#got the pink fabric for it this past weekend

[pun-wizard]

Scrabby 2.0!!!!!

Thoughts and process @pun-o-rama

Hand stitched with faux Minky and cotton fabric, weighed down with poly pellets.

[lovebugism]

oh my god,,,, gurl!!!! THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT fic is sooo good 😫 my heart literally breaks every time I read this story. Thank you for blessing us with this masterpiece <3

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | square one

summary: eddie makes a confession that's been weighing heavy on his heart. you realize that your future with him is haunted by ghosts from your past. pairing: virgin!eddie munson / f!reader word count: 16.3k warnings: hopper, steve, and robin being the reader defense squad, hints at reader's previously poor mental health, mentions of abusive and toxic relationships, a banshees of inisherin quote, b*lly h*rgrove because he needs a warning. (pretend any typos don't exist pls and thank u!) a/n: guess who's back, back again? ✨✨ i'd apologize for disappearing for a month, but then there'd be apologies in all my notes, so just know that i'm sorry every time i disappear unexpectedly, okay? 🥲 thanks for being so patient! please enjoy this long-awaited installment of tcar ily <3

( PREVIOUSLY ) | ( SERIES MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

Eddie’s got a 1986 Van Halen tape in his boombox and a baby pink heart stitched into the fabric of his shirt. He’s the least metal he’s ever been, but he couldn’t be happier.

You keep your promise to him to patch up his torn Hellfire tee. If anything, you use the absentminded assurance as your excuse to see him again. The night you shared before, all but baring your scarred souls underneath glittering stars and streams of pale moonlight, hadn’t satiated your hunger for him. Eddie left you craving in a way you weren’t used to before — a yearning to be close to him that went beyond the boundaries of physical intimacy.

It was a simple sort of longing. It was a homesickness. A sense of nostalgia for a love you’d never felt before.

You wish you could wear Eddie’s adoration for you like a blanket, wrap yourself in the hand-stitched quilt of many colors and bundle it tighter around your shoulders when the cold comes. You want his softness to hold you in a way you’ve never been able to hold yourself.

You feel swaddled in it, succumbed and cloaked and at peace in all his tenderness. You’ve never been so at ease, so blissfully comforted by the presence of another human being. And Eddie feels all of that, every ounce of warmth you feel, because it pours out of you like rays of sunshine and bathes him in shades of gold.

He didn’t think you could get any softer than you had been that night at Skull Rock, until you were nestled in his unmade bed the next morning. You curled your legs underneath you as you weaved the needle and thread through the tear in his t-shirt, eyes squinted and tongue poking out the side of your mouth in an astute concentration. 

All of the sudden, you were marshmallow fluff and honey on toast — made of all things sickly sweet that made his stomach feel suddenly full. 

You finish mending the rip in record time and beam when he wears the heart-shaped stitching with pride. The rest of the day thereafter was spent in the tiny confines of his one hundred square-inch bedroom. From there, the both of you came to the silent understanding that you didn't want to spend another day apart.

The weekend had given you a limited sort of freedom, allowed you to pretend that you lived in a world with no responsibilities or anything other than Eddie Eddie Eddie, but adulthood made you no such promises. He had a side job to do to keep himself afloat, and you had a cat that thought it was the end of the world anytime you were gone for longer than a night. Both of those things together meant that the eve of parting was ultimately inevitable.

Every second you spent away from Eddie felt like you were grieving.

You mourned for him in the darkness of your apartment and tried to pretend you weren’t half a person in the cat food aisle at Melvald’s.

You tried to lessen the unbearable distance with phone calls, though it didn’t come nearly as close as feeling his fingers thrumming imaginary beats on your thigh or his heartbeat thudding against your ear. 

But his voice filled the emptiness of your one-bedroom apartment and the Eddie Munson shaped hole he’d left just behind your ribcage, and that was good enough for you.

When you weren’t with him, you were roaming around your apartment like some kind of ghost, with the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder and the rotary clutched in your free hand. 

You cook yourself dinner with him ranting about his day in your ear. You hold the receiver closer to Bowie and force him to hear her purr when she’s being exceptionally cute. He falls asleep some hours later to the sound of your soft snores, and you wake up the next morning to the sounds of his.

It was pathetic, truly.

You’d be gagging at how sweet it was if it wasn’t happening to you.

But it was.

Every ounce of this sticky sweet goodness was yours, and it tasted just like honey on your tongue. 

It was the honeymoon stage times a thousand, all rose-colored and reflecting light — your own personal utopia. It brought with it a heavenly sort of refuge, a bubble of peace you never wanted to pierce.

Eddie basks in the serenity of it all when he finally has you with him again. You’re in his lap, on his lips, and all over him, but it still isn’t quite close enough. He doesn’t think he’ll be satisfied until you’ve successfully melted with him and your limbs have entwined with his like tree roots, destined to remain that way for the next couple of centuries or so.

And it’s weird because he could hardly handle living in such a tiny trailer with Wayne, let alone stomach more than a couple hours with the guys from Hellfire all in one place. But you? You entered his life all at once and now he can’t remember what it was like without you.

He doesn’t particularly want to, if he’s being real honest.

It’s why he’s always less enthused about letting you leave when you’ve both got responsibilities dragging you apart. He begs you to stay with him a few hours more, pleads for you to stick around while he makes a quick deal or an emergency pick-up when Dustin Henderson calls and says he needs a ride. 

And you promise you’ll wait on him there, because he makes it virtually impossible to say no to his rosy pouted lips and chocolate syrup puppy dog eyes.

That’s when you run into Wayne for the first time, when Eddie’s out and you’re making breakfast for when he comes back.

French toast and scrambled eggs sizzle on the stove and warm the kitchen with all its cinnamon confections. It makes the man’s face screw up in confusion when he steps inside the trailer because he’s never known Eddie to cook a day in his life. And then his eyes find you — a young, pretty girl all alone in his kitchen with his nephew’s van gone from the drive.

“…Who the hell are you?” he wonders gruffly and pops a cigarette between his lips, totally unbothered.

He’s got no reason to be intimidated by the stranger in his trailer. He’s more confused than anything else, and he’s got this contorted look on his face like he’s blaming the exhaustion from the graveyard shift for his vision of you.

“Oh— my god,” you mumble through the mouthful of whipped cream you’d squeezed into your mouth moments prior. You fight to swallow it all down. “Uh. Hi. I’m, um… I’m Eddie’s... girlfriend?”

It sounds like you’re lying. 

In some ways, it feels like you are. 

You’ve been spending more time in his trailer than in your own home, but it’s not like either of you has motioned to make anything official just yet.

He eyes you with a tired and heavy gaze, eyes as dark and as infinite as Eddie’s. The man gives you a once-over and then chuckles lowly to himself as he tosses his corduroy jacket onto the back of the recliner and his tin lunchbox to the coffee table.

You shift awkwardly on the other side of the room. “…What is it?”

“When Eddie said he was talkin’ to a pretty girl on the phone every night, I thought he was lyin’,” he admits through hearty chuckles. 

It makes you laugh too. 

There’s little talking after the fact, besides you offering him some of the breakfast on the stove and him joking that you should come around more often.

You recount the story to Eddie when he returns, utterly mortified about the whole thing. You’re even more embarrassed when the boy finds amusement in your horror and starts to chuckle to himself — not exactly at you, but not with you either.

He laughs louder when you swat at him for it. You clamber on top of him, mattress squeaking mattress under your weight, as you demand him to stop through giggles of your own.

Somewhere down the line, both of you stop caring. 

Neither of you is quite sure where the conversation stopped and ended, only that when you started kissing, you couldn’t stop. 

They weren’t innocent little pecks, but they weren’t sloppy and full of tongue either. You press your lips together with the intent of being as close as you can to the other, like you haven’t spent every second you could together.

Neither of you will be satisfied until you’ve swallowed each other whole.

And you, you’ve got this ache for him. A swirling of want that’s constantly rippling in your belly for this boy. He’s just not usually under you when it’s happening — and now that he is, the crackling embers have burst into white and blue flames behind your sternum.

Your lips click each time you part, a lewd noise you never want to stop hearing. The sound of it gives you goosebumps, like a good song you’ve just heard on the radio. You wonder if Eddie can feel them as his hands start to creep up beneath your shirt and find purchase along your waist. 

You open his mouth with your own and sneak your tongue inside just as you roll your hips over his lap.

It’s the most forthcoming either of you had been in your three-day stint of nonstop talking. Even when you were over at the trailer, totally alone and pressed underneath him, it was otherwise completely innocent. You just make out like a couple of teenagers until one of you wants to make a food run or offers to roll a joint. 

And you like that. You like that he doesn’t expect anything from you, but it does get a little agonizing when you’ve tried every attempt to give yourself to him and he just won’t take it.

Like usual, Eddie tenses when he feels you grinding on top of him — partly because he feels a tingle at the base of his spine when he gets instantly half-hard, but mostly because he knows there’s nothing he can do about it.

He keeps preaching to himself it’s not the right time, it’s not the right time, it’s not the right time — but he’s got no idea when it’ll ever be the right time, if it’ll ever be the right time, or if he’ll know it when it comes.

