda." He shrugs, and you smile softly.

"Daryl, I don't need us to be married to know you love me. You show me that every day. You don't need to prove anything." He shakes his head, holding your hands in place by grasping your wrists loosely.

"I want to be married to you. I never really thought about it before this s'all, but I do," Daryl confirms, holding your gaze steadily now. "I wanna be with you forever. You're everything to me."

Tears collect in your eyes and Daryl is terrified he messed up, that maybe you didn't want this. Maybe this would feel too possessive to you, like you'd be tied down, like he'd be owning you. Before his thoughts can spiral too out of control, you kiss him. You kiss him so hard and so passionately, Daryl almost falls backwards.

"I'd love to marry you." Daryl grips at your hips and you clutch at his shoulders. He rests his forehead against yours.

"I don't have a damn ring," Daryl says. He pulls out the little scrap of fabric from his vest, taking hold of you hand. He ties the little scrap around your finger, rubbing over your ring finger when he's done. "That'll have to do for now."

"It's a piece of your vest?" Daryl nods, and you grin so brightly, you almost light up the entire room. "Now I always have a little part of my Angel with me."

     Daryl smiles, his chest feeling warmer than ever before. He shoves you down into the bed and follows quickly, pulling you up to lay on his chest. You laugh and admire the makeshift ring adorning your left hand.

"You're my Angel."

     Daryl's eyes crack open to the sound of a door creaking and is immediately met with bright sunlight. A deep sigh is what causes him to open his eyes fully. Isabelle is standing by the door, fresh clothes in hand with a disappointed look on her face.

     "Mother Superior won't be happy," she says. Daryl looks to your form curled up next to him, and he couldn't care less. You roll over to face Isabelle and grin so brightly, Daryl's heart might just burst.

     "But we're married," you say, your voice still sleepy, while throwing out your hand from under the covers to show off the 'ring.' You look so proud Daryl can't help but smile. "Got married last night."

     "What?" Daryl isn't sure if she looks more confused or shocked. "You got married? Last night?"

     "Yeah," Daryl replies nonchalantly, throwing his legs off the bed to stand.

     "You need someone to marry you, you can't just decide your married." Isabelle looks amused now as she places the clothing on the dresser.

     "What for?" You ask, sitting up. "Like Daryl said, there's no marriage licensing or anything."

     "Yes, but you could still be married in the eyes of God," Isabelle says, a thoughtful look on her face.

     "We ain't catholic," Daryl says, reaching to grab the clothes Isabelle placed on the dresser. She pushes his hand away.

     "Humor us," she says, getting met with confused looks from both you and Daryl. "Let us put something together. I'm sure no one will mind a little wedding."

     You and Daryl tried to refuse, but it seems nuns are very convincing. Or maybe it's just because they're all women. Soon you and Daryl are getting set up in makeshift wedding attire. Daryl is getting prepped up in the clothing closest to a tux while nuns are creating a dress for you. Sewing and pinning up a white garnet they found to resemble something of a wedding gown.

     Daryl was less than ecstatic, but he saw how happy you looked when you rushed by him to get fitted into the gown and he was suddenly ok with it all. The next time he saw you, it was while he was at the alter.

     The women had made a trail of different fabrics to make a sort of carpet trail to the alter. Your white dress stands out against the multitude of colors of the carpet. Daryl's eyes flit from your dress to your sparkling eyes to your contagious grin before settling on the fabric tied in a knot around your finger.

     He can't take his eyes off you.

     Even when you finally make it across from him and Mother Superior begins to read from the Bible can he focus on anything but you. The foreign words are the last thing on his mind.

     "I love you," you mouth to him, smiling with tears glistening your eyes. Daryl feels tears begin to prick at his own.

     "Love you, too," he mouths back. He's nudged slightly by the young boy, and that's what brings him back. "Huh?"

     "Say 'I do,'" Laurent mumbles, causing the nuns to laugh.

     "Oh, yeah, I do," Daryl says, feeling a blush creep up his neck. You smile at him, causing him to smile back and forgetting the slight embarrassment. After a few more words read from the holy book, the officiate turns to you.

     "I do," you say with a watery laugh. A tear finally falls and Daryl is swift with wiping it away. After a few more words, the book is closed, and she motions for you to kiss.

     Daryl crashes his lips to yours without a seconds hesitation. You hum into his lips and Daryl can feel your tears drip down. He pulls away, to realize it was his own tears he felt. You grin happily, brushing away his tears with your thumbs.

     "We're married," you say, quietly. Daryl feels his heart miss a beat and he can't help press another firm kiss to your lips.

     It's decided the journey to deliver Laurent will begin tomorrow. One day of resting up and celebrating the newlyweds. You're the happiest Daryl has seen since you left to look for Rick. He keeps finding himself grinning to himself seeing you so happy, chatting with Isabelle and Sylvie and eating delicious food. Even indulging in a little homemade wine tucked away for special occasions.

     "Hey, you," you whisper, winding your arms around Daryl's neck. You teeter on your feet, just a bit tipsy on the wine. Your grin is so happy and free, so infectious, Daryl grins back. "Having fun?" He shrugs.

     "I like watching you have fun." He twirls a little piece of your hair. You frown, Daryl rubs it away with his thumb which results in a kiss on his finger tips. "I'd have more fun if we were alone," he murmurs in your ear, kissing the shell. You smack him lightly on the shoulder and giggle.

     "This is a house of God, Daryl." He shrugs at your teasing. You rock back and forth between your left and right foot, fingers twisting around the curls at the back of his neck. Suddenly, you look thoughtful as you gaze at him.

     "What?" He questions.

     "I just wish Carol and Maggie could be here, our family." You shrug, looking down. "I miss them, Jude and RJ, too. All of them." He kisses your forehead and gently lifts up your chin to meet his eyes.

     "We'll have to have a party when we get back." Daryl kisses your forehead again, lips moving down to your temple.

     "Yeah, ok," you say, nodding and smiling again, happy at the thought of celebrating with your family. "A nice party after our honeymoon."

     "Honeymoon?" Daryl asks with a smirk. "Where do you wanna go?"

     "Uh, we're in France," you say, a look on your face screaming 'obviously.' "We're going to Paris on our way to deliver Laurent, right?" Daryl nods and snorts.

     "You think the Eiffel Tower's still standin'?" You drop your hand from the back of his neck to poke his side, a shocked expression on your face.

     "Don't burst my bubble! Of course it's still standing!" You exclaim. Daryl concedes and nods, lifting his hands palms out to put them in a surrendering stance. "I've always wanted to go to Paris. I never imagined I'd have a destination wedding."

     Daryl never imagined he'd have a wedding in general. Never thought he'd find someone so loving and amazing as you. As Daryl gazes lovingly into your eyes, hands spread out on your back, he knows he's made the right choice.

[official-darkforest]

in your anthro au, does bramble actually make it to canada? is the plotline of the lake territory scrapped for something else?

rambled quite a bit here!

no, they dont make it to canada. they abandoned that idea after feather was killed. instead her funeral and burial is held in california by her dying wish and her family drives/flies over. graystripe and mosspelt took feather's car, but mosspelt flies back home via plane. graystripe is staying wirh storm indefinitely and eventually meets millie.

with storm's blessing, bramble,tawny, crow, and squirrel take the van back home. tawny is dropped off on the way, but crow insists on tagging along to thunder because he's not ready to be alone yet. his family is pretty small and he's not sure his parents will be able to help much, as much as they may try.

dodging the draft can get you into trouble, but there are many that got off scot free and bramble was one pf those lucky fellows (especially with firestar's involvement. he made sure bramble wouldn't have it held against him in return for keeping squirrel safe and bringing her home). firestar was furious at both bramble and squirrel but he's not cruel and unsympathetic, especially considering they just lost a very close friend (and that gray isnt coming back for a while).

this is where crow and leaf meet, crow is kinda bunking with bramble at his place and even had plans to move in for good. his parents were pretty combative but couldnt do much since he was a few states away!!! they dont know where the fuck thunder-whatever is. but eventually he gets a call about his father's rapidly declining health and immediately abandons his plans to stay. he asks leaf to come with him but leaf still isn't finished with med school (she doesn't know she's pregnant yet) and they part ways. crow makes it home to help ashfoot care for deadfoot in his final few months and fills in after his father dies. it's something he didnt plan to continue but its notnlike he HATES doing the work. eventually meets+marries nightcloud a 1-4 yrs later

leaf meanwhile continues med school. being unmarried with kids is still a social taboo, especially at such a young age (im imagining she and squirrel are around 18-19 by now, 17 during the road trip). squirrel and bramble, however, had been in a relationship with one another for a while after coming back home. sure, it got a bit messy when ashfur came back from vietnam and got a bit too close to squirrel for comfort, but they sorta resolved it and eventually bramble/squirrel got engaged. leaf confided in squirrel for her help with the pregnancy and squirrel immediately offered to take the children in as her own if leaf needed. it was a huge jump but leaf took the offer. bramble was let in on the plan the closer leaf got to her due date. he thought it was a very impulsive decision and they fought a bit about making the decision without him but he was enthusiastic about being a father regardless.

the others in town had their suspicions but dont ask dont tell.

theres some other parts i havent fully ironed out yet like where hawkfrost and mothwint come in.

as for the actual lake territories, they coexist with the forest territories by just being in different states LOL windclan and thunderclan's territory was pretty consistent in terms of The Basics so theyre mostly in the same general area (tc is east coast forests, wc is southwest-midwest prairies. theres a lot of cowboys, farmers, and ranchers in "windclan" as a result). shadowclan i can see being in the southern swamps, especially florida or louisiana, and riverclan is kinda interspersed alont the mississippi and ohio rivers. maybe a few along the east coast, too, as the lake territory equivalent. skyclan is probably in the rockies or the redwood forests out west. maybeeee old skyclan is in the appalachias???? idk LOL since the cats are so far apaer now the conflicts are a little less wide scale and more personal if rhat makes any sense at all. of course this whole au is a huge work in progress so some of what i say here may change!

the clans are rural/small/poor towns in my head. tight knit communities that have to rely on each other. kittypets are urban/suburbanites as a contrast and keep the 'kittypets r fucjing spoiled' theme going . you inow the city slicker junk LOL

bloodclan is probably a gang in new york. at least scourge's bloodclan. the other iterations are probably in other huge metropolitan cities. idk what warriorclan is, and the tribe is a whole can of worms im trying to be very careful with so im not gonna talk about them as a whole quite yet other than imply they exist

[velidewrites]

Get In The Water

To bargain with an ancient death-lord, Captain Elain Archeron must acquire the rare, magical scales of a siren. Little does she know her target is no ordinary Mer—but the Prince of the Undersea himself.

Pairing: Elucien

Tags: Pirate!Elain x Merman!Lucien

Notes: For the beautiful talented stunning @areyoudreaminof for the @acotargiftexchange! I wasn't your original Secret Santa, but I tried to include some of your favourites here (this is your official warning for Jurian being a canon-typical little shit). Sending you so many smooches!

Thank you @ablogofsapphicpanic for being my beta<3

Read on AO3

“With all due respect, Captain Archeron, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Elain’s answering sigh was deep enough to rustle the waves ahead. She tossed them a final look before turning back to her quartermaster. “You know exactly where you can shove your respect, Jurian.”

He bounced off the mast with a grin. “Up my arse, no doubt,” he mused, a large, tanned hand stroking his much overgrown stubble. They’d been out at sea for weeks—for good reason, too, though Elain realised it was a sentiment less and less of her crew continued to share.

Still, she nodded with a smile of her own. “Same as last time.”

“Then I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it would have been wise to dock in Adriata two weeks ago.” He crossed his arms. “We’re not exactly welcome on Day Court waters.”

That was certainly one way to put it. Elain was half-expecting the High Lord’s army, ready at arms and lined up on the shores of Port Denera to arrest her and her crew. It would hardly be the first time.

Elain’s smile only grew wider. “There’s nothing quite like coming home.”

Jurian rolled his eyes, no doubt remembering their latest excursion himself, and leaned over the bulwark. “It’s been a while,” he remarked, his brown gaze drifting off to the azure sea. In the waning hours of the afternoon, the golden sunlight reflected off its surface, shimmering quietly as though unaware of the chaos to come. Where she came from—a little town bordering the Eastern Coast—the fishermen used to say the future was carried in with the waves. Elain was never much a practitioner of such belief—after all, if it were true, her ship would surely be on the verge of utter collapse right now, sinking underwater with the crashing force of the raging sea.

Instead, they continued to peacefully make their way northeast, the sun warming their skin as though in greeting. The irony wasn’t lost on her, but she supposed it was much easier to enjoy the bliss while it lasted. The silver blade strapped to her side flashed at the thought, undeniably in protest—she’d had it dipped in the Cauldron a few decades ago (before her sister, the High Lady herself, had somehow lost the whole damn thing), and since then, the sword had seemed to develop a mind of its own. Elain didn’t mind. It was bloody useful in battle, and she was smarter than to argue with a deadly, magical artifact. Even if it was a real fucking smartass.

The sword flashed again—and a lot brighter this time, too bright to mistake it with a random glimpse of the sunlight.

“Sorry,” Elain muttered.

Jurian—she’d nearly forgotted he was still here—glanced down at her belt. “You need to stop talking to the damn thing.”

She could have sworn she felt something sharp twitch against her hip.

“Would you like to talk to it instead?” she asked sweetly.

Jurian’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“I thought so.”

“Seriously, Elain,” he sighed, apparently foregoing her usual title. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you to get those scales. Hell, I will go to the ends of the earth, and you know I won’t so much as hesitate.”

Elain did know. The stakes were too high—too personal, especially for her second-in-command.

“But the crew needs a break,” Jurian continued. “Adriata was supposed to be our goldmine, and we found nothing—nothing, Elain, not even one of those gods-damned—”

“I know what happened in Adriata, Jurian,” Elain cut in. “I was there.”

“I only mean—”

“I know what you mean. And I agree, even if I do not show it sometimes. Jurian, I…” She closed her eyes, letting the salty mist pearl on her skin, her lashes. “I miss her too. Every day.”

For a moment, there was only silence—silence and the quiet whoosh of the deep blue waves.

“I know you do,” Jurian whispered beside her.

“She’s out there, somewhere—somewhere on the Continent. With that monster to do with her as he likes.” She could practically hear Jurian grit his teeth beside her. “I won’t give up, and we’ve been out here together long enough for me to know you won’t give up, either.”

“The Death God is persistent,” Jurian seethed. “He demands too high a price.”

Indeed he did. Koschei, a being so ancient even the fishermen in her small Day Court village had no legends singing of his name, had been magically bound to his lair on the Continent millennia ago—and, apparently, had been trying to find a way out of his chains ever since. The only thing in the world able to release him, though, was—of course—the Cauldron, the creator of the world itself.

And, up until sixty years ago, Elain would see it in her sister’s dining room every Solstice. It was ridiculous, really, the power the Night Court used to have in its grasp. That wasn’t to say it had not been deserved—the Cauldron had been won in a war full of blood and sacrifice, one her sister and his mate had nearly lost their life in, but…well. Surely they could have found a more secure place to display it than their townhouse in Velaris. A place where it could not have gotten stolen by only the Mother knew whom, or better yet—a place where no one, not even Feyre and Rhysand, could ever find it again.

It was too late for such semantics. Despite an entire Valkyrie region searching the skies for a sign of it, the Cauldron was simply…gone.

Nesta believed it to have been an inside job. After all, there were only a handful of people outside of Velaris aware of the city’s existence at all, let alone the High Lord and Lady’s private residence. But the Head Valkyrie had questioned them all—and found nothing at all.

For the first twenty years, Elain searched for it, too—anything to get out of her village, really, and the ghosts of a life she longed to leave behind. An engagement to a local lord’s son might have been the dream of many females back home, but it was, and never would be, Elain’s

The missing Cauldron had given her the opportunity she’d been searching for, and Elain did not look back when Feyre asked for her help. In her travels, though…she discovered a beauty to the seas, to the vast world they opened up for her taking—and so, after too many hopeless clues and tearful conversations with her sister, Elain had let the waves consume her entirely.

She did not think she would ever have to worry about the Cauldron again. She’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that it had lost itself to the world just as she wished it would. But then Elain had met Vassa, and then Vassa had been taken by Koschei, and, well…

Her fate belonged to the Cauldron once again.

This time, though, it was hardly a chore, or a favour she was doing her little sister. It was a matter of life or death, of the family she’d found sailing the seas of Prythian. Vassa was a sister, too, a sister she loved dearly enough that when Koschei’s demands began to invade her visions, Elain did not hesitate.

She and Jurian had devised a plan—it wasn’t exactly foolproof, so to say, but she hoped it would be enough. It had to be.

“Do you know how much just one of the Mer scales runs for on the black market, Jurian?” Elain asked, more to prove a point than to get an actual answer. He knew—they’d been chasing them for the past two years. Still, she said, “Ten thousand gold marks. You could buy a manor in Spring for that kind of money.”

“I have allergies,” Jurian murmured.

“I know I didn’t just hear that.”

Jurian sighed. “It just seems…I don’t know, Elain. The Mer people are folktale. If your so-called Undersea were to exist, we would have found it in Adriata.”

“The High Lord’s libraries clearly point to the seas of Day,” Elain pressed.

Jurian snorted. “Are you sure you read that right? We didn’t exactly have a lot of time in that library, you know.”

She cut him a look sharper than the sword at her side. “I’m sure. I got the information we needed with a few minutes to spare.”

“I think your posters are still hanging at the entrance.”

Elain wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the way my hair looks in those ones.” When it came to painting, the Day Court forces were no Feyre.

“They put quite the bounty on your head, you know,” Jurian added. “If that isn’t flattering, then I don’t know what is.”

Elain grinned. “Well, I stole some really valuable books.”

“I’ll bet.” He looked out to the sea again, that rugged face turning more solemn as he studied the horizon—and the shore stretching far ahead. “How do you know the scales will be enough to get Vassa back?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. But, if we can find the Mer here and get the scales we need…perhaps we can bargain with Koschei to take them instead. Their magic is forgotten, just as he is. He might find them to be enough.”

“That’s a big if, Elain.”

She shrugged. “At the very least, we might be able to use them to trace the Cauldron. I’ve sent a letter to Velaris—Amren volunteered her assistance.”

Jurian shuddered.

“Don’t be a baby,” Elain rolled her eyes. “She’s useful. Ancient.”

“Precisely.”

“I just…” He shook his head, his brown curls catching the sunlight. “Things are weird enough as they are. You Fae are hardly accepting of pirates, let alone humans.”

Elain tucked a loose strand of hair behind an arched ear. “I’m a pirate,” she declared, letting some of the pride she’d buried deep in her chest creep into her tone. “I am happy to share at least half of the burden with you.”

Jurian’s warm hand covered her own. “You’re a good friend, Elain,” he said. “You could have left—could have sailed off after that whole fiasco with Koschei.” He gave her a light squeeze. “But you chose to stay.”

She could not meet his stare—not when the salt in her eyes had begun to burn too much, blurring her own gaze as she turned to face the shallowing water. “I’ve run away before,” she told him quietly. “No more.”

“No more,” Jurian agreed. He had a past of his own—and, when the time was right…he would tell her. And she would embrace it without question.

“I’ll tell you what,” Elain started, her throat suddenly tight. “It’s a big day we’ve got tomorrow. Tell the crew we’ll be dining at the local tavern tonight?”

Slowly, Jurian turned to her—and smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

***

The Pearl was a small ship—small enough not to raise suspicions when they’d docked in Port Denera. The flag—a Mer tail with a pearl resting between its fins—had been carefully folded away prior to their arrival, the sigil of Elain’s crew all but too recognisable in those parts of Prythian.

It wasn’t that Elain had no moral compass whatsoever, but, over the years, she had learned that sometimes, taking her life into her own hands had a tendency to pay off a whole lot more than simply letting it run its course. Had she lived by a different set of rules, she would have long been married to the new Lord Nolan, never having left her hometown and spending her days at the beach, looking out to the sea and wishing for a life never to be.

It could have been a good life, perhaps—but it would never be the life she wanted, the life she craved. Besides, it wasn’t like Elain had ever been given a good example to follow. Feyre, after all, had escaped her own arranged marriage and ran right to the deepest, darkest corners of Night, Nesta following shortly after. It was only fair that Elain followed the family tradition.

Father had been devastated—Elain’s engagement, after all, had been his final, desperate attempt at seeing his daughters well off before his passing. After Feyre and Nesta’s disobedience, as he’d called it, Father had assumed his daughters had simply rebelled because they wished to remain home. Perhaps that was why, after having tried marrying Feyre off to Spring and Nesta to Hybern, he’d settled for seeing Elain with a small, local nobleman.

Elain did not care for riches—well, she hadn’t cared then. Now, having seen all that the world had to offer, she supposed she did enjoy having a few pearls and gold around her neck at times. But it hadn’t been the match itself that bothered her—she was sure Greysen Nolan was perfectly nice and well-mannered—but the fact that Father hadn’t even asked if he was who Elain wanted, if he’d even cared if she could ever love Greysen at all.

As cliché as it sounded, love was exactly what Elain craved so viciously. And now, decades later, she had finally found that love—here, out at sea, with the waves embracing her wholly and eternally. This—the Pearl—was her home.

She sure hoped home wouldn’t mind seeing her stumble back aboard in a few hours, when she was well and thoroughly drunk out of her mind.

Aside from pearls and jewellery, Elain had developed a taste for ale, and it just so happened that the Port Denera tavern was famous for the golden drink. It tasted like liquid gold in her cup, leaving a tinge on her tongue that sent her senses spiralling and flushed her cheeks with bright-pink heat.

The crew seemed to be enjoying themselves, too, and it was only for that reason that she’d allowed her instincts to abandon ship for a moment or two. Well, perhaps three. She hadn’t seen Jurian this happy and relaxed since Vassa had been taken—a sign of how truly tired he must have been these past few weeks, of how badly he needed an evening to forget.

The thought sobered her up just a little, and Elain remembered the true reason she’d allowed this unusual night out in a town where the entire army was on the lookout for Captain Archeron. She did feel slightly guilty for misleading Jurian into thinking it was simply out of the goodness of her own heart—into omitting the one, small ulterior motive that had lately seemed to be driving nearly every decision of hers.

Information.

While the fishermen in the East of the Day Court had no knowledge of the Mer, the folk of Port Denera no doubt sang of the old creatures lurking beneath the sea. She’d already picked up on a few shanties on the way to the tavern, humming the words quietly to herself as she searched the lyrics for anything valuable. The Mer’s magic appeared to be as sharp as their teeth, capable of stirring the waves and calling upon storms. The strongest of them could lure the innocent, hungry wanderers into their traps with a lulling voice and mesmerising eyes, ones that reflected the soul’s deepest desires just as the surface of the sea reflected the sun above. Once captured, they’d sink those teeth into the flesh of their prey, and drag them under—never to be seen again.

Elain hummed the tune again cheerfully, excitement bubbling up in her chest—well, she supposed the bubbles might have had to do with some of the barrels of alcohol she’d consumed. Still, this was promising. All she needed was a name—a lagoon, or a hidden grotto, perhaps, where she could locate a lair. Her Cauldron-blessed sword would do the rest of the job.

Somewhere far beyond her peripheral vision, she heard the silver hum happily, already summoned by the rather bloodthirsty thought.

It was not that Elain wanted to murder the Mer in cold blood. She did not enjoy killing (she could have sworn her blade huffed at the sentiment), but if there was no other way to acquire the scales, she would do it. She loved Vassa enough to do whatever it took—the exiled, Firebird queen would do the exact same for her.

For what had to have been the hundredth time, Elain looked around the tavern, her somewhat blurry gaze scanning the bustling area. It was a lot more crowded than she’d expected—which proved a good thing all the same. It was a lot harder to get spotted in a sea of creatures of all shapes and sizes, and it sure helped that they all seemed piss-drunk, too.

The local shanty found its way onto her lips once more, and she sang it absently, her attention entirely focused on some old wraith somehow downing two bottles of wine at once. Her sharp nails scraped against the glass as she drank, and Elain watched, completely entranced at what she’d never thought could be accomplished before.

In the morning sun so bright, the sailors set to sea,

Their hearts as bold as brass, their spirits ever-free.

But careful, sailor, please, beware the waves that dance and play,

Beneath this sunny surface, a wicked mermaid lay.

“Sounds terrifying.”

Elain jumped.

The ale in her hand fell to the ground with a loud clunk, the sound immediately drowned out by a rumbling laughter of the crows. The golden liquid spilled over her, sticking to the skin of her neck, her collarbones, the curves of her exposed breasts—until finally sinking into the white fabric of her corset. Elain swore under her breath, cursing her choice of garment for tonight, before finally looking up.

“Shit,” she swore again, for the lack of a better word—or, perhaps, because there was no word to describe the male standing before her.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

A pair of shining eyes of molten gold looked her up and down, an auburn eyebrow quirking up in amusement. “Now, don’t tell me you’re disappointed,” he drawled, his voice rich and deep and smoother than the liquid she’d swallowed down her throat. “I spent a lot of time on my hair earlier tonight.”

Elain blinked—then blinked again. “Are you…hitting on me?”

His mouth—full and plush and gods she needed to get it together—twitched. “And here I was, thinking I was all too obvious,” he quipped.

She peeled her gaze off the soft waves of his hair, glistening under the tavern’s candlelight. “Perhaps you’re just not very good at it,” she remarked, thanking the Mother for keeping her tongue sharp when her mind bordered on insanity.

The stranger smiled openly now. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Elain angled her head an inch. “Why?”

Did she really just ask him that?

Perhaps it was time to order some water.

The male seemed entirely unbothered. “It’s not often you meet a beautiful female singing old folktales in the middle of a tavern,” he said, offering a one-shouldered shrug. “I find myself somewhat…intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” Elain repeated blankly.

His smile grew wider. “Quite,” he agreed. “Those are old, you know.”

Elain straightened—straightened and blinked again, her thoughts somehow collecting into one, singular stream as she remembered what, exactly, she had come to this tavern for. “Are they?” she asked, “I’ve just picked up on them an hour ago.”

“An hour?”

She offered a smile of her own. “I have an excellent memory.”

Those golden eyes glistened. “Is that so?” the male asked, his gaze sweeping down her body as though he had all the time in the world. “If I tell you my name, will you sing it for me, too?”

Focus, Elain. He’d mentioned the Mer shanties, did he not? “I doubt anyone will hear it,” she remarked. “I never see Port Denera this busy.”

“You’ve been here before?”

Elain waved a dismissive hand. “Once or twice,”

The male hummed. “Then you know today is an important day,” he said, that strange shade of amusement playing over his features once more. “The High Lord is mourning the loss of his dear wife and son, and we are drinking in a show of, ah…solidarity,” he finished, a passing faun raising his glass at them, as though emphasising his agreement.

Elain waited for him to get out of earshot. “Wife and son?” she questioned, searching the corners of her mind that stored everything she knew about her Court.. “Didn’t that happen three hundred years ago?”

Those eyes narrowed at her slightly, and the stranger tilted his head. “Do you think he should have moved on instead?” he asked, the question so quiet it may as well have been a breath—and yet, she’d heard it perfectly over the bustling crowd.

Elain considered. “I think it must have been a beautiful kind of love, if he’s mourning it so many centuries later.”

His auburn brow arched in surprise. “What did you say your name was, lady…?”

Elain snorted. “Oh, I’m no lady.” She set her glass on a nearby table. “Haven’t been for a while.”

“You certainly look like one,” he remarked, that smile once again creeping back onto his ridiculously handsome features.

She couldn’t resist. “Do I, now?”

He chuckled, the sound low and honeyed. “Oh, absolutely.”

“And are you in the habit of flirting with all the ladies you pick up in a tavern?” Elain teased.

“No, no. I usually let them come to me.” He winked. “I can be a good singer too, you know.”

Elain smiled.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she laughed. “So, you know those shanties, too?”

His eyes glittered.

There it was.

“Some of them,” he agreed.

“Do they hold any truth?” she pressed. Come on, come on, come on…

“Sometimes,” he nodded. “Does it matter?”

You have no idea, Elain thought. “It does. I’m looking for…” she hesitated. “Information.”

“Oh?”

“The books in Day’s library state I might find it here,” she added carefully.

Something like realisation crept onto his features. “You wish to know about the Merpeople,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elain’s gaze flickered to the movement. “How did you get access to those books?” he asked.

“It’s not important,” she told him, eyeing the golden-brown muscles flexing under the candlelight.

“I disagree,” the male said, “those books are extremely well-guarded.” Was that admiration she’d heard in his tone?

“What was your name, again?” Elain asked him.

The male smiled. “Would you like to come outside with me?”

As if. “I’m not exactly in a hook-up mood right now, sorry,” she told him, though uncertain if the words rang entirely true.

He smiled—as though he knew. “What about information?” She felt her brows flick up. “I thought so. Now, shall we? It’s more quiet out back,” he added, gesturing to the tavern’s back door.

“I like it loud,” Elain countered. The more people drowning their conversation, the better.

“So do I,” he winked. “Another time, baby, I promise.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said, then dared a quick glance around the space again. Come to think of it, the couple at the table near where the two of them stood were awfully close—close enough that Elain decided not to risk it. She nodded to the stranger. “Let’s go.”

“Just so that we’re clear,” he started as they made their way through the crowd, “once you get those scales, we’re splitting the profits.”

“We can discuss the money later,” Elain countered. Like hell she was going to share anything with him.

“If that is what you wish,” he nodded, and opened the door.

The fresh air hit her almost unexpectedly, but it was a welcome change from the stuffy tavern in the back. She breathed in the salt carried in by the sea, her thoughts clearing up enough that she could finally focus on the matter at hand without unnecessary…distractions.

The distraction flashed her a smile, the beach behind him illuminated by the dying sunlight. “So, Mer scales, hmm? What do you need those for?”

“That,” Elain said firmly, “is none of your business.”

He chuckled again, the sound different this time—less than that deep, raspy sound she’d heard before, but more…fluid, like tea stirring in a cup. Warm. Inviting. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said quietly—and reached out his hand.

“Come with me,” the stranger told her.

Elain frowned. “I’m already here,” she pointed out. “You wanted to leave the tavern,” she reminded him.

He hummed—and she could have sworn it was like a melody pouring from his chest. “Yes,” he told her, stepping back until his feet—bare, she now noticed—reached the sand. “Let’s go a little further, alright?”

Elain stepped forward. “I…don’t understand,” she said. Still, she moved in closer.

He offered her a gentle smile. “Just one more step for me, gorgeous, please,” he tried again, his hand still outstretched.

“Okay.” She reached the sand now, too—but he had somehow moved back a few steps again, inches away from the waves’ embrace.

“Good girl,” he purred, the water now kissing his skin. Elain stepped in closer. “You’re very beautiful, you know,” he told her, angling his head slightly. She watched as his long hair spilled down his back in waves softer than the very sea—and met his gaze again, only to find it dark. “Almost beautiful enough to hide that rotten soul of yours.”

That gold had tarnished—enough to hide that bright, enticing gleam.