Because he’s had you to himself for days now — no Wayne, no responsibilities, no pressure — with his tongue rutting against yours and your hands fidgeting with the metal buttons of his jeans, and it still doesn’t feel good enough. Eddie doesn’t feel good enough.

He’s not sure if he ever will.

And it’s not you. God, it’s the farthest thing from you. As far as Eddie’s concerned, he’s never had more fun with anyone else. He’s never laughed harder with anyone else. He’s never felt as comfortable with anyone as he’s starting to feel around you. So he’s not entirely sure why he finds the rest of it so hard. 

Eddie wants you so bad that the ache of all his yearning is palpable. It’s like the weight of it is what’s keeping him from you — unstoppable force, immovable object, blah, blah, blah. 

Either way, it leaves him entirely unable to take things further with you, however much he wants to. There’s something in his way and it’s him. 

Your heartache is his own when he has to pull away from you.

“You okay?” you ask him with wide eyes and swollen lips, always so concerned for him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he’s quick to assure you. He’s still breathless when he fidgets beneath you, trying to prop himself up on his headboard without rubbing his half-hard cock against your thigh.

When he succeeds, he musters a smile that shakes at the edges. “It’s just… you know, not everything… It doesn’t have to be about sex, you know?”

He makes himself as soft as possible for you when he says this. He gets rid of all the usual teasing lilts that tend to lurk on his tongue as the words spill from his mouth. The last thing he wants to do is hurt your feelings or, in some roundabout way, make you think you’re the problem. 

He just wants you to know that that isn’t why he’s been wanting to spend so much time with you. There was never an ulterior motive with him other than all the adoration he holds in his hands and his mouth for you.

The strike of hurt that flashes across your face is obvious to only Eddie, who’s spent enough time mapping out your features to know what twitches are ones of discontent. The slight frown that dips between your brows when they scrunch together for half a second comes like a stroke of lightning. It’s a brief flash of purple in the sky that leaves so quickly that it makes you wonder if it was ever there at all.

You fidget on his lap, not resting as comfortably upon him as you had been just moments before. “Oh…” you murmur through soft, jutted-out lips. “Sorry. I, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s not— that’s not what I—” he tries to assure over your insecure stammers, but succeeds only in tripping over himself in return. He cuts himself off with a breathy laugh, shaking his head while his fingers fidget on your hips. “That’s just not what this is about for me, you know? I just… I wanna spend time with you.”

It’s easily the softest thing he’s ever said to you — to anybody, for the matter — and the marshmallow sweetness of it all wraps around you like wisps of pink cotton candy.

Your apprehensiveness twists into something lighter, a pair of twinkling eyes and a bashful smile.

“Oh,” you hum again, obviously more pleased than before. “That’s nice…”

“No one’s ever said that to you before, have they?” Eddie asks you.

He tries to muster a crooked smirk as the words leave his mouth, but he’s got a feeling he already knows the answer. Hearing you affirm his suspicions will do nothing more than make him angry at all the assholes that had you before him, at everyone who taught you that you were good for sex and hardly a thing else. 

It makes him wish that he’d gotten to know you sooner. Maybe then you’d understand that he’d be happy just holding you like this and never doing anything more.

You don’t answer him verbally, just shake your head with your lips pursed softly to the side. You look more innocent than anything he’s ever seen before, even with your lipstick smeared on your chin. 

He’s still not quite sure how someone could be so reckless with such a fragile thing — to watch you break and not spend the rest of time grieving to know that you’ll never be quite the same again. 

There’s a primal instinct that swims in him then, an urge to keep you in his arms and locked in the confines of his trailer forever and ever. He wants to keep the wolves of Hawkins, Indiana from ever getting a whiff of you again. It’d be more than they deserved, anyway.

“God, you have got to get better boyfriends, sweetheart,” Eddie tells you with a playful lilt in his voice despite the anger simmering in his belly.

“Isn’t that what you are?” you giggle.

His world stops.

“Huh?”

You tense at his tenseness. Only when he’s gaping at you does the weight of your words dawn on you. “…Huh?”

The awkward moment goes as quickly as it arrives, chased out by the fit of laughter the two of you are quickly thrown into. Your entwining chuckles rise like smoke in his tiny bedroom and then settle back over you like a fuzzy blanket.

“Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, babe?” Eddie teases.

“Of course not,” you scoff. “Babe.”

“Oh, right, of course not. That would be way too crazy considering we’ve spent, like, every day together and have made each other come… what is it now? Twice?”

“Three times for me,” you correct with you a smile. “You need to catch up, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Another time?” he offers with a scrunched nose.

“Whenever you want.”

Eddie is grateful for your lack of urgency, even more so for the kiss you press to the tip of his nose. 

You peck him on the lips after — once, twice, and then a thiiird, drawn out time — before moving on to his chin and jaw and neck. Whatever part of him you can reach (which is just about everywhere, considering the vantage point you’ve got sitting on his lap), you sprinkle a kiss to it.

It’s an innocent sort of affection, the kind that makes him wonder how it ever came to be in the first place. What evolutionary measures led to this, to you pressing your lips to his skin to show how much you care about him? Eddie doesn’t really want to know the answer, he’s just grateful that it happened in the first place.

You’re so good at it, loving on him. You’re always so kind and so gentle in your way and it makes him feel guilty. There’s a lingering feeling of undeservedness that settles something heavy at the base of his stomach. How could he ever expect you to be so open with him when he hasn’t done the same for you?

A heavy sigh rattles in his deflating chest. 

“I gotta tell you something, sweetheart,” he cautions when your lips smack against the thrumming pulse below the left side of his jaw. “Something you’re not gonna like…”

A billion things run through your head all at once. When you part from him, he can see the rollercoaster of emotions each one of them puts you through.

Your first instinct is that he’s got some kind of partner he’s kept hidden from you until now. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gone steady with a guy who’s then told you about some other girlfriend he had — or, god forbid, a wife. 

But then you realize that you surely would’ve had some sort of inkling if that were the case. There’s no way Eddie would’ve been able to spend every second of his day with you — and then another several hours on the phone when you had to leave — without someone else coming along to burst your bubble. 

And so far, there haven’t been any angry wives, just the occasionally confused Uncle Wayne.

Then you start thinking he’s about to tell you he wants an open relationship. The you’re great, but I’m just not ready to settle down yet spiel that you’ve heard a thousand times before. Usually when people say that, they mean that they just don’t want to settle down with you.

You’ll become some douchebag’s fuck toy for a month or more until the girl next door comes around. He gets her knocked up in record time, his family forces him to marry her, and they begin their cushy lives together in the center of some cul-de-sac — really settle down, as it were.

You’re not sure if you could take that from Eddie. You could grin and bear if it you had to, take whatever attention he’s willing to give you because who cares if he’s giving it to someone else on the side? You’re just not sure how long you’d last like that.

And then you start to worry that he’s just going to break up with you entirely — it’s not you, it’s blah, I’ll always care about blah, please don’t tell anyone about how we blah-ed. That whole talk. 

All the rest of your worries stop mattering so much because you’ve only just called him your boyfriend. And here he goes, about to end it all before it can really even start. That’d be just your luck, you figure.

“Did I do something wrong?” you caution after a few moments of heavy silence.

Eddie’s bleeding heart wrenches at your words, at how sad they sound spilling from your mouth, and how you immediately think that it’s got something to do with you. 

He shakes his head feverishly in response. “No. No, it’s not you. You’re… you’re perfect.”

“Okay…” you concede quietly, voice trembling with a lingering disbelief.

“I just… I haven’t been totally honest with you, you know?” the boy admits before his glimmering chocolate eyes fly open and he corrects himself quickly. “And I haven’t lied to you or anything. Not— Not exactly. I just… I wanna be honest with you… As your boyfriend and all.”

You can tell by the sudden weight in his voice that he’s serious. But the fine coat of glowing rose that splotches Eddie’s cheeks after calling himself your boyfriend for the first time makes you melt. 

You smile to yourself and start to trace the heart you’d stitched into his t-shirt with your finger.

“Yeah. I mean, we are about to spend our two minutes anniversary together and everything.”

“Exactly,” the boy huffs out a laugh. It lacks its usual jest, though, because of the ice-cold anxiety that drenches him from head to toe and makes his hands and feet go numb.

His fingers tremble where the rest on your waist, trying and failing to find a comfortable position there because, right about now, Eddie feels the most awkward he’s ever felt.

“I just want you to know that I… I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly and with his eyes squeezed shut. He prays that he doesn’t have to be any less vague than that.

Your face twists in confusion — your brows furrow and your nose twitches and your head tilts to the side like a puppy. And then you’re laughing, a soft little thing of a giggle that normally makes his heart sing, though now he can only feel it breaking.

“What…?” he tries to scoff out his own chuckle. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’ve already told me that, dummy. That you’ve never felt this way before…” you answer, reciting his own words back to him. You haven’t yet forgotten how he’d looked at you as you said them, pale skin made silk under the moonlight while he sparkled beneath the beams of it and his love for you. 