“Yes,” Elain agreed.

“Mmm, I thought so,” he mused. “I just need you to take a few more steps, alright? We’re almost at the shore,” he added, his voice like a lullaby, reassuring.

“Yes, I’ll follow you,” she agreed again.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praised. “I might even consider making your death painless,” he whispered, watching her closely as she, too, neared the edge of the water. “Though that wasn’t the kind of death you had planned for my kind, was it?” he asked, a certain sharpness to his tone that made her open her mouth. “Oh, no need to answer that, baby,” he interrupted, “but I do appreciate your eagerness.”

Elain nodded. “Whatever you wish.”

He smiled, flashing his teeth. A perfect, pearly set of sharp blades—sharp enough to tear her flesh apart. “That’s a good girl,” he hummed, and she could have sworn she heard her soul sing in answer. “Now, step into the sea.”

Elain stopped inches from the seafoam. “Will you give me your hand?” she asked him shyly.

His features softened—though the sharp, predatory smile remained. “Of course, my rotten, terrible lady,” he purred. “Come with me.”

Elain slid her hand in his—and waited.

His skin, surprisingly, was warm—sun-kissed, as if he hadn’t spent an entire lifetime in the dark depths of the Undersea. He felt smooth, too, with some coarseness here and there that let her know his palm was no stranger to holding a weapon—a trident, perhaps, if the songs of the fishermen had, indeed, held any truth to them. 

The leaves behind her rustled—and Elain finally, finally released a breath.

“No,” she told him, her voice still feigning that blissful softness. “No, I don’t think I will.”

The merman blinked. “What?”

Elain gave him a smile that was purely Fae—one that let him know she was a monster, too. “It was a nice try, really,” she said, her free hand reaching back to her belt. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

A pair of iron cuffs appeared in her grip—and, in a flash of a second, found its way onto the merman’s wrists.

His skin sizzled, and he hissed sharply, those dark eyes wide and not leaving hers for one second—but Elain held on, murmuring the spell she’d memorised under her breath.

She could never come to the land of the Mer unprepared.

“Duck!” Jurian yelled behind her.

She only had a fraction of a moment to see the bow in his hands—to stop him before he released the arrow.

Elain didn’t stop him, though.

She ducked.

***

“I can’t believe you caught one of them,” Jurian said in disbelief. “Good work, really, Elain, but did you have to bring him onto the ship?”

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement behind the bars. The merman rose to his full height—he seemed taller in the constrained space of the brig, somehow—and met her gaze directly.

“Your name,” he said as though in a daze. “Elain.”

Elain cut her friend a look. “Thank you, Jurian.”

Jurian bounced off the wall. “Sorry,” he shrugged, his tone suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all.

“It didn’t work,” their prisoner said, more to himself now than his jailors.

“What didn’t work?” Jurian asked him sharply.

The merman looked at him—and Elain knew it took everything in her quartermaster not to flinch under his scrutiny. “My spell,” he explained slowly, then turned toward her again. “It didn’t work on you,” he repeated.

“Perhaps you’re not as good as you thought,” Jurian said.

He scoffed, as though the remark pulled him out of whatever fog had clouded his thoughts. “My name is Lucien Spell Cleaver,” he declared, his voice louder now, stronger. “Firstborn son of Helion Spell Cleaver, Prince of the Undersea—and heir to the High Lord of the Day Court.”

Beside her, Jurian went entirely still. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she was moving at all, either.

She may have been a pirate, but kidnapping a High Lord’s son—nay, his heir—was an act of treason, and Elain really wished to see one hundred before eventually dying a horrible, undoubtedly painful death. Quite common in her profession, really. 

“Impossible,” she whispered. “Helion’s son is dead—as is his wife.”

“Clearly not,” Jurian murmured.

The male—Lucien—narrowed his gaze at the two of them. “We have been in hiding for the moment I was born. There was no denying what I was, not until I learned how to glamour myself, and my mother—she took me back to her people to protect me,” he explained.

“Does the High Lord know?” Elain breathed. He was lying. He had to have been.

Still, it was nice to at least know his name. Fake or not, it pleased her, for some reason. Lucien.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “The ‘Summer Estate’ he leaves for six months every year is Undersea.”

The answer was detailed enough that Elain’s heart quickened. “You really are Lucien Spell Cleaver?” she asked.

“And you,” Lucien nodded, “are Elain Archeron. Pirate…and Mer killer, apparently.”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” Elain protested.

“Yet,” he finished for her. “You were going to kill me,” he said, those golden eyes—back to normal now that he was at their mercy—settling on her as he added, “You still are.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she scrambled. Some pirate she was—some of her rivals back East would have made her walk the plank for her hesitation.

Still, Elain could not bring herself to remember why…

“Why do you want my scales?” Lucien asked, interrupting her trail of thought—completing it, really.

“I told you, that is none of your business,” she told him, though her voice lacked her previous conviction this time.

“It is, if you still want them,” he countered.

“Why on earth would you give us your scales?” Jurian demanded.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Lucien shrugged, then lifted his iron-bound hands into view. “As you can see, I am not in my Mer form, and will not be until you release me back into the sea,” he argued. “So, why don’t you just let me go, I give you my scales, and everyone wins?”

“Because you’re very obviously lying,” Elain cut in. “And you and your little Undersea army are going to sink my ship the moment it sails.”

The corner of his lip ticked upwards. “Is the word of a Prince not credible enough for you, Elain Archeron?”

“Not particularly,” she replied calmly. Princes, Lords—she’d heard their promises before, and ran to the sea to escape them.

“You are unlike any Mer hunter I’ve ever met before,” Lucien hummed, as though in thought.

Elain frowned. “There are hunters?”

“Of course,” he told her. “My father has disposed of as many of them as he could, but some still emerge every few years, hoping to see if the songs are true.” His expressions sombered. “Our scales are very valuable.”

“So we’ve heard,” Jurian said.

Lucien’s gaze flickered up. “It is money, then,” he said matter-of-factly, though something like anger lingered in the back of his throat.. “You wish to kill my people for a few gold marks?”

Elain swallowed.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, princeling,” Jurian seethed.

Elain placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Take a breath, Jurian,” she told him quietly. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment?”

Jurian looked at her—then back at Lucien again. “Let me know if you need help killing him,” he said darkly. Then, “For the record, I don’t care what you are,” he told Lucien. “You’re just annoying the shit out of me.”

And with that, he was gone, the wooden stairs carrying the echo of his steps. Only when they faded did Lucien finally say, “I like him.”

“He shot you,” Elain reminded him.

Lucien shrugged. “It wasn’t an ash arrow, now, was it? We live to forgive. Besides, I’m healed now.” Indeed, the wound in his shoulder had now closed almost entirely. “Well, almost,” he said, pointedly raising his wrists back into the light.

Elain had hoped the iron would work—it was an old superstition the humans thought could harm the Fae, but it had to have stemmed from somewhere. With Day’s libraries proclaiming the Merpeople as millenia older than the Fae, Elain figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Sorry about the iron bars,” she said, nodding to Lucien’s cell. “Precautions.”

“I would have expected nothing less,” Lucien said—then leaned back, letting the back of his head rest against the wood. “So.”

Elain released a breath.

“Alright,” she braced herself. He was her future High Lord, apparently—if she lied, she was already dead. “What do you know of Koschei?”

“Who?”

“Nothing, then,” Elain sighed. “He is a death-lord—a god-like being trapped somewhere deep in the Continent. His magic is even more ancient than yours.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “And you seek to…take his magic for yourself?”

“I want nothing to do with his magic,” Elain told him hotly, earning an arched eyebrow in response. “It is revolting. But, it also currently binds my friend’s soul to Koschei himself, and he will not give her up unless we offer him something in exchange.”

“Mer scales?”

“He wants the Cauldron,” she explained. “We are hoping the scales will do for now.” She fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Was the plan truly that hopeless? Was Vassa going to be trapped…forever?

In her misery, she hardly noticed Lucien had gone strangely quiet.

“Our scales do not even compare to the sheer power of the Cauldron,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.

Elain laughed bitterly. “If this is your way of talking me out of it, you should know I’m pretty desperate,” she told him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get my friend back.”

At that, Lucien said nothing. He only stared at her in thought, his eyes shimmering despite the darkness she and Jurian had shoved him into.

Then, “I see.” He stepped forward then—and halted an inch from the iron bars. “I was wrong about you.”

That, Elain did not expect.

“I told you, your spells do not work on me.”

“I’m well aware,” Lucien hummed. “I speak the truth. What is your friend’s name?”

Her throat threatening to close up, Elain managed, “Vassa.” She shook her head. “She’s like a sister to me. She’s Jurian’s…”

Understanding dawned on his features.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Lucien said.

“Yes,” Elain whispered. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Lucien studied her closely. “And do you have a…?”

Elain almost laughed—though she supposed it was better than breaking down in front of the man she’d imprisoned aboard her own ship. “Don’t tell me you’re back to your flirting strategy now,” she told him.

Lucien smiled—a true smile this time, though Elain wasn’t sure how she knew. “Was I truly that obvious?”

“I knew what you were,” she gestured over him as if it was enough of an explanation. “No one else has eyes like that.” Like the morning sun itself.

“Now who’s the shameless flirt, Elain?”

Elain chuckled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She met his gaze again. “The song summoned you, did it not?” she asked. “You weren’t at the tavern when I arrived.”

Lucien nodded. “I heard it from beneath the waves.”

“I’m not that good a singer.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, his smile fading with the words. She found herself wanting to see it again. “It was for another reason that I heard you. I recognise that now.”

“Recognise what?”

Lucien hesitated. “I need to…” He shook his head. “I—I can’t be sure, it doesn’t…” He locked his eyes with her own again, and she watched him patiently as he searched her gaze. “Elain,” Lucien tried again, and she could have sworn his voice trembled with the word. He loosed a breath. “Come with me.”

Elain looked at his outstretched hand—careful not to let the bars graze his skin. “I told you—”

“I’m not using my magic,” Lucien interrupted. “Just…come with me. Undersea.”

“Like hell I will,” she crossed her arms. “I don’t trust you.”

Lucien just stared at her—started as if some internal battle was playing out deep inside him, one she could almost feel in her own chest.

Then, his hand pulled back, and he laid his palm flat over his chest. His heart, Elain realised, her gaze dipping toward it.

She heard it, then—a quiet, yet powerful sound, like a wave crashing over the shore. The steady beating of his heart.

It couldn’t have been—and yet…

And yet, somehow, Elain heard it. Continued to hear it even now, even stronger as Lucien proclaimed, “With my life,” he began, “I promise to do you no harm.” There was an urgency in his gaze as he pleaded, “Just get in the water with me, and I will be yours.”

Elain paused. “Your scales, you mean,” she corrected, suddenly finding herself entirely out of breath.

“Yes,” Lucien agreed. “That.”

Elain studied the bars keeping him away—then the iron key strapped beside her Cauldron-blessed sword. She swore on the Mother herself she could hear it whisper: Do it.

Perhaps she was simply losing her mind.

“Are you going to make me regret this, Lucien?” she asked him.

He simply stared back. “Are you?”

She supposed the question was reasonable enough. “Don’t tell Jurian I’m doing this,” she warned Lucien. “He’s going to kill me.”

Two minutes later, Lucien was free.

It was a blessing that they’d somehow missed Jurian, really—that she’d guided Lucien through the narrow space upstairs until they arrived at the starboard hand in hand, the sea soft and patient. Waiting.

What the hell was she doing? The only thing Elain knew for certain right now was that she was almost certainly going insane, and that Lucien’s hand in hers was warm and steadying in the buoying ship—and that those steps she was hearing somewhere behind them were, without a shadow of a doubt, Jurian’s.

Whatever Lucien was trying to prove, he had to do it now.

“Do we…jump?” she asked him.

“ELAIN!” Jurian yelled.

“I guess so,” Elain answered for him—and, together, they jumped.

The water, surprisingly, was warm despite the middle of the night. Helion liked to keep his Court warm at all times, but she supposed the sea, at least, would have carried some chill to it. It was then that she realised she’d never swam in those waters before—that she’d spent her lifetime admiring their every corner, but had never actually felt their beauty herself.

Everything happened so quickly.

The moonlight shimmered atop the sea, then sank deep beneath its surface, illuminating the space between them. Illuminating Lucien as his glamour faded and revealed the Prince of the Undersea in his true, unmasked form.

Elain could have drowned there and then.

The scales dotting his body glimmered under the light in a symphony of golds, bronzes and maroons, glowing even underwater as they formed a long, finned tail that floated gently with the current. He was sunlight come to life, the forest on a warm, autumn morning, the golden thread coming to life as it wrapped itself around her ribs, and Elain knew—knew this was the true beauty the sea had meant to show her from the very first moment she’d set sail.

“You…” She struggled for a breath. “You’re so beautiful.”

Lucien smiled, a webbed hand reaching for her own. “So are you, he said, placing her palm over his bare chest—just as he did aboard her ship moments ago. This time, though—this time, Elain could hear as their two heartbeats blended into one, a melody that made her own soul sing as Lucien whispered, “I am yours.”

The thread around her ribs tightened, forever to remain.

“You…” Elain blinked. “Oh.” She covered their joined hands with another, as if to make sure. “Lucien.”

“I needed to make sure,” he breathed, pulling her in. “You are my mate.”

There was reverence in the way he’d spoken the words—like some sacred spell only Elain was privy to hear from his lips.

She wanted to try them too.

“You are mine.”

“Yes,” he assured her.

“And I am yours.”

“Yes,” Lucien whispered again.

“Your scale—”

He squeezed her hands tighter. “Everything I am belongs to you now, Elain,” he interrupted. “But you will not need them.”

Elain blinked once more. “I don’t understand, I—”

Lucien smiled. “We have the Cauldron,” he told her. “My father took it—from Velaris.”

Elain wasn’t sure she was breathing.

“No.”

“Its wards protect us—have been keeping us safe for decades,” Lucien explained. “I think it is time we take our safety into our own hands,” he added, his thumb brushing over her palm.

Did he mean—?

Elain shook her head. “I couldn’t—”

“Where you go, I go,” Lucien said. “I am yours, Elain, and you are mine. Together, we’ll get your family back. And,” he hesitated, “If—if you still wish to have me around then—”

Her mate.

“Kiss me,” Elain demanded.

Lucien stilled. “What—”

“Now, Lucien.”

And he did.

Her eyes fluttered shut as Lucien’s mouth clashed into her own, and the world around then exploded—he tasted of salt and the sun-warmed breeze. He tasted like the rest of her gods-damned life, though she supposed eternity could never be enough to satiate the hunger one kiss had instilled deep inside her. Lucien kissed her as if she was the world, as if she was the light illuminating the sea embracing them, his lips hot and soft and all-consuming.

They had a war to face—but, as long as they faced it together…

Elain pulled back, their hearts pounding as one. She smiled at the sound.

“Let’s do this.”

[shadowlali]

Lali🖤

That fic you did for the anon with Ranch Owner Ale x Pastors Daughter needs a pt2 P L E A S E, it was so juicy!!

Consider giving them a Ale Vargas Jr in the oven and then the parents have to find out 👀 [can you tell i enjoy the drama??]

Honestly even if you don't make a Pt2, I just wanted to say that every fic you put out is so top tier. Your style and creativity is one of my favorites here. Despite your school schedule which I'm sure is harcore since Organic Chemistry is no joke, you're always posting banger - book quality fics for us for *𝐅 𝐑 𝐄 𝐄*.