“No, it’s… it’s more than that,” he corrects. “I’ve never even had a girlfriend before you. Or anything really.”

You still don’t seem to understand. You just look on at him with uncertainty. 

A quiet “okay?” tumbles from your mouth entwined with a nervous giggle, because you don’t understand what’s got him so somber. He’s never dated anyone, you’ve fucked half of Hawkins — these are just facts that went unsaid before now. 

And maybe it’s because you’ve never been with a virgin before, but the thought that Eddie might be one hasn’t seemed to cross your mind at all. 

It’s that exact thought that scares him. 

Because if it hasn’t already, maybe it’s because you’re avoiding it altogether. And why would he ever be the exception?

He opts to bite the bullet and hopes that his heart doesn’t get broken after.

“I’m a virgin. Okay? I’m a complete, total, proper adult virgin,” he blurts with a brazenness he’d previously lacked when it came to all this. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now, but I didn’t, because I liked you and I was scared. So if you wanna yell at me or if you wanna break up with me before our five-minute anniversary, I totally get it, but I should probably let you know that it’ll rip my little virgin heart to shreds, so…”

Eddie ends his nervous ramble with a trembling, lopsided smile that does little to ease the leaden tension he’s just manufactured in the four walls of his bedroom.

He can’t seem to gauge your reaction after the fact, which is strange because he always knows what you’re thinking. 

He knows when you’re laughing with him and not at him. You scrunch your nose and giggle when he tells you a funny joke, then tilt your head back and cackle when he trips over the punchline. 

He knows the exact moment when something’s started to bother you — when you get real quiet in your bubble of reserved stillness and your eyes start to glaze over. To anyone else, it might just look like a person who’s keeping to themselves. Eddie’s starting to learn that usually means trouble when it comes to you.

He knows the difference between your gentle sort of sadness and when you’re damn near inconsolable. When you cried at the end of Stand By Me, you smiled at him with a glassy tear-filled gaze, then rolled your eyes when he tried to comfort you. The tears only spilled over when you laughed because Eddie pretended you’d hurt him when you’d shoved him away. 

But when you’re really upset about something, you don’t show him at all — you fight to keep it all to yourself until you’ve squished the problem into a tiny enough ball that you can forget about all of it.

This is something different.

There’s too much crossing your mind all at once for him to get a good read of you.

You just gape at him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not, and then fighting to understand what it means when you realize he’s being serious. 

And just when you’ve started to wrap your head around it all, when your brain remembers how to make words again and you realize you haven’t said anything in several agonizing seconds, a foreign voice sounds from down the hallway.

Not foreign in that it was unfamiliar exactly, just foreign in that you and Eddie had spent so much time alone that you were starting to forget that there was an entire world outside of yourselves. A great big world, filled with a great many people, some of whom were your friends who tended to get pretty worried about you.

“Edward Wayne— why the hell is the Chief in my driveway?” his uncle curses from the living room, sounding like he’s speaking through a cigarette in his mouth.

Eddie himself is immediately freaking the fuck out because he figures he must’ve gotten tipped off again. He tries to calculate the quickest way to get you off of him and to all of his cubby holes full of miscellaneous drugs so he can flush them down the toilet before Jim Hopper busts the door down.

And even though you’re not the drug dealer who’s had cops on their ass since they were fifteen in this equation, you look a whole lot more terrified than Eddie does.

Your eyes go wide and the whites of them swim with terror as you launch yourself off of his lap. You don’t spare another glance back at him, not even when you nearly trip over yourself when you shove your sneakers on your feet and shuffle out of the room. He’s forced to follow behind you like a confused puppy as you bound through the trailer at lightning speed. 

The haste of your movements startles even Wayne, who halts mid-puff of his cig when you’re in and out of the living room before he can blink. The opening squeak of the screen door and metal slamming against metal is the only thing that punctuates your exit.

“Would it kill you to answer your damn phone every once in a while?” the powerful timbre of Jim Hopper’s angry voice, of which only the man himself could pull off, is muffled until Eddie cautiously slinks onto the porch behind you. 

He finds the chief standing beside the Cruiser he’s parked sideways. The door of it is still flung open. A distant beeping sounds from the ignition. 

He’s still got on the pressed khakis of his uniform — complete with the golden badge pinned to his chest, darkened sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, and flat-brimmed hat on his head. Even with the majority of his face covered, it does little to hide the anger that radiates off of him like a hot stove eye.

You remain on the porch, shifting your weight on your feet at the top of the steps. “Okay, Hopper, just listen to me for a second—”

“Three days!” he shouts over you, not deterred by your composed nature. “I have been calling you… for three days! Seventy-two hours. No answer!”

Eddie decides to speak up from behind you despite his better judgment. “Yeah, uh, that was kinda my fault,” he confesses with an awkward laugh. “Wouldn’t let her hang up the phone—”

“I’ll deal with you in a second,” Jim interjects firmly and without thinking. He goes back to berating you with an admirable finesse. “Buckley wanted my head on a pike when I wouldn’t file a missing person’s report in the first twenty-four hours, but seventy-two? She was gonna kill me!”

Rather than argue with him, like every fiber of your being so desperately wants to, you make the difficult choice to concede with a heavy sigh. Because you don’t doubt that Robin was on his ass the second she realized you weren’t answering your phone or at your apartment when she and Steve dropped by.

She did tend to be on the overprotective side, after all, which obviously paired well with her melodramatic disposition.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ve just been… busy.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the one before,” the man answers bitterly.

“It’s different, Hopper!”

“I’ve heard the one before, too!”

Eddie can only assume that the both of you are communicating telepathically, what with the way your synchronized glares seem to say a thousand words (probably every curse imaginable, if he had to guess) without your mouths ever moving once. 

He stands on the outskirts of it all, feeling a bit stuck in the thorniness of such a tense silence, like any slight movement might cut him.

Jim moves slowly, akin to a creeping snake, as his hands raise to remove the glasses from his face. Their lack reveals the ice-cold glare that was previously hiding beneath them.

“Get in the car—” 

“—No,” you reject just as the direction leaves his mouth because you knew it was coming.

Jim inhales sharply and smacks his lips against his teeth, like a father whose child is most ardently testing his patience. He plants his work boot in the gravel and his hand on his hips. His steel gaze goes far off for a moment before flitting back to you again.

“…Get in the car or I put you in handcuffs.”

Your breath hitches at the threat. You squint over at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Jim smiles at you, but it’s more threatening than anything else. “We both know that I would.”

Eddie’s eyes flit between the both of you. He can tell that Hopper’s serious and that you’re trying to decide whether or not to call his bluff, with your arms crossed defensively over your chest and lips pursed in a tight line.

You ultimately decide not to. Because Hopper has, in fact, done that before. And even though the circumstances are very, very different, you wouldn’t put it past him to do it again. So you all but stomp your foot like a protesting child and spin on your heel to storm back inside the trailer.

Eddie’s nervous gaze flits between your disappearing form and the storm cloud of a police chief standing in his driveway. When their eyes lock, he realizes he should probably say something. He cocks his thumb over his shoulder and stammers, “I should— I should probably…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He catches the front door before it shuts and slithers through the crack of it to follow in behind you.

“Wait, was he— was he being serious about that?” Eddie wonders once you’re back in his bedroom.

It feels a lot less cozy than it did minutes before, less like the bubble of refuge that you thought nobody could pierce and more like a lonely space that feels entirely too empty. You pluck your things scattered around his room, and it starts to feel less and less like home with parts of you gone from it.

“I don’t know,” you answer within a sigh as you collect your cardigan from the back of his desk chair and shrug the thing back over your shoulders again.

“But it’s happened before?”

“Yeah. Once. When I was…” you confess quietly, then trail off. You get your bag from his nightstand and haphazardly shove your scrunchie, sunglasses, and chapstick into the bottom of it. “…When I was in a bad way— it doesn’t matter now.”

Eddie so desperately wants to pry.

He’d wanted to make a joke before, about the handcuffs — something less than tasteful about them and you and Hopper and some good ol’ freaky deaky that you'd scold him for after. But he decides not to now because you sound so strangely solemn about the whole thing, as though it was a story you buried deep with the intent of never bringing it up again.

“You don’t have to go with him if you don’t want to, you know that, right?”

“Of course, I do,” you scoff at his worries, not nearly as threatened by Jim as the rest of Hawkins. You move to stand in front of him in the center of his room and meet his furrowed brows with a soft grin. “He’s not gonna do anything, he’s just pissed. He’ll berate me on the drive back to my apartment and then it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

That seems to please Eddie well enough, though he’s still a bit disheartened at your leaving.

“I guess we couldn’t keep spending time together like this, huh?” he teases lightly, like the realization of it doesn’t make his chest ache. “Sorta forgot about the rest of the world… whatever that is.”

“It was fun while it lasted,” you tell him with a shrug and a whimsical sigh.

“Wait for me, will ya?” he jokes, if only to make you laugh and to feel like he’s stuck in some sickly sweet ending of a romcom for a couple moments more. 