Thank you for your existence and efforts 🖤 You are so appreciated.

pastor's daughter - part 2

COD AU - Rancher!Alejandro Vargas x pastor's daughter!reader

[18+] wc: ~4.1 k masterlist part 1

warnings: NSFW, some proofreading, no use of Y/N nor too many details on reader’s appearance, angry dad/somewhat difficult family dynamics, talks about raising a child, allusions to a HEA, pet names (mami, nena, traviesa), fingering, unprotected sex a/n: my amazing, lovely mutual 💖! you sent this request in so long ago and i have finally finished it. thank you for your patience and sweet words. i hope you enjoy 🖤 to the anon who sent in another ale x reader pregnancy request, don't worry i am working on it! 🤍

No matter how long you stare at the white stick, the two little lines stay the same. You flip it over in your hand, thinking that maybe it's a joke, maybe a little message will appear that says “just kidding!” But it doesn’t, and the little pink lines stay the same. You throw it on the counter, landing it right on top of the three other tests you took which have the same conclusion: you’re pregnant. 

Your head spins from the idea, or more so the fact that you are indeed pregnant, carrying a child, and you’re possibly going to be a mother. Your hands grip the counter as the panic sets in, the room suddenly spinning. It’s not like you were careful, you just really didn’t think it would happen from just one time. 

You think about telling your mom, but you’re terrified at her reaction. You sure as hell won’t tell your dad, the town’s pastor. You have absolutely no idea what he’ll do especially if he finds out who the father of your baby is. The pastor’s daughter knocked up by the wealthy ranch owner is sure to cause a scandal. 

There is only one person who you have to tell, and it's Alejandro. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. He set up his contact information weeks ago when you two… unexpectedly made a baby in his home? You haven’t seen him since, too busy with church events to find the time to escape your parents’ grasp. 

“Honey?” your mom calls from outside the bathroom door, ”are you okay?” 

“Ye–yeah, I’m almost out.” 

You hear her footsteps continue to the living room and you decide to text Alejandro. 

You: Hi, are you busy? Can I see you? 

Sent at 9:28 A.M.

Alejandro Vargas: No, I’m not busy. Si hermosa, do you want me to pick you up? Where are you? [Yes, beautiful]

Sent at 9:29 A.M.

You: I’ll meet you at the café parking lot. In the back. 

Sent at 9:30 A.M.

Alejandro: I’ll be there soon. 

Sent at 9:30 A.M.

You quickly hide the pregnancy tests, placing one in your pocket before washing your hands. With your purse in hand, you quickly yell out I'm meeting a friend for bible study, to your mom before she asks anymore questions. The walk to the cafe only takes 10 minutes and by the time you get there, Alejandro’s truck is in the back lot. 

As you approach, he gets out of the driver’s side and walks to the passenger’s, opening the door for you. Looking around, you find the coast clear and rush to hug him. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm, his fresh cologne filling your senses.

“¿Qué pasa, nena?” [What’s wrong, my girl?] 

You sniffle, tears filling your waterline. “We need to talk, Ale. Somewhere private.” 

He nods, helping you into his truck then getting in through the driver’s side. The ride to his ranch is quiet, his thumb caressing the back of your hand. Alejandro turns to look at you periodically, but your forehead is kept pressed on the cool glass of the passenger window. 

“Are you alone?” you ask as his ranch comes into view. 

“There’s no one else here, nena. Don’t worry.” 

He helps you off the truck and leads the way into the house. You see the same couch where you were bent over a few weeks ago. It causes a flutter in your lower tummy, but you push it down, the topic of conversation is too important to be turned on right now. He sits on the opposite couch, patting the space next to him. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Your dad isn’t here with a rifle pointed at my head,” he laughs to lighten the mood, ”so I assume he hasn’t found out–” 

“I’m pregnant. I took four home tests and they all came out positive,” you interrupt him in a jumble of words, giving him the test. 

His eyes widen, glancing down at the pregnancy test before taking it in his hand. Alejandro focuses on the two little lines, taking a deep breath and placing it on the coffee table. 

“Okay–that’s okay, what are we–,” he stutters, dragging a hand over his beard, ”what do you need me to do? What do you need, do you want to tell your parents together? Do you want me to take you to a gynecologist appointment in the next town? Are we–are you keeping the baby? Just tell me what and I’ll do whatever you need.” 

Alejandro’s words come out fast, the expression on his face seemingly only a little scared. You shake your head, tears falling down your cheeks.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” you whisper, ”right now, just a hug. Please.” 

“Of course, hermosa. Come here,” he says while pulling you in closer. 

He strokes your back while your tears silently fall. While you sit there, wrapped in Alejandro’s arms, with his cologne in your nose, you wonder what it would be like to be a mom. 

Of course you feel like you aren’t ready… but what if you are? Maybe it would be wonderful to have a tiny human that you can love and cherish. You’ve always thought that this would happen much later in life, but the opportunity is here now. And Alejandro seems ready to support whatever decision you make. 

“What if–,” you start, ”what if we keep the baby?” 

He cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb. “Then we’ll raise a baby, together.” 

“Are you sure? You won’t leave me–”

“No,” he says firmly, ”it took two of us to make this baby. It’s going to take two of us to raise them.” 

The look in his eyes is serious. Absolutely no doubt, resolute in his beliefs. 

“Believe me, hermosa,” he whispers, ”you’re not alone in this. I’ll go right now and tell your parents that we’re expecting.” 

You place a light kiss on his mouth, sinking your fingers in his thick hair. He returns it, cradling the back of your skull and running his thumb on your cheek. 

“I think,” you say as you pull back, ”I should be the one to tell them. It’s going to be a shock to them and it’s best if I do it alone.” 

It takes a lot of convincing for Alejandro to take you back home. He’s visibly nervous and does not like the idea of you giving them the news alone. This is my responsibility too, hermosa. A real man would show up. 

But, you have no idea how they'll react with him there. So after much persuasion, Alejandro drops you off at home, reminding you to call him the moment the conversation finishes. 

After a few more okay, one more kiss, you hop down his truck, noticing your father’s car in the driveway. He’s definitely here, you think. Never in your life has walking up to the front porch seemed so scary. Your legs feel like lead, only becoming heavier with each step towards the front porch. You let the door close behind you softly, sealing out the rest of the world. 

His bible is placed on the entry table along with the notebook he uses to write the weekly sermons. With cold fingers, you drag them down the front covers of both, praying for a little strength. Adult actions, adult consequences, you remind yourself. Before the burst of confidence leaves, you walk into the living room.

“Hi,” you say in a tiny voice, making your presence known in what suddenly feels like a tiny room. 

Your dad looks up from one of his theology books, a warm smile on his face. He takes one look at your anxious form and immediately goes into protective dad mode. 

“What happened?” he demands. 

“How was it with your friend?” your mother asks, flipping through a fashion magazine, still oblivious to the situation. 

“I need to talk to the both of you.” 

Your mother finally looks up, startled at your serious tone. The look in your father’s eyes doesn’t waiver, most likely already suspecting something is wrong with his normally bubbly daughter. 

“I’m–I’m pregnant,” you stutter out. 

Your mom drops her teacup onto the couch, dousing a pretty throw pillow and the seat cushion in liquid. They stay frozen for a few seconds until your dad snaps his book, dragging a hand down his face. Your mom reacts too, shakily grabbing her teacup and placing it on the coffee table. 

“Who?” your father asks, his voice just above a growl. 

“Who what–” 

“Who is the father?” he demands more firmly. 

“Oh,” you whisper, finally understanding his question. “It’s um… Alejandro.”

“When–” he starts. 

“Does he know?” your mom speaks up, her voice just above a whisper. 

You turn to look at her and nod, grateful that she’s interrupting what you assume to be an onslaught of intrusive questions from your dad. “He’s the first person I told.” 

“You should’ve told us first–” 

“And what did he say?” your mom once again interrupts your dad. 

“He said he’ll support me no matter the decision I make–”

Your father makes a disgruntled sound, immediately standing up and walking towards the front door. 

“Where are you going?”

He ignores your question but you manage to block his path, assuming he’s walking to pick up his car keys. “Dad, please,” you whisper, grabbing his hand.

“Where–where were your morals? Did my words mean nothing to you? Did the education we provided you at the church mean nothing to you?” he barks out, pushing your hand away.   

“No, no, they–they did, dad! Of course they did–” 

“I thought I could trust him, but look at what he did to our daughter!” he continues, turning to your mother. 

“Mi amor,” she tries to reason, ”let’s calm down and talk about it. Alejandro is a good person, it sounds like he’s going to step up and take care of her. He should come here and talk to us–” 

“He will not step foot in this house nor will she,” he points an accusatory finger at you, ”ever speak to him again.” 

Tears blur your vision at his words. Not wanting to hear his voice anymore, you turn and walk quickly to your room, ignoring his calls to come back. Your hands shake while pressing on Alejandro’s name in your phone. It only rings once and he’s answering the call, his gruff voice immediately calming you. 

“¿Qué pasó, hermosa?” he coos. [What happened, beautiful?]

“I told them and it didn’t–I mean it’s–I know they were going to be shocked but this is too much–” you hiccup between quiet sobs. 

“Shhh, pack up your things. I’m down the road.” 

“Wha–what?” 

“I’m down the road,” he repeats, ”pack up your things and stay on the line until you walk out the door.” 

It takes a moment for you to grasp what he’s saying. You’ve lived in this house your entire life, only leaving when going on vacation or visiting family, always wanting, but never actually moving out. A sudden pain strikes your chest because with this baby, if you pack up your stuff and leave, you’ll most likely never return. 

You hear Alejandro through the phone, asking if you heard him and if everything is okay. Your parents voices outside the door only become louder, and in that moment you make the decision. The most important items, such as personal documents and a few changes of clothes, are dumped in a small suitcase.

I’m outside, nena, Alejandro says through the receiver. You take one last look at the books on the shelf, the desk your dad built cluttered with little trinkets, the mountain of pillows on the bed and turn, opening the door to walk to the entryway. 

Your dad beats you to it, having already noticed Alejandro’s truck in the driveway. He opens the front door with enough force that it bounces against the wall, making a loud noise. Alejandro is already walking towards the front door, looking determined as he faces your father. 

“I should kill you for what you did to her! She is not leaving this house.” 

“We can go inside and talk about this,” Alejandro tries to reason,” I respect and care a lot for your daughter and I will do everything possible to make her happy–” 

“She is not going anywhere.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for her,” Alejandro calmly states, stretching his hand out for you to walk to him. 

“Go,” your mother whispers behind you, pushing you towards Alejandro. 

You walk around them both, ignoring your father completely. He tries to grab your arm but Alejandro blocks his hand, waiting until you’re in the car to keep walking. Alejandro places the suitcase in the back seat as your mother holds onto your father’s arm, preventing him from moving off the front porch. 

The drive to Alejandro’s ranch is silent, your body too exhausted to talk or even cry. Alejandro tries to ask how the conversation went down and what happened, but you shake your head, words unable to form in your mouth. Once at the ranch, he leads you inside and up to his room, grabbing a washcloth to wipe the mess of tears from earlier. 

“Get in bed, yeah? I’ll bring your suitcase in.”

By the time you strip out of your clothes, Alejandro has brought in your things and has set out a pair of pajamas. In the back of your mind, you think about how efficiently Alejandro moves. He’s a man of action, doing things to make you the most comfortable after such a stressful situation. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back while you curl up next to him, eventually falling into a dreamless sleep. 

- - - 

“¿No tienes frío?” Alejandro asks, placing a blanket over you without waiting for a response. [You’re not cold?]

You lift the blanket to make room for him and scoot closer to his warm body. The sun is slowly setting, the sky a flurry of different purples. The two of you lay on his patio daybed, listening to the chirp of crickets and the light rustle of wind. 

Alejandro kisses the side of your head, leaving his lips there as he breathes in. “He’ll come around, hermosa. He’s just surprised.”

You nod, heart heavy. “Yeah, I hope so.” 

“Either way, I won’t let him come speak to you unless it’s for an apology.” 

You snuggle deeper into Alejandro’s side, the seed of doubt planted by your father only further blooming. “Do you–do you think this is a good idea? Are we ready to be parents?” 

He stays quiet, breathing in your skin. “I don’t think anyone is really prepared to be parents,” Alejandro responds, placing a hand on your tummy. “But, we’re both prepared to give this child all the love and support they need. And even more than that.” 

You tilt your head back, locking eyes with Alejandro. He was so quick to offer everything to you: support, affection, a place to live, a place to raise your child. It’s in his nature, you very quickly realize, to give. He’s been single for so long, probably used to freedom and his own space. But there’s no annoyance in his gaze or actions, just a man ready to take responsibility and provide for the mother of his unborn child. 

Alejandro’s eyes flit down to your lips and up, over the soft planes of your face. Your lips tingle from how he kissed you before, intense and heavy, the soft scratch of his beard forever imprinted in your skin’s memory. You slide a hand on his arm, bringing it up to his shoulder and down the hard expanse of his chest, pressing your lips lightly to his. 

His hand cups your face before he moves his fingers to gently wrap around your neck. He licks at you, running the tip of his tongue over your bottom lip, teasing, before pushing it into the warmth of your mouth.

You circle his wrist with both hands, feeling him tighten his hold only slightly, keeping you still. He trails his lips over your cheeks and eyelids, giving you only a moment to catch your breath before he’s nipping the sensitive skin on your neck. A whimper claws its way out of your throat, cunt pulsing and feeling empty, empty, empty. 

“Mi chula,” he murmurs on your skin, letting go of your neck to drag a hand over your achy breasts, “lay back.” [My beautiful]

He pushes off the blanket, maneuvering your body to lay sideways on the daybed while he climbs over you. Alejandro drags your shirt up, dragging his lips over your belly before placing a soft kiss. Goosebumps rise from the light wind, but Alejandro is there to warm you up, his teeth finding the tight peaks of your nipples. 

“Ale,” you moan, threading your fingers through the mass of inky, black curls on his head. 

He squeezes the tender swells of your breasts with calloused fingers, pulling more whimpers from you. Alejandro moves up, attacking your mouth again. His fingers trail down, rubbing your tummy before snaking through your bottoms and easily pushing aside your thin panties. His fingers lightly skim over your swollen clit and continue down to your entrance. You nip at his mouth the moment he sinks a finger inside of you. 

“Traviesa,” he hums, dragging his now slick coated finger up to your sensitive button. [Naughty girl] 

Your hands tremble as they travel over his broad back and up to his hair, gripping harder the moment he sinks two thick fingers inside of you. Your hips twist and grind on his hand, whimpering the moment your clit makes contact with his palm. The patio is soon filled with the sounds of your moans and the wet strokes of his fingers between your thighs. 

“You missed this, didn’t you?” Alejandro groans against your jaw,” so fucking slick from just my fingers.” 

Everything turns to mush in your brain, words becoming too difficult to say, your focus solely on Alejandro and the way he moves, the way he breathes, the way he manages to break you into tiny little pieces and put you back together. 

The pressure in your core grows and grows and grows, your hips rolling from the pleasure. Alejandro grinds his bulge into the meat of your thigh, the warmth of his body burning you even through the layers of clothes. 

“Come on my fingers mami,” he whispers,” let me feel you.” 

His words send you over the edge, pussy tightening hard around his thick digits, covering his hand in your wetness while you come. He traps you in a kiss, fucking his tongue into your mouth with the same intensity of his fingers. You shake in his hold, clawing at his arms and neck, any piece of him that you can reach. 

Alejandro moves down, giving small licks and soft kisses to your tits, removing his fingers to lightly rub through your folds, calming you through the aftershocks of your orgasm. With his hand free from your pajama bottoms, he brings his fingers up to you, smushing your cheeks to open your mouth. 

You suck greedily, tasting yourself. He removes them from your mouth after a few moments, a string of salvia still connected. Alejandro licks it off, moaning at the taste of you. He yanks down your bottoms and panties, then has you sit up to remove your shirt. You’re left bare, the wind cooling your heated skin. 

He brings down his pants just underneath his heavy balls, pumping his cock with one hand while he spreads your legs to make room for himself. You slide a hand over the swells of your breasts, and down your tummy, to the wet opening of your cunt. 

Alejandro watches the movement of your hand, pumping his cock faster as he sees you slide a finger inside. You moan, feeling how swollen and hot you are. 

“Ale,” you whimper,” I’m so empty.”

“You want my cock, traviesa?” 

You hum a yes please, and trail a wet finger over his plush head, down the shaft, dragging a ragged moan from him. He moves your hand, placing it on your thigh to help him keep you spread open. He drags the head of his cock from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your bundle of nerves, rubbing until your back arches from the stimulation. 

No teasing, you whine, too delirious to wait any longer. Alejandro listens, sinking inside of you, hissing through his teeth, not stopping until the tip reaches the very end of you. You whimper from the stretch, wanting to push him off while also wanting him to fuck you deep. He stays still, head thrown back and hands gripping your thigh, your pussy quivering around his length. 

“If you weren’t already pregnant,” he murmurs,” I’d fuck a baby into you right now.” 

“Oh my go–” 

Alejandro doesn’t wait for you to finish, immediately sliding out to plunge back into you. You’re stuffed full, overwhelmed, wanting more Ale, more, please, more. He leans over you, linking your hand with his and placing it right above your head. You wrap your other hand around his neck, squeezing, begging for him to kiss you. 

“Fuck, fuck–” he groans,” do that–do that again.” 

You squeeze again, swallowing his moan once his lips find you in a wet kiss, teeth and tongues clashing from the force. He’s slow with each thrust, deliberate and careful in how he fucks you. Every inch, every vein, the entire shape of his cock feels like it's being branded onto the walls of your cunt. 

“Ale, faster. Please–”

He tightens his grip on your hand, shaking his head while he trails his lips across your jaw. “No, you take what I give you, mami.” 

Alejandro briefly lets go of your hand to tug off his shirt, throwing it to the side right on top of your clothes. His bare skin scorches yours, warms you to your very center. His cologne and the unique scent of him, masculine and fresh, invades your senses. 

You pull him closer, craving the scratches from his beard. He groans and whimpers with every bite mark or fingernail indent you leave on his tan skin. Alejandro digs his fingers into your thigh, spreading you impossibly wider for his broad hips. 

“Can’t wait until your belly grows with my child,” he moans, moving his hand to caress your tummy. 

He leans back, watching where you take him so beautifully. You bring your hand down and link it with his, keeping it pressed to your stomach. 

“I can’t wait to have your baby, Ale,” you whine, the need to become a mother only more intense with Alejandro’s words and his actions. 

Alejandro speeds up, impaling you with each thrust. You feel it in your spine, another orgasm sneaking up on you. His movements don’t falter, fucking you through it as you throw your head back and grip his hand tight. It lasts forever, well it feels like it lasts forever. You pulse around him, crying from how far he reaches inside of you with his fat cock. 

This is only the second time you two are intimate with each other, but as he finishes right after you, filling you with his seed and moaning your name in a broken cadence, you can’t help but think this was always meant to be. He falls on top of you, your sweaty bodies sticking together, his hips moving in short thrusts as he repeats your name in the soft juncture of your neck and shoulder. 

Alejandro gives you another kiss that leaves you breathless and panting. He slowly slides out of you, leaning back slightly to watch his spend drip out of your little hole. With thick fingers he pushes it back and rubs the rest on your thighs. 

You tangle your fingers in his hair, then caress the beard on his jaw. He leans into your hand and presses a kiss onto the palm, scooting down until he’s able to rest his cheek on your belly. The two of you lay in silence for a bit, regulating your breathing and cooling down. 

“We’re going to make this work, yeah?” he asks, his voice breaking through your sleepy brain. "No matter what your dad thinks, or what the town thinks, we're going to be the best parents we can. Right, mami?"

“Right, Ale."

[oreoambitions]

The thing about Lena, Kara thinks to herself as she strolls down Main Street with her hands shoved in her pockets, is that she wants to seem tough. That's the problem in a nutshell. And anyone else here in Midvale would tell you that it's just a city thing, that all the city kids want to seem tough, that Lena is no exception, but Kara doesn't think that's true. Well, okay, she knows it's true. But with Lena, it's something else. Something deeper. Something maybe related to the way that Lena has withdrawn into herself day by day as Midvale has begun to dress itself up for the holidays.

But Kara can do I'm-so-tough. She can do I-hate-Christmas, and she can do I-don't-believe-in-fun because at this time of the year she can do anything and get through to anyone. A little bit of light, a little bit of magic... maybe a little bit of love. That's how Christmas goes, right? Especially in a place like Midvale.

Kara likes to think of Midvale as a postcard town: the kind of town folks are only ever passing through on their way up and down the coast, a scenic detour, a cozy place to spend the night or just the afternoon before you move along. It's a place where time seems to have come to a standstill or at least a crawl, where it was a big deal when the first (and only) Starbucks opened, where nothing at all is open after 8pm, and you'd be hard pressed to run any errands on a Sunday, and you'd better not let Mrs. Nal catch you doing anything untoward or you can expect you'll be the topic of every conversation in or out of church for the next week or so at least. Kara would know; she's been the talk of the town on more than one occasion.

But these last several weeks the talk of the town has been the young woman who pulled up one evening in a car worth probably more than every vehicle on Main Street put together and strolled into the aforementioned Starbucks in a beat up hoodie sporting red rimmed eyes and trembling hands to ask the barista whether possibly anyone had a spare phone cable. She didn't want to bother anyone, only she'd left Metropolis in a hurry and forgotten hers and without GPS she didn't have any idea where she might stop to purchase one. She'd slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter as payment for the manager's beat up old charger and rolled right back out of town before anyone could tell her just how far from home she was.

Only then she'd rolled back into town some six hours later and booked herself into the bed and breakfast. And then she hadn't left.

The Danvers have assured Kara that in all the years Eliza and Jeremiah have run the bed and breakfast, and all the years Jeremiah's parents ran it before that, stretching back all the dusty decades since Midvale was founded, they have never had a longterm guest, no sir. It has simply never happened before. Kara doubts the veracity of such a statement but it has been delivered to her with all the solemn weight of sacred fact, and so she's taken it in stride - something which Alex seems to have found suspicious. And, true, on another occasion Kara might have been found elbow deep in records on a personal mission to prove that Jeremiah has pulled this particular historical "factoid" from some place the sun don't shine, but, well, she's been a little distracted these past weeks. Distracted by sad green eyes and coy smiles and the overwhelmingly mysterious circumstances that have delivered Lena directly into Kara's home.

Unfortunately Eliza has strictly forbidden Kara from asking the hundred and one questions perpetually on the tip of her tongue, and Kara's objections that she's twenty four now and she'll ask her questions if she so pleases haven't actually outweighed the sense that, at least where Eliza is concerned, she ought to do as she's told. So she's restrained herself. And as the weeks have gone by, she and Lena have fallen into an amicable, if not entirely comfortable, routine.

Kara serves Lena breakfast in the dining room with the other guests at precisely 8:15 every morning: two poached eggs with avocado on a thick slice of Winn's sourdough bread, a cup of coffee (black, diluted with hot water), and a side of roasted vegetables (no potatoes). Every morning Lena invites Kara to join her at the table, though Kara only does so when there are no other guests around to serve. They eat - together or not - in a silence broken only by small talk and the occasional lingering gaze when one catches the other looking until, at precisely 9:15, Lena excuses herself to seek out Eliza and enquire after the availability of another night's lodging. She pays in cash, one day at a time, without fail. She and Kara see one another again on the stairs, Kara on her way out to work a shift at the library and Lena on her way back up to her room. A small smile passes between them, affectionate and familiar, and Kara thinks perhaps... But no, the moment has passed and they've gone their separate ways for another day.

Kara has resolved that this pattern will not repeat itself again. Not now, not when Midvale is draped in heavy golds and greens, when the smell of Christmas pastry is wafting through the streets, when the trickle of seasonal tourists is threatening to become a thunder which will by necessity pry Kara's attention away. Not now when Lena is withdrawing further and further, when those lingering glances at breakfast seem to be few and far between, and it seems the onslaught of Christmas cheer is threatening to drive Lena out of Midvale altogether. If Kara is going to get through to her, today is the day.

She swings into J'onn's diner with a determined expression, sidestepping the younger Arias who has eyes these days only for her iphone and not so much for where she's going. J'onn is predictably behind the counter; Kara isn't sure he's taken a day away from the diner in all the time she's known him.

"I need two to go mugs of Bad Day Danvers Brew," she tells him. "It's urgent."

He plops two large paper cups down onto the counter almost before she's done asking. "I thought your sister was on duty tonight."

"She was. Is. It's not- It's for me."

"I don't suppose this has anything to do with a certain green eyed young lady from out of town."

It's not really a question the way J'onn says it but Kara somehow still feels pressured to answer. She flushes, turns away, scans the room. The dinner rush hasn't quite arrived. J'onn bustles about behind the counter without further comment, though he does arch an accusatory brow when Kara meets his eyes again.

"You do know," he says as he slides the drinks across the counter, "She's going to leave this place. She may not be ready yet, but the day is coming."

Kara frowns at him. "Leave is a four letter word."

"L - e - a -"

"You know what I mean."

"Maybe you should consider it too. Whole world out there waiting for you, Little Danvers. Seems a shame not to go out and see it."

Kara thinks for a moment of this world as she saw it first: a little marble hanging in a black sea, so fragile and small, so far away from home. Midvale is home now, and she'll be damned if she's going to leave it behind. She forces a smile for J'onn's sake.

"I'm right where I'm supposed to be," she says. She tries to pay him for the drinks. As he has a hundred times before, he turns her money away. Kara slips the cash into the tip jar on her way out the door.

When she gets home it's to the smell of apple pies bubbling in the oven and the sound of some old 50's Christmas record playing almost too loud for Jeremiah's battered old bluetooth speaker and hardly loud enough to compete with Jeremiah himself. Kara creeps up the stairs two at a time, one Bad Day Danvers Brew clutched in either hand, quiet quiet quiet. If Eliza catches her she'll try to put her to work and Kara isn't sure she can explain exactly what she means when she says she's too "busy" right now to help out.

She occupies herself with that thought, thinking up excuses for Eliza, each one more improbable than the last, and then she finds herself standing in front of Lena's door. She feels suddenly grimy, foolish, clumsy. What she hasn't considered in all her planning for this moment is that with both hands occupied she can hardly knock on Lena's door, and with her heart pounding an urgent rhythm in her chest and her body trembling with something that is distinctly not fatigue Kara doesn't trust herself to tuck one of the drinks into the crook of her arm.

So she does what any sane person would do: she kicks the door. Gently. As gently as she possibly can, but it still feels brutish and Kara winces as the sound of it tumbles down the hall to clash with Jeremiah's crooning and the roar of the vacuum cleaner in the foyer. Grimy, foolish, clumsy. But then the door swings open and all such thoughts fall from Kara's mind.

She has words picked out for this moment but they don't come to her. Lena stands in the doorway in jeans and a cardigan and socks that have bumble bees on them and Kara feels like she needs just a moment but the moment is already passing. Green eyes search hers, curious, bemused. Kara wants to reach out and tuck that stray lock of hair away, but-

The drinks. Right. "I brought refreshments," she says, proferring the paper cups. "For us," she adds, in case it isn't clear.

Lena reaches out for one of the cups, hesitant, then pries the lid off to take a whiff. "Hot chocolate?"

Kara wants to melt on the spot but she sticks to her guns. "It's special hot chocolate," she clarifies. This is not how this conversation was supposed to go. She had this exchange all planned out, there were contingencies, it was all perfect and here she is muddying it all up. "I was thinking maybe we could go out tonight."

"Like on a date?"

Oh, Rao. Kara's eyes drops to Lena's mouth without her say so and then they travel a little further south to the line of that cardigan and she swallows. "No," she forces out, "like on a walk?"

There's a long pause and then Lena laughs. "You're really very charming, Danvers," she says, and Kara feels an unexpected thrill at the sound of her last name in Lena's mouth. "Let me just get my sweater."

"You're already-" Kara starts, but the door clicks shut before she can finish. "Wearing a sweater," she mumbles to herself.

Lena emerges some minutes later, just when Kara is beginning to get fidgety. She's thrown on a hoodie which is perhaps a size too big and a pair of converse rather the worse for wear and Kara isn't sure what she was expecting but it wasn't this. Which is not to say that she doesn't like it. Lena licks her lips and fixes Kara with a pointed look.

"There is whisky in that hot chocolate," she says.

Kara shrugs. "I did say it was special."

They make it down the stairs and out of the bed and breakfast without Eliza noticing, though Kara is all but certain Jeremiah saw them leave together and will have Questions with a capital Q about it later. The sun is just now sinking below the horizon as the two of them turn down Main Street, ducking around Mr. Schott who is occupying most of the sidewalk with a rickety old ladder in an attempt to install another strand of lights above the toy store window. Already the street lamps bear oversized red bows and long, heavy pine garlands, and it will be only a matter of days now before every storefront from here to the edge of town is bright and warm and magical. Kara takes it all in with a growing smile. Lena takes it in with an expression that borders on an outright scowl.

"So are we going anywhere in particular?" Lena asks. They duck around a knot of visitors asking after a table at the brewery and for an instant Kara is almost certain she feels Lena's fingers brush hers.

"We are," Kara admits. And then, because she doesn't want to give away their destination, she adds, "You don't like Christmas."

Lena grimaces and takes a long sip of the Bad Day Danvers Brew. "I wouldn't say that I don't like Christmas."

"But?"

"But I've never been festive. And this year..."

Kara's mind fills in the words that Lena doesn't say: This year it's hard. Hard to see the joy and the magic and the laughter all around when you're alone and far from home. Well, Kara knows a thing or two about that. She takes a sip of her own drink and, resolutely, carefully, looking straight ahead, she reaches out to touch Lena's hand, so gentle it could have been an accident.

"This year you have me," Kara says. She's shocked the line comes out of her mouth as smoothly as it does. Her heart is so far up her throat she almost fears she'll choke on it.

Lena steps in closer until Kara swears she can feel the heat radiating between them even through both of Lena's sweaters and her own Christmas flannel. They walk in silence for a block or so, shoulders bumping once in a while, before Lena asks, "Do you have any favorite holiday traditions?"

Kara shrugs. "I like the carols. Jeremiah and I always go out caroling on Christmas eve. Oh! And the cookies. Pie for breakfast on Christmas morning."

Lena laughs at that. "Pie for breakfast? Lilian - my step mother - she'd have a fit."

"Well you can have pie with us this year if you want; I promise not to tell Lilian a thing. If you're still hanging around."

Lena looks at her sharply and then looks away, leaving Kara to feel silent and small and a little rejected. But Lena touches Kara's wrist as they move through the crowd and then, when Kara doesn't pull away, she takes her hand.

"Christmas is always an important social event for my family," Lena says. She glances at Kara as if to check that she's listening and then away again so quickly that Kara almost wonders if she imagined it. "Everything has to be perfect. The food, the decorations, the music. The family. And it's beautiful, really. Imagine a pine tree towering up to the very rafters, all the ornaments carefully curated and arranged, and a cellist flown in from Italy perches in the corner playing O Come Emmanuel while the city's elite pass through pretending to enjoy bite sized Christmas pastries prepared overnight by a team flown in from France. I suspect it would feel magical if it weren't so much work. It's hard to enjoy the magic when you're a part of it. Especially as a child."