You roll your eyes at his dramatics but let him wrap you in his arms anyway. His hands find purchase on your elbows, thumbs rubbing soothingly along the outsides of them. “How about a kiss, then?” he offers when the urge to feel you because too great to bear. “For our ten-minute anniversary and all?”

“You never have to ask me, Eds,” you assure with a laugh. You rise to the tips of your toes and he meets you halfway. 

Home is in your mouth. It’s warm and cozy and safe there. It’s easily the most familiar place he’s ever known, with your bottom lip nestled between his own. He feels homesick when you part from him. 

“You’re not mad at me?” he wonders quietly, feeling a bit like a cowering child from where he stands in front ahead of you — eased only when you shake your head almost immediately in response.

“No. I couldn’t be even if I wanted to, I think.”

“Okay. That’s… That’s good.”

“We can talk about it later, if you want. After I get lurch off my ass.”

He tries not to smile too wide, but it’s hard not to beam every time he looks at you. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll… I’ll see you around, I guess?” he stumbles over himself, having forgotten how to say goodbye to you. 

It’s equally as hard for you too, it seems, because you nod at him and turn to leave and then realize once you’re halfway down the hallway that you might not survive if you don’t kiss him again. 

So you turn and rush back, catching Eddie with his back turned and spinning him around so you can peck him again. You feel his cheeks heat beneath your palm and his sigh against your cupid’s bow and his lips melt against your own.

You etch each tingling sensation into the edges of your mind in the hope that you won’t drive yourself completely insane when you inevitably start to miss him like crazy. 

You focus on that and on him when you find Hopper and his stupid proud dad smirk. It’s the only reason you don’t punch him in the jaw and tuck and roll out of the Cruiser when the silence becomes so slowly insufferable.

You’re starting to think Jim left the radio off on purpose. You’ve never known the guy not to drive around without the strumming of an old-school folk song to accompany him. You figure it must be some sort of intimidation tactic, to make you so uncomfortable that you break. You’re a lot closer to that than either of you realize.

You spare a glance over at the man next to you. He hasn’t looked at you once since you get in the car. He’s got one hand at three o’clock on the steering wheel and the other with its elbow propped up on the door as he scratches at the stubble on his jaw. 

He’s too at ease not to be bothered. This is obviously some kind of front he’s putting on to conceal his inner irritation.

You give on the lecture you’d been trying to prepare yourself for and exhale sharply through your nose. Your fingers fidget on your thighs as you kick your restless feet up on the console. 

“Get your feet off the dash,” Jim scolds without missing a beat. 

You huff and obey. “Okay, this is crazy— can’t you just yell at me already?”

He barely wastes a second.

“I cannot believe you right now!” he seethes through gritted teeth, stewing in a dad-like sort of anger.

“It was three days, Hopper!”

“You know what happened the last time no one heard from you for three days?” he shouts back. 

You tip your head back against the seat and groan. You should’ve known he was going to play that card. 

He waves an accusatory finger between the both of you. “You and me— we had a deal, remember? You let me check in on you. You agreed to that. You visit your little high school friends, and I see you at work, so I can make sure you’re not off somewhere killing yourself.”

Hopper becomes a casualty to the tense silence he created then, when you don’t retort with some comeback of your own and force him to feel every ounce of pressure from the leaden quiet. 

He sighs a great big, too loud sigh and shifts in his seat. His softening gaze flits between you and the road. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that, okay? I just meant it, you know, figuratively. I wasn’t… trying to be mean.”

“When have you ever cared about being mean?” you monotone.

“I don’t,” he assures. “I’m just not trying to hurt your feelings, alright? Jeez…”

You try not to take too much pride in the man’s half-apology, though you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a little bit rewarding.

Jim Hopper’s practically an iceberg. He only melts for his kid, Joyce Boyers, and you, apparently. 

It’s why he’s always so damn protective over you. He’s developed this sort of deep-rooted urge to keep you safe after watching you make every wrong decision a human being could possibly make. And when you mess up, because you do mess up, he feels like it’s partially his fault — that, if he’d done more, he could’ve kept you safer. 

It makes you feel like a burden most of the time, but you know it’s above yourself and mostly out of your control.

You’d known of each other for a while before you really met, because a troublemaker and police chief in such a small town are bound to. But somewhere down the line, he found you in a valley of mourning for someone that was still alive and you found him in a black hole of grief for someone who wasn’t. The empty and infinite voids within you both were stitched slowly together all over again. 

Jim Hopper was the dad you never had. You were the daughter he couldn’t.

And you thought something might change after he adopted El. You figured he might forget about you because it wasn’t like it was his job to watch after you or anything. Playing pretend always felt nice, but you knew it wasn’t real. 

It was to Jim, though, who’d developed a similar adoration for you as the one he had for Sara. He hasn’t been able to forget about you in the same way he hasn’t been able to forget about her. 

Every night, after he’s scrubbed the day off his body and washed it all down with a lukewarm beer, he lays on his pull-out bed in the small living room of his cabin and goes through a checklist in his head. 

He makes sure that he’s checked on El and reminds himself to wake up early to make her breakfast the next morning before he brings Joyce coffee at Melvald’s — Joyce. She always comes next on his list, always right after El, and then you. 

He forces himself to calm down when his blood pressure inevitably spikes at the thought of not having heard from you all day. He reminds himself that he saw you at work on his lunch break and that he’ll see you again tomorrow.

Jim hums to himself as he settles more comfortably into his springy cot, deciding that he’ll try a new wine he can’t pronounce when he sees you at Enzo’s the next day and that he’ll drink it while he rambles about Joyce or El’s new boyfriend.

He drifts to sleep with thoughts of Sara.

You’re as ingrained into his mind as every other person he’s grown to love.

He stopped worrying about never getting you out a long time ago. Like a tomato sauce stain on a dress shirt, he knows he’ll never get you out of his head. He knows even more so that he doesn’t want to — no matter how much you annoy him or how angry you make him when you don’t answer his calls.

“Sorry…” you murmur and swallow down whatever mundane argument you could’ve spewed then, at the result of his sudden warmth. You turn to gaze out the window and trace the edges of the puffy white clouds with your eyes. “I wasn’t thinking about that — the… deal, or whatever… Honestly, I was a little too busy being happier than I think I’ve ever been in my life, so…”

You don’t see the dramatic eye roll he gives you in response, but you can’t miss the hearty groan that spills from his mouth. 

“What?” you laugh in response. “Have you never been a kid in love before?”

It’s almost jarring how he goes from huffy to concerned in a fraction of a second. His head snaps over to you, jaw clenched and eyes suddenly stern and swimming with a lingering fear. 

“Love?” he repeats like he must’ve heard you wrong. “Love— That’s— That’s what this is?”

You shrug. “I don’t know… Maybe…”

His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you’ve said that to each other yet. This guy was just a crush four days ago.”

“No, Hopper. We haven’t. I mean, he literally just told me he was a virgin, so I don’t think we’re even close to—”

“A virgin?” Jim echoes, voice high-pitched and giddy. He beams at you from beneath his bushy mustache and slaps you a little too hard on your arm when he laughs. “Shit, teacup. Are you runnin’ out of options over there or somethin’?”

You twist your body to hit him back harder with your right hand. “It’s not funny, Hopper,” you scold. “He’s nice.”

“You said that about Hargrove once—”

“This is different,” you monotone before the words have the chance to leave his mouth.

“Yeah? How do you know?”

The question stumps you for a moment because you don’t know — you can’t.

You’d never admit it out loud, but Hopper was right; you’re still not quite sure how you ever could’ve thought that Billy Hargrove was a good guy, but you did. You felt a similar feeling of elation with him as you do now with Eddie, an otherworldly sort of happiness that makes you feel like you’re the only person it’s ever happened to.

And here you are now, sometime later and reveling in the aftermath, still gluing pieces of your shattered heart together.

You treat love like a drug. You use and use and use until it stops being a fun thing and becomes a crutch you can’t live without. That’s always when it starts to hurt you, but you’re in too deep to stop craving it.

And you know it’s bound to happen all over again, but you have to believe Eddie’s different or else you might as well fall into the deep pit of despair you’ve been trying this whole time to crawl out of. 

He makes you happy, really really happy, and you’d rather gamble that he hurts you than give it all without even trying.

“I… don’t,” you conclude after a few moments.

Jim seems surprised by your admission, shooting you an incredulous look with his untamed brows raised to his hairline.

You meet his look with a wavering grin. “But he makes me really happy, Hop. Like… It feels like it should be illegal or something. He makes me feel so good my heart hurts. There’s like this—”

“Ugh,” the man grumbles in disgust, sullen all over again.

“I didn’t mean it like that, you weirdo,” you chide.

A grin twitches beneath his mustache in response. “I know you didn’t… ‘Cause Munson’s a virgin.”

“Oh my god!” you groan. “I didn’t even mean to tell you that, okay? Leave him alone— and a swear to god, Hopper, if you make fun of him—”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with it, alright? I mean, he’s got the expert around to show him the ropes— ow!” You cut off his stupid joke and accompanying sardonic grin with a fist to his shoulder.

Steve and Robin tend to be quite the formidable duo.

They’ve barely got a brain cell to rub together between them, but there’s still something strangely intimidating about them when they’re both angry. It feels a bit like they’re your I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed parents, and you’re the scolded child taking your lashings in the form of a lecture.

It’s what you feel like now, sitting across from them in your designated booth at Benny’s Burgers — the one by the window in the corner. It’s far enough away from the bustle of the entrance but close enough still to gossip about the assholes you used to know from high school when they walk through the door. 

“You scare the shit out of us when you go AWOL like that, you know?” Steve confesses, still soft even though you know there’s a more upset part of himself he keeps hidden for now.

His chocolate gaze flits between you and the pile of fries in the middle of the table that the three of you share. He finds the one covered in the most salt and pops it into his mouth.

“AWOL?” you echo with a distant laugh when you realize how much he sounds like Hopper. “It was three days.”

“Yeah, and you fell off the face of the earth,” Robin retorts, half-muffled through the hearty gulp of strawberry milkshake starting to melt in her mouth.

“You guys are acting like I went halfway across the country,” you scoff. “I was with Eddie. At his trailer.”

“Exactly!”

Steve’s face contorts mid-bite. “Wait, you were with him? The freak?”

It makes you roll your eyes. He’d been too busy hopelessly flirting with the waitress at the counter to hear the entire recounting of your absence to Robin, though it was more of you gushing about it than anything else.

“Yep,” you answer.

“You skipped out on movie night to be with… Eddie Munson?” he reiterates for himself, as though there was any correlation between watching the same three movies while gorging on greasy junk food with your best friends and falling more in love with a guy you were already head over heels for as he tried to explain away the unopened box of condoms collecting dust underneath his bed.

Both are equally fun in their own ways, but totally totally different.

“How did you survive without me, Steven?” you joke back in response.

“He didn’t,” Robin quips.

“So… what? You guys just went on some kinda bender? I don’t get it. Did you just fuck the entire time or something?”

“Well, contrary to popular belief, I can actually spend time with someone and not fuck them—”

“Okay, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“And to answer your question — no, we didn’t fuck,” you confess, then elaborate more slowly, a tad bit awkwardly. “Because he told me today that… he is a… virgin.”

Your words seem to settle over each of them differently. Robin stills with her lips wrapped around the candy-cane striped straw then furrows her brows, as though their meaning hits her a few seconds after the fact.

Steve, meanwhile, goes entirely agape in an amazed sort of shock. His eyes go wide, his brows fly up and hide beneath the bangs that hang down over his forehead, and his jaw falls open. And then he starts to smile, a subtle hint of a grin on the corners of his pink lips, like he finds it funny.

“I knew it,” he murmurs to himself.

“…Why are you smiling like that?”

His smirk widens. “That freak said he screwed Vicki Carmichael senior year. I knew he was lying.”

“And why do you look so proud of yourself, exactly?” Robin asks him.

“Because now I feel less bad about never fucking her,” the boy explains like it’s obvious. He set his elbows on the table and gestures wildly with his hands. “I always thought the freak one-upped me because she, like, never gave me the time of day after Hargrove came along, you know? But… It’s good to know that I’m still king.”

His delighted grin is met with confused looks from both you and Robin, who look upon him with twisted eyebrows and squinted eyes. 

“Are you not aware of how strange everything that comes out of your mouth is?” you ask him, only partly joking.

“At least that settles why he wouldn’t let you give him a blow job,” the brunette girl concludes with a shrug as she slouches against the booth. “Poor guy was probably shitting bricks about it.”

You realize then that it does make sense, why he’d always been so adamant about your pleasure and never his own. Why he always touched you like you were some fragile thing he might break, and like everything was new to him. Because it was new to him. All of it.

And even though it baffles you to no end how he went his entire life without someone wanting to jump his bones (because truth be told, you’re doing a terrible job at hiding your want to do just that), the fact still remains — Eddie Munson is a virgin. 

He’s a virgin with an acute infatuation for the local slut, both of you freaks in your own right. 

It just adds more intricacy to a puzzle that already feels so complicated.

“I’ve never been with a virgin before,” you admit quietly, mostly to yourself, as you train your gaze on the straw wrapper you curl around your finger. “It’s different… Scary.”

“Why?” Robin wonders aloud.

“I don’t know. I just— I don’t know what to do now.”

“Just do what you always do,” Steve tells you like it’s that simple. He folds his arms on the table and leans in closer to you. “Experience is good. Okay? Experience is key.”

“No, it’s not that. I think I’m just… I’m scared I’m gonna treat him the way, you know, that I was treated. And I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna do that to him.”

You’re not sure when the shift started, when you stopped being a person to people. You only know that you were something less than that. Somewhere between junior and senior year, you become a plaything that anyone could do anything they wanted to with, and you were too starved for physical affection to tell them otherwise. 

You liked the attention. You liked feeling loved, even if it was only for a minute and a half, and all you had to show for it was a pool of cooling come on your belly.

Eddie’s the fragile thing now that you were then. 

He was a delicate little thing that can break so easily, something you could split in half if you wanted to. 

You don’t. 

You want so desperately to be kind, but you’re scared you won’t know how to, because no one’s ever been kind to you.

Steve reaches across the table for you, taking a wild stab at an attempt for affection after several months of being scared to touch you — he did enough of that, he thought, and he’d hurt you. But he can see the lingering ache hiding in your glazed-over eyes and feels an overwhelming urge to quell your worry. 

Five warm fingers wrap around your wrist, not too tight or too strong, just enough to stop you from cutting circulation off to the tip of your pointer finger and to remind you that he’s still there.

“Trust me,” he tells you with a sudden soft swimming in his caramel-colored eyes and a smile playing on his lips. “You couldn’t do that to anybody. Not even if you wanted to.”  

Your heart nearly stops at his words, at the sheer kindness of them, and at the way he holds you in the soft way you’re used to only Eddie holding you. Your eyes go wide when they flit up to him and then start to sting with the weight of unshed tears. 

You’re quick to blink them away though, while you playfully shrug him off and joke — “stop being so nice before I get the wrong idea, Harrington” — because it’s easier than accepting his tenderness.

Robin takes one look at his fond gaze, all gooey and dripping with honey, and then at your rolling eyes and accompanying shy grin, and groans at the softness of it all. She slides out from the confines of the booth and grumbles something about getting a refill on her milkshake.

“Some fries too, while you’re up?” Steve offers with a hopeful grin.

He’s met with the girl’s signature scowl.

“Please,” you finish for him.

Robin grins. “Anything for you,” she croons, if only to make the boy pout, before skipping off to the counter.

She leans her elbows upon the red wooden laminate top and smiles that same sickly sweet smile for Benny by the grill — no doubt trying to get her refills for free. 

Even though the bearded man seems unimpressed with her presence, you know that he’ll give them to her free of charge. He’s always had a soft spot for her, one of the only people in town who could rival his wit.

The door dings open, a familiar and high-pitched chime that often becomes more frequent as the evening progresses. This time it lets in a foreign, bitter breeze when the door swings open and closed again.

You can feel the chill from a distance — it resembles the crispness of autumn despite being comfortably settled in the middle of March. It nearly takes your breath away, prickles your skin and makes you grimace back a shiver. 

When your eyes leave Steve, a difficult feat considering he’s doing an alarmingly good impression of a walrus by sticking fries in his upper lip, you find that it wasn’t abnormally cold air at all. It was a Peter Parker spider sense form of anxiety that had felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over you.

Billy Hargrove used to turn heads when he walked into a room. 

Now he just sucks all the air out of it.

And it’s not like you haven’t seen him since the break up; for a while, the asshole was painted on the backs of your eyelids — he all but haunted your consciousness. You’ll see him around town on occasion, in his sunglasses and jean jacket and too-tight denim pants, while he struts around Main Street with his new girlfriend (otherwise known as, his flavors of the month).

You think this is the first time you’ve been in the same room as him since your split, though. It feels like it must be with the way your throat starts to tighten and you forget how to breathe. 

All at once, you’re scrambling for an exit. It’s like Billy’s a fire and his smoke is rapidly filling your lungs. Your legs start to tremble when your adrenaline spike. Your brain tells you to get out as quickly as you can before he burns you.

Steve notices the look of fear flood your features like a dark storm cloud. You were laughing just seconds before the door opened, equal parts with him and at him, but now you just looked terrified — like a child who’s just spotted a boogeyman in her closet.

He turns in the booth to find what haunted thing has just caught your eye and finds that it’s worse than any monster you could conjure up. It’s Billy fucking Hargrove, with his pretty hair and his pretty smile and his pretty girl under his arm.

His presence filled targeted, almost. Like he chose to come to this diner, on this day and at this time just to fuck with the group of you.

“Don’t even look at him,” Steve advises when he turns back to you. “Look at me, okay? He’s not even worth it. That asshole doesn’t deserve to ruin our day.”

And you try to listen to him. You try really, really hard to let him change that subject to the cold fries or Robin taking too long or a combination of the two, but you can’t focus on him. You’re already so overwhelmed at the sight of Billy that you can’t focus on anything else but him. 