Kara frowns. Her fingers tighten around Lena's, tugging her ever forward towards the Christmas tree in the center of town. She's thinking of Krpyton, of a perfect family, a perfect people, and a perfect world crumbling under the veneer. But she can't say that to Lena, so she flashes her a bright smile instead and says, "In Midvale, everyone who wants to gets to put an ornament on the town tree."

"Everyone? That doesn't seem practical. There have to be, what, at least a thousand people living here."

Kara nods. "Yeah. Not everyone participates, but most people. And of course that means the tree isn't curated like your family's, but it's got a special kind of magic to it. The kind you get when you aren't trying to make magic follow the rules."

There is a sort of comedic timing, as this is the moment Kara steps over the low fence with the sign that reads "do not walk on the grass" and tugs a protesting Lena after into the shade - or, in this case, the light - of the Midvale tree.

"Rules," Lena is saying, "Generally exist for a reason, and when you break them willy nilly you don't get magic, you get chaos. It's important to- Wait, is this your Christmas tree?"

"Yep," Kara says. She reaches out to press a hand to the trunk and then stares up at the tiny golden lights wound among the branches with care, ornaments dangling here and there, some homemade and some not. She's definitely not supposed to get this close to it but, well, it's Alex on duty tonight and she doubts her sister is about to arrest her for trying to make a move on a pretty girl. "This is the one."

"But it's an oak tree," Lena observes. She steps up beside Kara to touch the trunk.

"Couple hundred years old, or so they told us in middle school," Kara says. "She's a gorgeous tree, isn't she? Not a pine and not perfect, but. Our own kind of magic." Then she grimaces. "Sorry; I'm being terribly cheesy right-"

"Did you know that mistletoe often grows in the California oak?" Lena interrupts.

Kara falters. She did know that, but this tree is carefully tended. No mistletoe here. She opens her mouth to say so when Lena holds up a finger to stop her again.

"To be perfectly clear I'm suggesting that we kiss here under this tree. Because you're charming and a little over the top and I hate that I love your Christmas flannel and I would very much like to have pie with you on Christmas morning. So if you'd like we can pretend there's mistletoe in the Midvale Christmas tree. It would be a very reasonable mistake; mistletoe really does grow on-"

Kara kisses her. The surprised gasp that falls from Lena's lips almost makes her laugh, but this is a serious moment so she tries to keep it in. She's got only one hand to work with - the other is still holding her Bad Day Danvers Brew - so she slides it around Lena's waist to pull her closer, and it's her turn to gasp when Lena tilts her head to slide her tongue along Kara's bottom lip.

Someone on the sidewalk cheers, and that is when Lena drops her drink. And then they do laugh together there under the tree, spiked hot chocolate splattered over the bottom of Lena's pants, Kara pressing her own drink into Lena's hands, and the sound of Mrs. Nal nearby screeching about public indecency while James tells her to go suck an egg. The two of them will be the talk of the town for weeks. Certainly through New Years. Kara doesn't think she minds.

[eagerbby]

angel | e.m

pairing| college!Eddie Munson x female reader

synopsis| You’ve wanted him for so long. Dreamed of him, yearned for him, but could never have him. Then one chilly, October night, you make your move. Let the games begin.

an| this was supposed to be a small little fic but then I apparently became possessed and now its 9k+ words. I'm so proud of this, its definitely the best thing I've ever written, and I hope you all enjoy it.

warnings| college! eddie but literally has nothing to do with college, she falls first he falls harder trope, reader is very horny for eddie, part 1 of 3, talks of death, eddie’s scars, handjob, oral (m receiving), ball play, worshiping eddie hours babes, 18+ you know the deal

You could feel the heat coming off your cheeks as you watch him, on the other side of the room, talking to Marcy Simon’s next to a table full of miscellaneous liquor. How he cocks his head to the side at something she says, his fluffy curls shaking around his pale face. His smile wrinkles his cheeks, eyes glossy, and you hope it’s the alcohol making his eyes twinkle and not her. 

When she touches his arm, long blue nails scraping over his bare skin, your hand clenches around the plastic cup you hold and the amber colored fluid spills down your wrist. 

You weren’t searching for him. Not really. But when you saw Gareth, who you knew was still a senior and had no real reason to be here, you had a feeling deep in your gut he had actually come. Had stepped out of his comfort zone and came to his first college party. It made you giddy in a way that annoyed the hell out of you, that made you want to remove the fluttering butterflies in your belly and rip their wings off. 

But then you found him talking to her and you thought that maybe, just maybe, your chest was gonna explode. Felt like you might puke on the yellow shag carpet beneath your feet. Jealousy rearing its ugly head, it seems.  

You hate the crush you have on him. The way it festered over the years, spreading through your bones like a fatal disease. You hate it because it’s ridiculous. You don’t know anything about Eddie Munson. Okay, that’s a lie. You know a lot about Eddie Munson, being his neighbor let you indulge in his life. Observe him like a fly on the wall. 

It wasn’t creepy, at least you hope it’s not, you just found it hard not to be drawn to him. He had a magnetism about him, something that drew you in like a moth to flame. You had small conversations over the years. Nothing too substantial, but it was enough to feed the crush you harbored for the boy the town saw as evil but you found to be a ray of sunshine.

Your feet are moving before your brain even registers it, pushing through crowd, trying to get as far away from the scene before you make the stupid mistake of walking over and ripping that pretty blonde ponytail straight off her head. 

This was the hard part - acting like you didn’t want him so badly it made your chest hurt. It was a mastered skill of yours, especially after dating Gareth’s older brother for the past year and a half. Watching Eddie and the others practicing in Gareth’s garage, or raiding the kitchen for munchies, or piling into the living room to watch some horror movie. You’d spent some nights forcing your eyes to stay off Eddie as you sat under Grant's arm. But Grant left for his fancy east coast college, leaving you in the dust, single and finally able to do the one thing you’d dreamt about for years. 

Make Eddie yours. 

But Marcy beat you to it, it seems, dug her nails in the boy you’ve loved since you were nine. You couldn’t really blame her, Eddie was sweet and caring and unbelievably handsome. She was beautiful and smart, of course he liked her. But it didn’t stop the ache. 

So you find the small group you came with, fake a couple laughs, and chug down drink after drink until the heat in your cheeks is from the alcohol and not from seeing Eddie smile at her like that. 

Once your body has a steady buzz and you’ve fought off a handful of horny guys that couldn’t pry their eyes from your cleavage, you decide you’ve had enough. You need to breathe air that isn’t laced with the smell of sweat and beer. Your friends don’t notice you abandoning them, not that you really expect them too, which makes your escape into the front yard rather painless.

The early October breeze whips past you, carrying with it the smell of a bonfire somewhere in the distance and notes of pine. You didn’t know where you were exactly and as much as you wanted to you couldn’t just leave. You came with your friends, your car sitting broken down back at the trailer park, so you wander around the long dirt driveway humming to yourself. 

You hear the heavy guitar chords before you catch sight of his van further down the road, parked haphazardly by the woods. The windows are down and the back doors hang open, a pair of dingy white reeboks kicking back and forth against the chrome bumper. 

You’re walking over before you can even think about it, the heels of your black platforms crunching the fallen leaves as you approach. Your hands are clammy, knees wobbly from the alcohol and when you turn the corner of the white metal door your head spins wildly, the motion too much for your intoxicated brain. Your hand grasps for the metal, the hinge squealing loudly, and you can’t help but giggle at the noise. 

Eddie’s head snaps up to the sound and when you finally unclench your eyes you find him staring with this bemused look on his pretty face. 

God, what a pretty face.

“Hi, Eddie.” Your voice is silvery and you cock your head, offering him a smile. The corner of Eddie’s smile quirks up the more he watches you. 

“Hello, Angel. You okay?” His owlish eyes blinking up at you. You ease yourself away from the door, only swaying a little bit before you're standing directly in front of him in your tight red dress with your hands held behind your back. Eddie can’t help but notice the glossiness of your eyes, the way your eyeliner is smudged in the corners of your waterline. 

“I’m okay. Funny seeing you here, are you having fun?” You ask airly, closing your eyes briefly as a chilled breeze caresses your hot cheeks.

“Not really my scene. Gareth wanted to come. You know how it is.” You nod as he speaks, because you know all this, figured it out as soon as you had seen them both. This wasn’t Eddie’s idea of a party. 

There’s a bit of silence after that, the both of your shuffling in your spots before he scoots over a bit and gestures with a ringed hand, “You can sit if you want, lookin’ a little wobbly there, Angel.” 

Angel. Angel, angel, angel.

That nickname will haunt you. Be used late at night when your fingers are swirling your sensitive clit. 

Angel.

“Mm, surprised you remember that, Eddie.” You say as you take a seat next to him, his scent invading your senses the moment your butt hits the tan carpet in the back of the van. Cigarettes, the musk of his leather jacket, the slightest hint of spearmint gum. Eddie was always chewing something. Gum, the chain of his guitar pick necklace, the cap from a pen. Watching the clench of his jaw had become a sort of hobby for you. 

Eddie laughs softly, peering at you from behind his brown curls. “It was fitting, you were always so sweet. Mrs. Martin knew what she was talking about.” 

You laugh at this, running a hand over your cheek in embarrassment that he remembers your teacher's pet streak from third grade, how you were always the ‘Class Angel’ -a twisted way of making children behave- with your gold star and little pipe cleaner halo. 

“All the other girls were so jealous of you.” He chuckles to himself, picking up the pack of Marlboro reds next to him. The silver chain dangling from his jeans jingles as he digs through his front pocket for his lighter.

“Stop, they just wanted to wear the halo.” You giggle, taking the lit cigarette as he passes it to you, an unlit one hanging from his plump pink lips. “Thanks.” 

Eddie gives you a nod, taking his time in tossing the pack back to its spot on the carpet, flicking the flint of his zippo until the red orange flame ignites. You swallow roughly at the sight of him, dark brown eyes reflecting the amber flame, he looks like a work of art. 

“Course. So, uh, where’s Grant?” Eddie knew that Grant left for college. Knew because he spent every Monday in Gareth’s garage practicing with the rest of Corroded Coffin. But he still asked and you still answered. 

“Grant left for Brown.” You stare off into the night and Eddie watches you take a drag from your cigarette, eyes caught on the dark red ring of your lipstick painted onto the filter. 

“That must be hard. The long distance.” He says thoughtfully. 

You scoff lightly at this. “I guess he foresaw that, because he dumped me the day he left.” You feel a little more sober now, between the cigarette and the chill in the air, your tipsiness has subsided to a gentle buzz. 

Eddie’s quiet beside you, no doubt remembering that day -which just so happened to be a monday- and how he and his friends witnessed the moment from the safety of the garage. Grant hugged his parents, his little brother, and when he got to you he didn’t reach for you like you expected him to. He just patted you on the shoulder and said, “I think we should end this. Sorry.”, before he got in his car and drove off.

“It’s fine.” 

“He’s an idiot.” 

You both speak at the same time, eyes meeting the others somewhere in the middle of your words. “What?” You ask, not really sure if you heard him right. 

“He’s an idiot.” Eddie says it so matter-of-factly, so assuringly, that it must be true. You suddenly felt queasy. 

“It is what it is. He wanted to go live his life, without me in it. Guess I should just be grateful he didn’t cheat on me.” 

Eddie doesn’t agree, but he can also see the way your shoulders slump, your body folding in on itself at the memory so he drops it. Instead he bumps his shoulder into yours, observing the way you fight the smile threatening to erupt on your face the more he does it. Eddie likes when you smile. 

“Why’d you leave the party?” He asks after a while, another cigarette burning between his fingers. “Thought you liked this type of shit.” 

His question makes you smile, dark red lips turning up in the corners. “Have you been thinking about me, Munson?” 

He feels his cheeks flush but he plays it off, bumping his shoulder against yours again as he scoffs. “In your dreams, Angel.” 

If only he knew what he was really doing in your dreams.

“Wasn’t feeling it anymore. What about you? Did your conversation with Marcy get stale?” You cover a wince at the way it comes out, accusatory and bitter, and you hope he doesn’t notice. 

“She saw us play at The Hideout last week, she wanted to know if I could teach her how to play guitar.” Eddie’s head snaps to you when he hears you snort. “What’s so funny, little pig?” 

“You know she doesn’t really give a fuck about learning to play, right? She wants to fuck you, Eddie.” 

“No she doesn’t.” He chastises, slapping the back of his hand against your bare skin, eyes mesmerized by the jiggle of your thigh. The sting throbs straight to your core and you try your hardest to push the thought away, slapping him back. 

“God, you can’t be that fucking oblivious, Eddie. She was practically eye fucking you.” 

“Jealous?” Yes.

“Ha, you wish, big boy. But seriously, did you really not catch her vibe?” 

Eddie seems to be racking his brain, thinking back to the moment. “I guess she was a little touchy.” He mumbles, shrugging.

“Are all boys this stupid?” You ask with a laugh and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I’m a man, Angel.” 

“Okay. Are all men this stupid?”

Eddie can’t believe you. He’s known you most of his life, not as friends of course, but he thought that you were at least acquaintances. He has a good idea of who you are. He knows that you love music of any genre, your taste eclectic. From Otis Redding to Fleetwood Mac. Iron Maiden to Pat Benatar. Knows that you used to babysit Henderson. Knows that you took two years off after you graduated to take care of your dad who was sick. Knows your mom left when you were too little to even remember her. He’s spent years hearing his uncle and your dad talking about life out on his porch, beers in hand, faces sullen. But he’s never had a true conversation with you before. Never gotten to see first hand how sarcastic and playful you are. He likes it, a little more than he expected to in fact. 

“You’re an asshole.” He chuckles, a cheesy smile on his face as he stubs his smoke out in the ashtray. “Do you, uh, do you need a ride home?” 

Eddie looks so hopeful at the thought of driving you home, his eyes a little wider and his smile soft, and it makes those butterflies you hate so much turn into crazed birds rickashaying off your ribcage.

“What about Gareth?” You ask, remembering who Eddie came with, but Eddie brushes it off without hesitation.

“He came to meet up with a girl. I haven’t seen him in, like, an hour. So I’m sure he’s fine. So, do you want that ride?” 

“I don’t want to go home, Eddie. It’s lonely, you know, with dad gone.” 

His face drops at your words, remembering the fact that your father isn’t here anymore, he wants to slap himself for being so clueless. Being around pretty girls did that to him. Made his brain a useless glob of mush, shocking if he could even form a coherent sentence, but he’d never felt quite like this around you before. You were always pretty, he recognized that fact when you both entered high school, but you were also so reserved. Not shy, but you kept to yourself, your nose usually stuffed in a book or magazine. 

You had walked around school with your head held high, an air of confidence that left people intimidated, focused solely on getting good enough grades to score a scholarship. A way to get the fuck out of this one track town. But when your dad got sick at the end of senior year your dreams were washed away like the tide. He saw you change then. You spent a lot more time at home, tucked inside your trailer. He could see your bedroom window from his. Had watched you rip your room to shreds one night. He wanted to follow you into the woods that night, be a shoulder to cry on, but he barely knew you.  

“Do you want to go somewhere else, m-maybe?” When you nod Eddie lets out a shuddered breath. “I’m sorry, by the way. I-I wanted to come over and… I don’t know. I figured you were tired of all the condolences.” 

You smile at him, patting his hand lightly. “Thanks. It’s better you didn’t. I’ve been a wreck. I’m just now catching up with my classes.” 

“College sucks.” Eddie drags his hand over his face just thinking about it and it makes you giggle. He’s right, college does suck. 