You settle on the fact that you might just have to drag Steve and Robin out by their wrists because you can’t sit in this booth any longer, and you definitely aren’t hungry anymore.

And that’s when he spots you.

Your eyes lock and you freeze, immediately averting your gaze but catching the sudden sparkle in his own as he grins a sly, sadistic grin.

“No way,” you hear him say with a laugh under his breath. The sound of his voice makes you tense. You hadn’t realized how at peace you’d been all this time without having to hear it. Now it feels like so many little needles piercing your skin.

“Fancy seeing you guys here,” he greets after he’s made a b-line for your booth and dragged Vicki Carmichael along with him. He smiles with all of his pearly whites while he smacks pungent wintergreen gum between them. 

When he slides into the booth beside you, he does so without invitation, and forces Vicki to slink in next to Steve.

And like it wasn’t already awkward enough, you know Vicki — like, know her, know her. There was a drunken makeout at a Halloween party in ’82. Then a one night stand with her brother before he left for college in ’83. And then her Tom Selleck clone of a father at a sleepover for her eighteenth birthday in ’85. 

You’re not exactly proud of it, but you’ve gotten a rather hefty taste of her family tree, and the fact that both of you know it makes it that much more uncomfortable.

“We’re kinda busy here, Hargrove,” Steve tells him when he notices how comfortable he’s making himself in your booth.

“Ooh… Is this a little date?” Billy teases with a grin.

Steve’s face falls. “…No.”

“Oh, right,” he nods, though the sardonic lilt in his voice tells you that he already knew the answer. He crosses his arms on the tabletop and turns to look at you with eyes bluer than any ocean. They flicker up and down your form. Suddenly, you feel self-conscious in your baggy jean and tank top duo.

“You’ve been seeing that guy, haven’t you? What’s his name again? The, uh— the freak?”

“His name is Eddie,” Steve answers for you, defending him because you can’t find the words to.

“That’s it,” Billy snaps his fingers, then points. He nudges you with his shoulder. The familiar feel of his jean jacket against your skin makes you wince. “God, you must be runnin’ out of steam over there, huh? I mean… the freak? Seriously? You couldn’t do any better than that?”

The jokes were tolerable coming from Jim and Steve and Robin — they weren’t funny by any means, but you could stomach them because you knew they were jokes. But this? This was just to hurt you. And it works too easily because Billy knows exactly how to break you. He knows all the wires to cut and buttons to push because the puzzle of shattering your psyche is one he memorized long ago.

“He’s actually a really nice guy,” you manage through a tight throat, still staring at your fidgeting hands.

“Well, that’s good,” he hums like you need his approval. “It’s about time, right?”

You huff and choose to entertain him despite your better judgment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He only shrugs. “I don’t know... Just, you know, that found a guy willing to settle for you. That’s all.”

“Settle?” you repeat, trying to laugh despite how tiny your voice sounds.

“You know what I mean, c’mon,” the blonde boy chuckles. “Sluts are fun and all, but they’re not the kinda girls you wanna settle down with. Steve knows what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Steve monotones quickly and without thinking, gaze hardened and jaw clenched. “And you need to leave.”

“I”m hungry, Billy,” Vicki whines, feeling every ounce of the tension surrounding her — like syrup or quicksand. She slides her permed bangs from her eyes and tucks a rogue strawberry strand behind her ear in a nervous tick. “Can’t we just get something to eat?”

“Alright, alright. I know when I’m not wanted,” Billy chuckles.

You grumble bitterly under your breath. “Apparently not…”

“I’ll see you around, Harrington,” Billy singsongs with a grin that wreaks of insincerity while his girlfriend slides out from the booth. He turns to look at you and squints. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? Matter of fact, point Munson my way, and I’ll give him a few pointers.”

You’re uncowed by his offer and angered by his mention of Eddie. Your eyes are stern and unwavering as you meet his gaze for the first time since he sat down beside you. 

“I think you could learn a thing or two from him, actually,” you retort, words sounding sweeter than the venom lingering behind them.

Billy’s grin only widens, impressed by your arguing. “Ooh… I forgot about the mouth you had on you, sweetheart.”

The use of the nickname makes you cringe. It doesn’t sound nearly as fulfilling as it does when it comes from Eddie. Now, it just sounds artificial — degrading.

He leans in close to you like he’s about to tell you a secret and splays his arm along the back of the booth behind you. The nicotine on his breath makes you grimace; it’s intoxicating when it comes from Eddie, disgusting from the boy sitting next to you. 

His eyes are bluer so up close, darker than you remember them being, and you notice he’s trimmed his usual stubble to a patchy mustache. He looks like the grown-up version of the boy you used to know, visually more mature but still the same in his way.

“When he gets bored of you — because, let’s be serious, he will get bored of you — you know where to find me,” Billy murmurs to you, a cynical smirk on the edges of his lips. “I’ll make sure you stay nice and broken in for the next dozen guys that want a taste—”

Steve can’t hear a word from where he sits across the booth, but he’s fuming with fists clenched under the table anyway. He hates how close Billy is to you, more so how uncomfortable you look with the proximity and how his words make you flinch. 

“Alright, you need to leave,” he blurts. “Now.”

Before the blonde could respond with a quip of his own, Robin all but teleports to the head of the table. She’s standing in front of the four of you suddenly, carrying a basket of fries and a strawberry milkshake and wearing a frown on her face.

“You’re in my seat, dickwad,” she monotones, even though she hadn’t been sitting next to you before. She’s not the least bit threatened by the Californian douchebag.

Billy smiles up at her anyway. “I was wondering where the third musketeer was! Still a carpet muncher, Buckley?”

“Happily.”

“What do ya say me and you head up to Lover’s Lake later?” the boy offers despite his date shifting awkwardly a few feet away. It’s a joke, for reasons that are more than obvious, and that’s what makes it so unbearably unfunny. 

He slinks out from the booth. The lack of his warmth is strangely comforting and you’re able to breathe for the first time in five minutes. He stretches his back out when he stands to his full height in front of Robin, then shrugs with his hands splayed on his hips.

“Maybe you just need some good dick. I mean… we’re gonna die anyway, right?”

“I’d rather,” she quips with a rouge-tinted smile.

The way it makes him laugh is startling. He finds a strange humor in being rejected — in most things, really. You still haven’t forgotten the cackles that left his bloodied mouth when Steve delivered blow after blow to the boy’s face in the middle of his living room, like it was all a fun game to him.

That was, of course, before Billy got the upper hand and nearly killed Steve that night. He laughed about it that too, until Max knocked him out with a baseball bat.

He’s got the same grin on his face now as he did then when he turns to look at you. A pink and pretty smirk, just wide enough to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. It’s nothing short of taunting, like he’s mocking you without having to say anything at all.

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” Billy repeats. He keeps smacking his gum between his teeth and winks at you before spinning on the heel of his boot. He guides Vicki with him to the counter with a hand on the back pocket of her jeans.

Even when Robin slides in next to you and effectively pierces the bubble of tension that had already started to shrink with Billy’s leaving, you still find it hard to breathe. You have to keep reminding yourself, forcing oxygen in and out with wobbling breaths through your nose, or else you just stop altogether.

The other two move on rather quickly, having no trouble finding their voices again after he’s gone. Their words are muffled, though, like they’re underwater.

“I forgot what an asshole he was,” Robin grumbles.

“Well, I didn’t,” Steve retorts, eyes scanning the basket of fries for the most strategic pick of the bunch. “I can still barely breathe through my nose.”

“That’s because you didn’t go to a doctor, dingus.”

“Because I didn’t need a doctor, Robin.”

“Yeah, because being concussed three times in two years is so healthy—”

Your eyes act like magnets as they stay locked on Billy’s form. He leans in closer to Vicki to tell her something, then pats her once on the ass before walking towards the exit again. The door dings when he swings it open. Through the window, you catch him pulling out a red and white pack of cigarettes — the same brand of Marlboro Reds he’s been smoking since he was in middle school.

“You okay?” you hear Steve say, but it sounds too far away for you to realize he’s talking to you.

Robin nudges you with her shoulder to jog you from your stupor. You blink hard once and then turn to her with wide eyes. “What?”

“You doing alright over there?” the girl wonders.

“Yeah,” your answer is too quick and too high-pitched to be true. “Fine.”

“Like, fine as in you’re actually fine, or fine as in, if I leave you alone for too long, I’m gonna find you living under a bridge like a troll?”

You roll your eyes at her. “Fine as in, if someone bums me a cigarette, I’ll be good as new.”

Steve huffs when you hold out the palm of your hand toward him. He’s the only one of you who smokes recreationally enough to carry a lighter and pack of cigs with him. You swear he only keeps it with him because the weight of them makes him feel cool. You’re grateful for them now, though, and for the escape they unexpectedly provide you.

His fingers are warm when they brush your hand. The metal zippo he drops in the center of it is far colder and carries a comforting sort of weight to it. He thumbs a cigarette from the pack for you, and you take it with a sardonic smile and a sickly sweet “thank you, Stevie.” 

Robin gets out of the booth to let you slide out of it.

The door chimes again, this time over your head when you open it. 

Fresh, spring air nearly knocks you on your ass when it hits you for the first time. You realize then, that you’d forgotten to tell yourself to breathe and now your vision’s all swimmy. The cool breeze tries its hardest to quell your swelling anger, but you’re still at a simmering boil. Fists clenched over the lighter and cig duo in your palm and your sneakers slapping angrily against the cracked pavement.

That’s what signals your arrival, the raging stomps that echo in the alleyway Billy takes his smoke break in. 

The boy takes a puff of his cigarette and smirks on the exhale at the sight of you. All he needs is one glance to see how angry he’s made you. It’s an innocent, childlike sort of rage that’s got you all scrunched face and red — a heartbroken girl on a war path.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me, sweetheart,” he taunts with his signature sarcastic smile. He holds his arms at his sides, like he’s waiting for some kind of embrace from you. “You used to be like that all the time — all over me, you know? Clingy.”

“You know what you used to be?” you ask him once you’ve planted yourself a few feet away from him, fists shaking at your sides in a nearly overwhelming mixture of rage and apprehension.

“What’s that?”

“Nice! You used to be nice! Or do you not remember that?” you wonder rhetorically. Your anger fades slowly, an ebbing tide, as a reminiscent sadness eclipses your fury — a flood of blue in all your red. 

The sharp frown between your brows crumbles and so does your clenched jaw as your harsh features crumple like a balled-up piece of paper. You look upon the man that broke your heart with all the shattered pieces of it.

“You used to let me sleep over at your place when I was too scared to sleep alone at mine, and you’d bring me food when I told you I hadn’t eaten all day, and you’d take me on drives when you knew I hadn’t left my apartment in days,” you ramble in a single breath, gesticulating wildly with your hands — waving them at him and at you and the still air between. They fall hopelessly to your sides. 

“You used to be so sweet, Billy…” you conclude with a wavering breath. Your chest trembles on the inhale as you straighten out your shoulders and lift your chin, trying your best not to look as defeated as you feel. “And you know what you are now?”

Billy grins that stupid grin at you, the one that almost looks kind. Almost. It’s still soft in all its insincerity, like a parent entertaining their kid that’s gone on some meaningless tangent.

“No, sweetheart,” he answers after a beat. “What am I?”

“Not nice.”

He scoffs out a laugh.

“You used to tell me, all the time, how scared you were about ending up like you’re dad—” he tenses at the mention of the man, of his own monster in his own closet. “—He’d beat you black and blue every night, and I’d bandage all your cuts and put makeup on you when you begged, so you could go out and pretend like everything was normal. And you know what? You’re just like him!”

Billy doesn’t cower when you walk closer to him. He’s got no reason to be afraid of you, but your words hit him in a place far deeper than a thousand bloodied fists.

“What he did to you, is exactly what you do to me… Or do you know see that?” you don’t wait for a sarcastic reply, mostly because you wouldn’t see the indicators of it through the tears that blur your vision. “You’re not punching me, but it feels like you are. You break me over and over and over and I have to pretend like everything’s just normal and that we—”

“Real mature of you. To bring out the dad-card,” he interjects, if only to stop your ramblings so that he might not have to hear the truth that comes with them.

“You used to he nice,” you repeat, you agonize, you deflate. “Or… Or did you never use to be?”

The shell of your mind answers for you, paints itself with all the memories you’ve been trying like hell to forget for the past six months. It’s easier to pretend the bad things aren’t real than unravel all the reasons why they were bad to begin with, you find.

The negative memories come together like renaissance paintings — dark and gloomy and blotted with too realistic tears and spatters of blood. The oil stains the backs of your eyelids, destined to remain there forever like paintings in museum that’ll stand the test of time if you nurse them well enough.

You hadn’t yet been able to forget the screams and the cracks of fists colliding with bone. They tend to keep you up at night, even when you squeeze your eyes shut and beg for your memory to be wiped away completely. 

Billy crouches over Steve’s chest and pummels wholehearted punches to the boy’s face, never tiring in their force, even well after the boy goes limp underneath him. You beg for him to stop while trying like hell to shield Max from the sight of it all. 

For a while, you’d blamed yourself for it — for Max being there in the first place and for Steve’s cuts and bruises. 

You’d taken the girl and sought refuge in the Harrington home after witnessing a rather heated fight between Billy and his father. There was a sudden urge within you to take her far away from it before it ended how it always did — in weeping cuts and salty tears and insincere apologies when the cops were called.

But you made it worse anyway. 

For Max, for Steve. 

And you apologized profusely for it after, cried to the boy in his bathroom while you nursed his cuts like you were the one who put them there. 

When he told you it wasn’t your fault, you didn’t believe him. Not until now. Not until you realized that Billy had always been angry — always raging with an ocean of fear and grief and violence.

When he fought with his sister, you thought it was normal, that that’s just what siblings did. But the way she cried to you after couldn’t have been normal. Neither could the unearthly fury that washed over Billy like a riptide when he found out you and Max had sought safety in Steve The Hair Harrington — angered that it was Steve and that he couldn’t be that for the both of you.

And then there was the fights. The yelling and screaming and crying fights that felt like the end of the world every single time. The kind of fights you shouldn’t be having when you’re eighteen. You thought that maybe there was some normalcy in the cheating and the secrecy and Billy’s accompanying assholery because that was all you’d ever known.

Or maybe because you had to tell yourself that was normal in relationships because you didn’t want your’s to end. Billy was the first guy to give a damn about you in ways that went beyond just sex. How were you supposed to just give that up?

But then there’s Eddie — Eddie The Freak Munson, who was really just sunshine wrapped up in leather jackets and wild hair and chunky rings and metal music. He makes you happy. The sort of happy that makes you suspicious because something bad has to counteract all the goodness he makes you feel. 

Maybe that’s what this was. 

Seeing Billy after having wrapped yourself in a blanket of Eddie’s warmth made you see somehow more clearly. He loves on you so much that it’s made a mockery of everything else. 

Whatever you had with Billy wasn’t normal, it was a goddamn shit show. He loved you when it was convenient and then had you believing it was the real thing, that you wouldn’t find it anywhere else, when you tried to leave him. 

It was a lie, all of it.

The realization makes you falter.

“Oh, god…” you sigh, voice fragile like cracking glass. “Maybe you never used to be…”

For the first time ever, you see Billy’s grin shake. The edges of it flitter, like he’s fighting to keep the corners quirked up. And his eyes have gone a lighter shade of blue, the way they always did when he blinked back angry tears as he talked about his father.

It isn’t rage glassing his eyes now. It’s something sadder, but still as real — something you never got from him in the two years you were together.

He tries, still, to cover it all up. He smacks his lips against his teeth, sympathetically. “Sorry it took you this long to figure that out.”

The laugh you exhale then is heavy with sadness. Your smile is far away and so is your gaze as you stumble back from him. You turn your head to the edge of the alley where mom’s with strollers and people in fancy suits bustle on the sidewalk and keep your eyes on the strangers that whiz by you’ll probably never see again. 

“This is… This is pointless,” you murmur. His lean form is blurry through the burning tears you blink away. “Every time I see you, it’s just more bullshit so let’s just— let’s just leave each other alone, okay?”

Billy takes a puff from his cigarette. When he sighs, white smoke billows from his plump, pink lips. “That’s a shame… I was just thinking that you were the most interesting you’d ever been.”

The ebbing tide that had just left you rushes back in a bubbling scarlet wave. His words don’t make you sad anymore, they just make you angry all over again because you know you don’t deserve them. And you’re not entirely sure why he’s chosen you to antagonize out of all the other girls who’d made the mistake of falling for him, but you’re too far past the point of not caring to ask.

“Bother me again and I tell Chief Hopper,” you threaten even though you don’t feel very threatening just now. “I know you’re not scared of me, but you’d be stupid to be scared of him.”

“Why’s that?” he wonders before sticking the half-gone stick between his lips again.

“Because he runs Hawkins. And he fucking hates you—” for what you did to me, you almost say. You swallow the words down like bile before they have the chance to spew out. “And… And be nice to Vicki. Okay? She’s too good for you. Don’t do to her what you did to me.”

Your plea for another is the last thing you say to Billy before you turn away from him. You wouldn’t be upset if it was the last thing you ever said to him. You’re grateful for the resounding silence that follows. It’s nothing but the sound of your receding footsteps and the soles of his shoes scrapping the concrete as he snuffs out his cigarette. 

There is no snarky remark or insincere plea — just two people who used to love each other that have no idea to exist together anymore. 

When you step outside the brick confines of the alleyway, you feel as though a fraying string that had always connected the both of you had been finally cut.

It allows you to take a deep breath in for the first time in months. A lungful of fresh air that cleanses you, body and mind.

And when you catch Steve and Robin idling at the corner and doing a terrible job of pretending like they hadn’t just been eavesdropping, you don’t get upset or angry with them — you don’t feel much of anything, really.

You just hand the boy his lighter and unused cigarette and let them comfort you on the drive back to your apartment.