“Where’d you have in mind?” You ask, mind stuck on his question from before. Of course you wanted to go somewhere else, you didn’t care where as long as you were with him. 

“Oh, well, uh,” His voice trails off as he speaks, his tongue poking out of his mouth. “I don’t know. I was gonna say lover's lake but that seemed…” 

“A little forward?” You offer and the two of you share a laugh as he nods. 

“Just a little bit.” 

“I’d be okay with just hanging out, Eddie. Just don’t wanna be alone.” You were really packing it on thick -batting your lashes at him with your bottom lip pushed out just a little bit, just enough to draw his eyes down to your painted lips- you were actually surprising yourself. It was a strange thing, playing the role of temptress, but it feels good. 

It feels powerful. 

Even more so when Eddie starts eagerly nodding his head, wide eyes stuck on the sight of you all pouty and cute. He truly is a fool, so easily lured in by your act. 

 The ride back to Forest Hills is a rather quiet one. Eddie is humming to himself, sneaking glances over at you every couple minutes and you sit there on the torn tan leather of the passenger seat pretending like you don’t notice. But you do, of course you do, it’s hard not to when his humming ceases as he eyes the bare skin of your thighs or how he fidgets with the tattered steering wheel cover as you lean only two feet away from him to dig through the black milk crate that held all his cassettes. He clears his throat rather awkwardly, shamefully, when you catch him lean over and take a sniff of you. 

Peonies -his mother loved those, it was a smell he’d never forget-  but there was a sweeter scent there almost like candy. It makes his mouth water and he thinks, for a brief moment, about what you pussy might taste like. 

His cheeks are flushed crimson, plush lips opening to say something, but he never speaks. He knows he’s been caught, finds no reason to dig himself any deeper. He doesn’t want you to think he really is a freak. 

When he turns into the trailer park you sit back, looking out the window as you pass your empty trailer, moths fluttering around the porch light you hadn’t turned off in months. Ten months to be exact. The night your father died. Just the sight of your empty home floods your gut with dread. Dread that eventually you’ll have to return to the empty double wide by yourself. 

But for now you watch it fade in the rear view mirror the deeper into the park you get. Eddie and his uncle's trailer sits at the very back of the park, after the earthquake ruined their old one the god fearing people at Hawkins Baptist church bought the men a brand new two bedroom trailer. A peace offering after the nightmare the whole town put Eddie through; after accusing him of being a Satan worshiping murderer and all. It had shocked the small town when Eddie resurfaced, bloody and injured, with the presumed dead Chief Hopper. But his reputation was cleared, the real killer revealed -Jason Carver, which wasn’t a big shock to you at all- and Eddie was deemed a hero having saved spunky little Max Mayfield from a similar fate as the others. 

If you thought about it, like truly thought about it, none of it really made any sense. But you were positive that Eddie was innocent. 

The town's opinion had always been that Eddie Munson was evil and scary, Satan's devil spawn- but years of watching him from afar has allowed you to form your own opinion about the metal head. 

There was the obvious; he likes his music heavy, his weed chronic, and never really knew when to shut up. But there was that other part of him. The part that always helped his uncle carry in groceries or how you’d catch him up on his roof watching the stars late at night or how, back when your father was alive, you’d catch Eddie sitting with your dad in the front yard reading The Hobbit to him because he knew how much your father loved to read and that because of his illness his eyesight was deteriorating.  

He was good with cars and animals and kids. He laughed with his whole body and cared deeply for others. He was unlike anyone you have ever met, and despite the dirty thoughts that bounced around your brain every time you saw him, you deeply admire his ability to be true to who he is. No matter what people say about him. 

“Are you okay?” His cautious voice rips you away from your thoughts and when you finally peel your eyes from the rear view mirror, you find that you’re parked in front of Eddie’s place. The van is turned off, his music no longer filling the silence, and he’s sitting in the driver's seat eyeballing you while his fingertips rapidly twist his onyx ring around his finger.

“I’m fine, Eddie. Just lost in thought.” You grace him with a small smile and his shoulders deflate a little.

“If you don’t wanna hang out just say the word and I’ll walk you home.” He can’t help the way his voice sounds so defeated. He noticed the way your mood changed when he drove into the park and he doesn't want you to feel like he expects anything. Because he doesn’t. 

“I don’t want to go home yet, Eddie.” You place your hand on his wrist, index finger smoothing over the knuckle of his thumb visible under his pallid skin. 

“Are you hungry? I, uh, I make a mean grilled cheese.”  

“That sounds delicious.” And when his bright white smile breaks out across his doleful face you can’t help but think of how delicious he looks.

“Sorry it’s a mess.” He apologies as he brushes past you into the house. After helping you out of the van Eddie had unlocked the door and, with a goofy bow and a cheeky smile, gestured you into the house. But as you cross the threshold he remembers the mess he’d left in the living room the night before and panic rises in his chest.   

You watch him snatch piles of dirty clothes from the floor and the tan couch, rushing down the hallway to deposit them into the hamper in his room. 

“Sorry, my uncles out of town so I’ve been sleeping in here-” He’s apologizing again, frantic brown eyes searching for anything that could change the way you see him -not like he even knows the way you see him- when he trips on the cord from the amp Steve and Robin had gifted him when he got out of the hospital last year and falls face first into the brown carpet. There’s no time to catch himself, falling so fast that he only yelps before his face hits the floor. 

Eddie scrambles back to his feet faster than you can ask if he's okay, brown eyes wide and skin ashen, he brushes himself off and heads into the kitchen. You move to follow after him quietly amused by his boyish need to play it cool. You think his nerdiness endearing especially in this moment when your eyes fall onto an open composition notebook sitting on the arm of the sofa. Across the only two visible pages are charcoal sketches of a monster with almost tentacle-like skin and bats with sharp razor teeth dripping blood. There's a broken oar wrapped in vines at the bottom of the right page and scratched at the top of the page, in sharp thick lines, is the name Vecna.

In the kitchen, Eddie is hard at work making your grilled cheese, mentally punching himself as he drops butter into the hot frying pan watching it sizzle around the cast iron as its melts and he thinks to himself that he fucking blew it. You were making him all flustered and you weren’t even trying to, which made it worse. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t understand what you’re doing to him. These things he’s suddenly feeling as foreign to him as the Upside Down.  

“I didn’t know you were an artist.” Your voice is cheery as you come up beside him, eyes flicking from his angsty face to the sandwich he’s flattening to death with a spatula.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, sweet thing.” Eddie almost gags when he realizes what he’s just said. Twenty two years he’s been on this earth and not once has he ever called someone sweet thing. He wants to look over to you, see if your expression is as grossed out as he feels right now, but he can’t gather the courage to. Sweet thing. That’s something he’s heard from those old guys, who only get away with the things they say because they're old, whistle at ladies in public. 

“I bet so.” You say softly pushing up on your toes so your mouth is only an inch or so away from his ear. Your voice so suddenly invading his ear makes his whole body shiver which, in turn, fills your chest full of pride. God, he’s so easy. 

Your body is away from him so quickly he can feel the complete loss of your body heat. When he turns to see where you've gone he finds you perched on the kitchen counter, bare feet kicking out in front of you.

“I saw your notebook. I wasn't snooping or anything, by the way, it’s open on the arm of the sofa. You’re really good.” You bat your eyes and smile and he feels like his whole being is screaming at him to touch you.

“I-It’s okay, I didn’t think that. Obviously I’m not the tidiest of trolls.” He says as he places your sandwich on a small black plate. When he hands it to you, your fingers brush and your whole body zings. 

“Thanks.” You can only mumble at him, your brain void of thought as the rush of endorphins flood through your nervous system. 

As he starts on his grilled cheese he feels your eyes roaming the expanse of his body. From the crest of mousy brown curls on his head, to the curve of his shoulder underneath his red plaid button up, the way his black t-shirt is tucked into the waist of his weathered blue jeans and you realize you’ve never seen him in these jeans before. They fit just like his well loved black ones, knee holes and all, but these are a washed navy blue fading in color at the seams. His silver chain hangs from the belt loops and he’s wearing that belt with the handcuff buckle that made you choke on your Razzles the first time you saw it. 

“Do I have something on me?” He asks, looking down at his pants and spinning in a circle for a better view. You can’t help but laugh at him, his face pulling into a puppy dog pout as he stops spinning. 

“No, no, there's nothing on you. Well, except those jeans.” You nudge his knee with your toe, leg extended out between the two of you. 

“Oh, yeah, the jeans.” His voice is doom and gloom and he pinches at the fabric with two fingers pulling the material from his leg. “Do you hate them? I feel like I look like a farmer.” 

You scrunch up your face and cock your head to the side, narrowed eyes observing said jeans in dramatic fashion. Eddie shuts the burner off and plates his sandwich.

“I'm getting pastor at a youth retreat, vibes, honestly.” 

Eddie slaps the spatula down as he braces himself against the counter, his head bowed to his chest. He groans softly at first until it becomes a long cacophonous wail, rumbling against your eardrums. 

“Fuuuck. I was afraid of that. I definitely can’t wear these to the satanic temple then, huh?” 

You laugh. You laugh so fast and hard you snort, more earnestly than you had earlier in his van, but much like then when he hears the sound he’s snapping his head back to look at you with your hand held to your mouth. Mortified, your hot cheeks sear against the coolness of your palm, and you squint your eyes as you look at him expecting to see him staring at you with that amused smirk of his but it’s not there. It’s been replaced with a stormy haze in his brown eyes and a slack jawed gape of his mouth. 

He can’t find it in himself to tease you like he had earlier when right now with you sitting on his kitchen counter -in his house, only a few feet apart- he realizes he’s a complete fucking goner. 

You are the cutest, sweetest little thing, Eddie Munson has ever seen.

What gets him the most is he can’t even pinpoint when it happened. He can remember having a crush on you when you were both children and crushes were just sweet fleeting moments to be lost in time. But after that the film reel in his head flickers, flashes of his dad being handcuffed, his middle school bullies slamming his thin frame into the metal lockers, the very first time the principal looked him in his eyes and told him he failed his senior year. At some point you had become just the neighbor girl. The one he’d speak to every now and again, mostly when his uncle and your father got together to shoot the shit. Maybe things changed after his brush with death. When he thinks about the time after the Upside Down, after 001 as Dustin has started calling it, he can picture your face more. Wayne kept him on a tight leash after Eddie was released from the hospital, even going as far as taking the keys to Eddie's beloved van in fear that Eddie would run away from him again, which left Eddie stuck in Forest Hills, bored and slowly going out of his mind.

His friends had set him up a neat little spot outside, a place they could spend time with him without being crowded into his trailer, and from there he was able to watch all your comings and goings. 

But not, like, in a creepy way. Eddie had to make sure of that, he couldn’t take being accused of anymore heinous crimes. It was just enough to keep him wanting to know more. 

“I must say,-” You start, tearing your gaze away from his heavy one. He’s been staring at you for a good minute as you take bites of the grilled cheese he made you and you feel like you might just combust if you don’t lighten the tension permeating the air. “This may be the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.” 

Eddie chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck underneath all his thick hair. “What can I say, I’m flattered. Just call me the master of grilled cheese.” 

“Aren’t you already the Dungeon Master? Would this be considered a side quest? Do dungeon masters even have side quests?” Your questions make him laugh. “So many questions, so little answers.” You finish with a huff, popping the last bite into your mouth, and Eddie can’t fucking breathe as he watches you suck the slight sheen from the butter off your fingertips. 

“I am the master. T-the dungeon master. For Hellfire Club. Yeah.” Eddie couldn’t be any more lame if he tried, he thinks to himself. But then you giggle all fucking sweet and shit and you wish he could recognize how fucking adorable he is. Feel how wet it’s making you. 

You always had a thing for nerds -being a bit of a nerd yourself- and Eddie was one hot fucking nerd. 

“So, I have a question.” Eddie says as he leans against the counter adjacent from you.

“I have an answer.” There you go, cocking your head to the side, giving Eddie a clear view of your pretty neck.

“Would you ever want to come to one of our shows?” He asks so tentatively, like he thinks you’re gonna turn him down. 

“For Corroded Coffin?” You ask. 

“Yeah, we’re doing this thing for Halloween at The Hideout, with costumes and shit. We actually draw a crowd, surprisingly.” 

“Drunk people?” You tease. Eddie plays with his hair, bringing the strands over his mouth to hide his smile.

“Five of them. Impressive crowd, really. Rockstar's wet dream.” 

You look down at your bare feet, feeling bashful all of the sudden. “You know, I’ve actually seen you guys play a couple times.” 

“Really?” Eddie smiles at you completely dumbstruck, idly tapping his rings against the counter top. 

“You were wearing this cool red bandana on your head and you did this guitar solo that I thought was fucking wicked.” 

“Wicked” Eddie repeats the word like you said it, lips curling into a devilish grin. “That was the first time we ever covered that song, you know. I thought it was shit.” 

“I didn’t. I actually went to the record store the next day and fucking sang what I could remember to the guy that worked there. He- he looked at me like I had two heads.”

“You freak. You could have just asked me.” Eddie was starting to drift closer to you, fiddling with the black pick hanging from his neck. A sudden rush of bravery fueling every step he made until your knees brushed his thighs. 

“Hm, didn’t think of that.” You swallowed dryly. He was throwing you off your game and you were starting not to mind.

“Did you ever figure it out? The song?” He was stuck watching your pursed red lips, the dark lipstick smudged ever so slightly. 

“Heaven and Hell. Black Sabbath.”

“Wicked.” He mutters. 

“Very. You did it justice.” 

“What happened between you and Grant?” The question throws you completely off guard and your brain stutters. 

“W-why?” It’s the only thing that manages to escape your dry throat, which is apparent by how croaky you sound.   

“You guys were together for so long.” He says.

“Not that long.” 

“Like a year, that's pretty long..” 

“A year and half, actually.” You say, eyes glued to the silver chain around his neck because you refuse to look him in the eye. To see whatever expression he may be wearing.

“So what happened?” He asks again, steady in his determination to get an answer out of you.

“We just grew apart.” You mutter back and Eddie scoffs loudly. 

“That’s such a fucking cop out. You loved him didn’t you?” 

“No. I-I don’t think so.” Eddie pushes your chin up with his knuckle, eyes searching your avoidant gaze until he catches you. Locks you into the most intense stare you’ve ever been apart of.

“No?” He’s honestly surprised by your answer. On the surface, whenever he saw you two together you looked like what he expected love to look like. Not like he had much to go on. 

“I think I did, at first. But the longer we were together the less I felt it.” You feel transparent under his watchful eyes, an open book spilling things you’d never spoken to anybody before. 

“Why?”

With a sigh you push him back, hopping down off the counter and standing in front of him with your hands clasped together anxiously in front of yourself. 

“It’s embarrassing, Eddie.” You say, looking up at him with such sad eyes he starts to regret prying so hard, but then you shake your head a little and release a deep breath. 

“Grant wasn’t sexual, at all. At first I thought it was because of our schedules, he just didn’t have the time, but then I’d go out of my way to make the time and he still didn’t want to. I started thinking maybe he just didn’t want to… with me.” 

“Angel-” Eddie’s heart and fists clench at your words, at the way you look so forlorn, as you stand in front of him believing you were undesirable in the eyes of the boy who was supposed to love you.

“I can count on both hands how many times, in a year and half, that we had sex.” You raise your hands up in show, your palms facing yourself, fingers splayed apart.

“Why didn’t you leave that fucking turd?” Eddie asks, tone rather abrasive. 

“Because… because I didn’t know I could. We were supposed to go off to college together, get a little apartment, maybe a cat. I had planned what our life would look like once we left Hawkins. There was no other option in my mind.” 

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud that you openly cringe, clenching your teeth together as you wait for what Eddie has to say next.

“You weren’t happy.” It’s an observation, not a question, and you nod. 

“No, not after the first couple months. I wanted- I wanted-” 

“What did you want, Angel?” He’s so much closer now, eyes drawn down to yours with a flaming intensity that ignites that fire in your stomach. White hot heat oozing like lava through your bloodstream. 

I wanted you. You have to bite your lip to stop the words from leaving your mouth. Despite being true, you aren’t ready to put all your cards on the table just yet. 

“I wanted him to look at me and see a girl that would get down on her knees for him. I wanted him to see me for the sexual being I was and instead he saw me as a child. Talked down to me like one when I tried something new…” You could feel the moment creeping closer and closer, the courage inside yourself growing as Eddie’s pupils blew wide, his brown irises swallowed almost whole. 

“Something new?” Eddie’s mouth feels dry as the Sahara, the words tossed between his chapped lips with uncertainty. 

When you step closer, bridging the space between your wanting bodies, Eddie goes rigid. You take his belt buckle into the palm of your hands, crawling delicate fingers around the warm metal until you're suddenly holding him in place -holding him to you- and Eddie’s entire world tilts. He can’t do anything but watch you bat your mischievous eyes up at him, the red flesh of your lip bitten between your sharp teeth. 

“He was so boring, Eddie. When we would have sex it was always the same. There was nothing new, nothing exciting about it. I wanted to be wild, to feel naughty. Do you ever just want to be naughty, Eddie?” 

Eddie feels naughty and how couldn’t he with the way his hardening cock strains against the rough denim of his jeans. With the way his eyes keep slipping back to your cleavage, the red velvet of your dress looking so tantalizing against the soft expanse of your chest. Eddie wants so badly to smooth his fingertips over the skin there but he fears if he moves, even just an inch, you’ll completely vanish and he’ll wake up from this dream. It has to be a dream. There’s no way you are standing in front of him right now with the most sexy, inviting, look in your wide eyes. 

“Eddie?” Your voice is so soft but your hand so firm as you cup his heavy bulge in the palm of your other hand. “Do you want to be naughty with me, Eddie?” 

And Eddie can’t fucking believe you. Can’t comprehend what you're asking as his whole body trembles in need. Eddie’s not a virgin; but he’s not an expert on the matter either. He never had a girlfriend, but he has fucked a couple girls, girls whos names he can’t remember and whose faces blur together like a kaleidoscope. It was enough to have an idea of what to do, and add the porn he’s watched and the Heavy Metal magazines hidden deep under his bed, Eddie has a good grasp of what he thinks he’ll like in bed. But all that knowledge flies from his brain when you ask him this. 

“Yes.” He’s speaking without even realizing it and your face breaks into a wolfish smile, one he didn’t know you were even capable of, and then you’re backing him up until the counter behind him digs into his lower back.

“Mhm.” You’re humming as you undo his belt, trying to tame the shake in your hands as you pop the button of his jeans and pull down the zipper. 

His hands linger in the air as you sink to your knees, fingers lazily untying his laces like you have all the time in the world, but Eddie’s burning from the inside out. You look so pretty sat before him, biting your lip as you free him from his shoes, tossing them off to the side where they skip against the linoleum. He can’t hold your eye contact when you peer up at him, fingers grasping the hips of his jeans, admiring him from your position. 

“Eddie?” Your voice is like the sweetest honey, molten, sending flames straight to his throbbing cock and god, if you don’t feel like the most powerful woman on the planet. But you need him to watch you, need him to see how badly you want him. So you bite softly at the inside of his clothed thigh pulling a sharp gasp from him and his head snaps down heavily. 

“Y-yeah?” His voice is fucked, making you smile up at him proudly. You have him right where you want him.

“Do you wanna try something new, Eddie?” You ask so nicely, as if you’re giving him an opening to back out, because you don’t want to do this unless he really wants it. 

Eddie nods fervently, guiding your hair behind your ear with shaking ring clad fingers, and he wants this. Thinks he wants this more than anything ever. 

“Yes. Please. ‘M yours.” 

Those words go straight to your core and you throw your head back with a moan, clenching your eyes shut, before you're finding his wide round eyes in the dim light of the kitchen. 

“Don’t say shit like that, Eds. Gonna get a girl's hopes up.” 

Eddie tries to wrap his mind around that -because what’s that supposed to mean- but you’re already shucking his jeans down his hairy legs, hands hooked on the backs of his knees as you pull them over his sock clad feet. You toss them to the side once they’re off, your nails scraping up the meat of his calves, the hill of his knees, the sensitive skin of his thighs, before you’re leaning forward to kiss his bulge through his precum stained blue boxers. 

“You’re so hard and I’ve barely even touched you yet.” You say, toying with the waistband of his boxers, pulling the elastic away from his skin just to let it snap back in place. Eddie hisses at the feeling, his head falling back against the cabinet behind him hard, but then your fingers are slipping under his shirt and Eddie chokes on his tongue -his fingers flying down to grip at your wrist roughly. 

“Stop.” His voice shatters the tension in his little kitchen and your eyes glisten up at him with surprise.

“I’m sor-” You’re ripping your hands from his grip, fingers rubbing the ache away as you fall back to your heels. Eddie cuts you off before you can even finish your apology, shaking his head and kneeling down in front of you. 

“No. It’s not…” 

You and Eddie kneel in front of each other in silence, your eyes held together by some invisible force because as much as he wants to look away he can’t, so he’s stuck sitting in front of you on his knees with his sickly shame and pounding heart.

“Eddie?” You want to reach out, but your wrists still throb from his grip, so you settle for his name in hopes he’ll swim out of his head and back to you. 

“I have scars.” He says, fast and quick, like he’s ripping off a band aid. “From… from last year. They’re.. They’re pretty gross.” 

You mull over what he’s said before you are reaching out for him, smoothing your knuckle down the column of his throat as his adams apple bobs in anticipation.

“That’s okay, Eddie.” 

“I don’t… I don’t want them to scare you off. I really am a freak now.” His sentence trails off and the wretched tone of his words make you ache in a different way than just ten minutes earlier. 

“You’re not a freak.” Your own voice sounds strangled, forced, and you lay your hand against his stubbled cheek. 

“Ha.” His laugh is painfully sardonic. “Haven’t you heard-” 

You cut him off before he can say more. Can’t stand to listen to him say more. 

“I never thought you gave a shit what others thought of you?” Your words are honest. Eddie walked around like he could care less what others think of him, he always has. But maybe you shouldn’t have been so blinded by his false confidence. The tremble in his lips and the sad gleam in his eyes as he tries to push you away from him, because he did see himself as a freak. 

“You don’t know me, Angel.” He scoffs, finally tearing his eyes away. He stares out the kitchen window at the weaning moon high in the sky. Wishes he hadn't brought you here. He was just embarrassing himself. 

When your lips hit his cheek, plush and soft and so warm, Eddie’s eyes widen. 

“You’re wrong.” Another kiss. Dark red lipstick painting your kisses across his pink freckled skin. “Can I see, Eddie? Please?” 

“It’s gross.” He closes his eyes when you leave another painted kiss, this one right on the corner of his mouth. “Like Frankenstein's monster.” 

“Can I make my own opinion? Please, Eddie?” You ask so sweetly he can’t help but agree, gazing at you from the corner of his eye as he nods softly. “Stand up, Eddie.” 

Eddie raises to his feet, back into the spot he was before, eyes downcast at his feet. 

“Will you take your shirt off for me, pretty boy?” You keep your hands busy rubbing up and down his legs, trying to sooth the swarm of nerves you can see wrecking his body. He sheds his flannel before he reaches up behind his head, pausing for a second, and then slowly pulling his shirt over his head. Once it’s off, he holds it in front of his stomach, still unsure of how he feels about letting you see this. He could barely look at himself in the mirror now, he can’t imagine what you’ll think once you see. 

You give him a minute before you take the shirt from his hands, placing it gently to the side, keeping your eyes down until he invites you. You don’t want him uncomfortable, want him to want you to look at him even if it's hard. He must catch on, because soon his hands find your cheek and he’s guiding you to him. 

He’s so rigid, standing there in only his boxers and socks, he can’t remember a time he’s felt so clinically naked. But then he makes the mistake of looking down at you and finds you staring in awe at his bare, scared, body like he was a piece of art. 

You aren’t sure what you were expecting but it certainly wasn’t mangled webs of pearl colored skin, taunt at the sides and puckering in the middle. The scars are etched across his left hip, crawling up the right side of his rib cage in an arch of angry red scar tissue, the scars peppered along the expanse of his collarbones lighter in color, the closest to his skin tone like they healed faster than the others. He must have been in so much pain, it makes your heart hurt just thinking about it, but it does nothing to deter you from him. Scars, no scars, he’s still the most beautiful man you’d ever laid your eyes on. 

“Hey,” His voice is soft, edging on cautious, as you trail a finger from his left hip across his tummy to the angry red web on his ribs. 

“Do they hurt?” You ask him, peering up at him from your knees, they were starting to ache but you didn’t care. 

“A little. If I move the wrong way.” He’s whispering back to you, transfixed on the way you seem to be admiring him. “What do you- what do you think?” 

Poor baby, he sounds so shy, which only pushes you to kiss him in the places he hates most. Leaving red lip prints on the scars you can reach with your lips, ghosting your fingers across the ones you can’t. 

“Mhm, I think I want to suck your cock. Would you like that, Eddie?” You don’t wait for a response, the twitch of his dick is enough for you to pull his boxers down his legs leaving them pooled around his ankles, licking your lips at the sight of his cock springing forth. 

Eddie sounds like a whore, wantonly moaning when you kiss the tip of his dick, and his cheeks flush deeply at his own noise. He’s starting to think all those things he thought he knew about you are wrong. He always assumed you were a sweet bookworm, untainted by the world around you. But he’s realizing quickly, especially as you lick a fat stripe from his base, that you’re a devious little thing. Dirty, evil, wicked, girl. 

He was so wrong about you. 

You’re taking your sweet time licking him, almost like his dick is a lollipop, starting at the base of his shaft and working your heavy tongue along the curve of him. When you reach his tip you suck it into your mouth, moaning at the taste of his salty precum, nails digging into his thighs. 

Eddie’s losing his fucking shit above you, head smashed against the cabinet, but he’s staring down at you with half lidded eyes. His hands hold tight to the counter, knuckles white, his mouth parted open. He wants to touch you so badly, hold your cheeks while you bob on his cock, but his tight grip on the counter is the only thing keeping him up at this point. 

It’s not his first blow job, but it’s without a doubt the best, so far beyond what he thought a blow job could be. You’re mouth is so hot, so wet, so fucking good, he feels delirious. He didn’t know a blow job could be this fucking good. Could have him so close to cumming when you’ve barely even done anything. Just bobbing up and down. Up and down. It hits him that you’re teasing him when you take him to the back of your throat, but only for a second, and then you're back to swirling your tongue around his leaking tip. 

“Don’t be mean.” He pants when he catches on, and your laugh is muffled by his cock deep in the back of your throat. The vibration has him keening, hands flying down to grasp a hand full of your hair in his shaking hand. “Oh-oh my fucking god.” 

He wants to cry when you suddenly pull off him, your lipstick smeared around your mouth, mascara tracking down your cheeks in black streaks. You look so fucking pretty. Drop dead gorgeous.

And then you lean past his cock, sucking one of his balls straight into your watery mouth, moaning at the heavy taste of him. He can’t breathe. Holy shit, he can’t fucking breathe. Thinks he might die with his fucking balls in your fucking mouth. But then your hand grabs him at the base and gives a strong steady stroke, and it’s like whatever dam had formed suddenly collapses and he moans so loudly it makes you jump, his other ball slipping into your warm mouth.

“Jesus H. Christ. Who are you? F-fucking naughty girl. You love this shit don’t you?” He’s gasping, voice so ragged it hurts his throat, and you only giggle at him while you suckle at his sack. “Evil fucking woman. Ruining me for anyone else.” 

You bat your eyes, pulling away from him, a string of spit following after your swollen lips. Your hand still steadily jerks his cock, firm at the base, twisting across his tip. You have this look in your eyes, this strange yearning that he finally understands, can’t believe he ever missed before. 

“Thats- oh fuck that feels so good- that’s what you fucking want isnt it? Wanna r-ruin me for the others?”   

You say nothing, only bat your eyes at him, leaning forward to kitten lick his cock head.

“Y-you want me to be yours?” His getting close, the realization dawning on him. Earlier you brought up Marcy, how you saw him with her, he asked you if you were jealous. You denied it, but you had cast your eyes down to his lips before telling him he wished. He’d seen it then, that flicker of your eyes as you looked to his lips, but he’d brushed it off.  

You take a break from sucking his soul from his body to roll your eyes, switching from your skillful mouth to your just as skillful hand. 

“You said it.” It’s all you say before cupping his sack, rolling him around your hand softly, your grip on his cock slow and agonizing. He’s so close, can feel that heat burning down his spine, his chest heaving. He’s so close but he feels like he needs to hear you say it. Will go crazy if you don’t.

“Please, p-please just- fuck, Angel. Please just answer me.” He’s whining, thighs shaking, breath stuttering. You want to take pity on him, want to tell him yes, yes you want him to be yours. Only yours. 

But that would end this game and you are too deep to give up now. So you sit up off your heels, line his cock up with your mouth, and kiss his tip. 

“I want you to cum, Eddie.” 

Then you’re engulfing him into your mouth, deep in your throat, and it burns and tears sting your eyes but you keep going. Fight through your gags, swallowing around him, pump his base with one hand while your other fondles his balls. 

Eddie can’t take it, the pleasure and your noises too much, he grips both sides of your head and holds you there as he shoots rope after white hot rope of his cum into your throat. He’s whining and begging, pleading with you not to stop -never stop- as he cums so hard his vision blurs into white stars and swirls of light. 

Desperately needing air, you swallow what he's given you and pull off until only his tip sits in your mouth. You suck and kiss and lick his delicious tip until he pulls you away from him with shaky hands and a whiny -"s'too much baby, please, s'too much."

You wipe the back of your hand against your mouth, ignoring the faint lines of red that trail after it. Eddie can't stop looking down at you, can't believe you just made him cum that hard. 

"Taste so good, Ed's." It's all you say as you hike his boxers back up his legs, standing on shaking knees from kneeling for so long. You can feel your wetness seeping down your inner thighs, clit throbbing with need. You choose to ignore her, instead you reach your hand out and wipe some drool from the corner of Eddie's mouth.

"I'm gonna stop calling you Angel." He says on a pant, trying his hardest to calm down from his high, but the waves of pleasure are still ebbing at him.

"Are you now?" You ask with a little cock of your head and a sinister little smirk. 

"Yeah, you were sent from hell. I'm almost positive. F-fucking succubus." He wants to kiss you, can feel his body being pulled to yours like a magnet. But you're already walking backwards, reaching down to grab your heels from the floor. 

"I like when you call me angel, Eddie." You're leaving, and his chest clenches because he doesn't want you to go. He misses your warmth already.

But this was part of the game. Leave him wanting more. 

"I'll see you around, Ed's." It's the last thing you say before you're gone, the trailer door slamming shut behind you. 

Eddie can't help but allow his body to fall forward, hands clenching the counter top, he breathes in. Breathes out. Tries to find some semblance of his sanity. But then his eyes fall onto something black and lacey, hung on the doorknob. 

He walks over slowly, face blanching when he realizes the black lace are your panties. You left him your fucking panties. 

Eddie clenches the fabric in his hand, they're wet in the crotch and they smell like you.

Dirty, evil, wicked girl.

Eddie holds the fabric to his face and groans. "Angel my ass."