A misery sandwich. That’s what Robin calls the three of you and the heaping pile you lay in. 

Your queen-sized bed is in no way meant to accomodate three moderately sized adults, but you make it work anyway, like you always do.

Steve lays on his back, legs crossed and hands tucked under his head. Robin is on her stomach on the other end of the mattress, arms wrapped around the pillow she smushes the side of her face into. You lay between the both of them — on the both of them. Sprawled out sideways, you’ve got your head on propped up on Steve’s ribcage and your legs thrown over Robin’s thighs. 

The awkward position is the most comfortable you’ve ever been.

“I can’t believe that asshole had the nerve to show up to the diner on our day,” the boy rants. “And then sit in our booth, I mean— who does he think he is?”

Robin’s response is mostly muffled by the pillow. “I thought he left, like, forever ago.” 

“Maybe he just couldn’t stay away. It’s Hawkins, shit attracts shit, right?” Steve answers with a shrug that jostles your head slightly. It doesn’t little to knock you from your stupor, though, where you’ve been stuck for the better part of the day. You pick at the skin around your nails with little regard for how red and raging it's gone.

He notices this and thumps you on your temple — hard enough for you to feel it, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt you. 

You turn your chin to your shoulder to look over at him. He tilts his own head to stare down at you, honey-tinted gaze somehow stern and soft at the same time. “If he bothers you again, I’ll kill him.”

You’re instantly warmed by his protective disposition. You know that he cares about you, even though you like to joke that he doesn’t. Steve hurt you once, made a promise to himself to make it up to you, and then just never left you alone. 

You’re grateful for it. 

You’re not sure who’d be the butt of every joke if he wasn’t around.

“Good to know,” you answer, nodding against his side and trying to hide the smile he gives you. You fail. “You think if he breaks your nose again, it’ll pop back into place?”

His face falls. “You’re real sweet, you know that?”

You open your mouth to respond, something along the lines of “I’m always sweet. You of all people should know that, Stevie,” before a knock sounds at the front door. It comes in the several rhythmic raps that Eddie is known to give when he’s got a tune stuck in his head. 

Apparently now, it’s the chorus to “Why Can’t This Be Love?” The Van Halen song he said he couldn’t stand before you.

Robin huffs at the sound of the muffled taps. She frowns like a child. “Who the hell…?”

“It’s just Eddie,” you affirm through a half-hearted grunt as you rise from your comfy position.

That brightens the two of them up almost immediately. Her and Steve share a look you can’t place as they grin at one another. Then they turn back to you with identical mischievous twinkles in their eyes. “Your boyfriend is here,” the former of the two singsongs.

You roll your eyes, but make no move to correct her. 

When you stand from the bed and make the short journey towards the door, you hear the patter of their feet following close behind you. 

“Gonna go all the way tonight?” Steve teases and jabs you on the shoulder. “Do you want us to leave?”

“No, nothing is happening. And yes, I think you should leave,” you monotone playfully.

Robin rushes past you suddenly and grabs the brass door handle before you’re able. She swings it open without thinking twice about it. Her sudden appearance, coupled with the fact that it isn’t you, startles the man on the other side of the door.

Eddie’s umber eyes go wide, brows raising and disappearing beneath his fluffy bangs, as his head jerks back.

“Eddie Munson,” the girl full-names the stranger she’s never spoken a word to before now. She leans against the doorway and effectively blocks the boy’s view of you. Steve, who squeezes himself in beside her, doesn’t make it any easier. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You too, Buckley…” he wavers, trying to peer past them for any sight of you.

“Perfect timing, Eds,” you call out from behind them. “They were just about to leave.”

He’s relieved at the sound of your voice — even more so at your appearance when the two in front of you step off to the side to toe on their sneakers. 

You don’t look much different than when he saw you last. You’ve put on some makeup that’s started to smudge after the long day and changed your baggy sweatshirt for a more fitted tank top and boxers, but other than that you’re still the same. Still familiar and comforting in your way, a home away from home.

His smile is a tired one and it wobbles at the edges. “Oh, shit, am I— am I interrupting something?”

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him. “You’re saving me, actually.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Steve scoffs. “You love us.” 

The boy pulls you into a hug before he leaves, and it’s not the rarest thing in the world, but embraces like this do tend to be few and far between. He whispers  “use protection” in your ear and then a sharp “ow!” when you jab him in the ribs.

He and Robin smile kindly at Eddie when they walk by him and out the door, but waste barely a second before turning back around and grinning wildly at you. Steve flashes you a thumbs up while she mouths a cartoonish ‘good luck’ — like it’s the first time you and Eddie had ever been alone together. Like they were just on your ass about having been with him this whole time.

You usher Eddie and shut the door behind them. A quiet sort of peace settles on the apartment like a weighted blanket. The boy revels in every bit of its warmth.

Exhaustion drips from him like syrup. He’s sticky with it. His eyes have lost their usual twinkle, weighed down now with the burden of his fatigue. His face has lost most of its color, leaving a pale sheath of monotoned skin, and his hair is wilder than normal, with an unintentional sort of ruggedness to his curls.

It’s what being without you has done to him.

“You okay?” you ask him softly. It almost makes him want to cry.

“Yeah,” he answers anyway and idles in the spot where your kitchen meets your living room. “Just had a pretty shitty day. Wanted to spend time with you.”

“Me too… About the wanting to spend time with you part— and the shitty day part, too, I guess.”

Eddie smiles at your rambling, but purses it to the side to conceal it from you. “And since it is just about our…” he trails off and bends his elbow to check the watch on his wrist. “…Twelve hour anniversary, I picked us up some takeout.”

He sets the plastic bag on the counter. The red logo of Oriental Jade on the side of it makes your stomach roll with a distant hunger. You hadn’t realized how starved you were feeling after you abandoned your early dinner at Benny’s. It makes you more grateful for Eddie, who always seems to be on the same wavelength as you without even trying.

“Keep this up and we’ll be married before we hit hour twenty-four,” you joke as you rifle through the cartons — chow mein, sweet and sour chicken, dumplings, the works.

Eddie settles in next to you, propping his elbows on the countertop. “Well, I’m pretty sure the courthouse opens at nine, so… What were you thinking for the honeymoon? Hawaii? Bora Bora?”

“How about a cabin in the woods where no one can find us?”

“Hmm… Spooky. Sexy. I’m into it.”

You settle in the living room and eat on the couch while She Ra re-runs play on the television. You try to teach Eddie how to use chopsticks, though he can only work them with his non-dominant hand and all the wrong finger placements. You think it’s cute to watch him fumble with them, and you giggle about it until you’re scolding him for trying to feed Bowie some noodles. He laughs as you swat at him.

When all the containers are fully scrapped clean and tossed in the recycling bin, you migrate to the bedroom — which is perhaps too raunchy a phrase to use when the two of you only bury yourselves under the covers to talk shit.

Eddie drags out the chunky box fan you use when the air conditioner goes out in the summer — because it always goes out in the summer — and props it on the chest at the foot of your bed so the covers will billow around the both of you. “And it’s perfect because we can stay in the fort forever and not get hot,” he tells you, all giddy about it like he's a kid again.

“What if I get cold?” you retort.

Without missing a beat, he answers, “Well, lucky enough for you, I know several ways I can warm you up, sweetheart.”

He ditches his leather jacket and strips down to his boxers and settles in beside you underneath the blankets. The two of you lay shoulder to shoulder while you trace absentminded patterns on the palm of his hand and tell him about your day.

You make sure to leave out all the re-traumatizing-Billy-Hargrove bits, though. You focus mainly on the tense drive with Hopper and the small fight you’d had with Steve on the drive to the diner later that afternoon about the lyrics to Love My Way (both of you had been wrong).

Eddie tries his hardest to focus on your story and your fleeting touches, but he’s too far in his own head. You tell him all these things but he can’t stop thinking about himself — about whether or not you might’ve brought him up somewhere in between. 

He wouldn’t have blamed you, if you had. Steve and Robin are your closest friends and, for whatever reason, so is Chief Hopper, you’re bound to bring him up eventually. He was just hoping it would’ve been in a better capacity. Maybe about how kind he was or what a god he was in bed — not how he could only be one of those things because he’d never been anything in bed.

“It doesn’t make things weird between us, does it?” he wonders out of the blue.

You halt mid-sentence and turn to him with furrowed brows. “What?”

Eddie realizes then, that the first half of the conversation with you had only happened in his head. He prays that it’s too dark beneath the covers for you to see how red his cheeks get. “Just… What we talked about this morning. About me… you know…” He finds it hard to say the words. Or any of them at all.

“Why would it make things weird?”

“I don’t know. Because I wasn’t… totally honest with you, I guess? I feel a little bad about it, you know?”

“It’s okay,” you assure and turn on your side to be closer to him. Eddie stays on his back, more than happy to let you cuddle further into him. “I guess I do wish you’d said something before, though.”

His chest tightens. “I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know how to—”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad!” you interject quickly when you catch the spiral of regret he was about to twist himself into. You curl tighter into his side, tossing a leg over his thigh and wrapping your hand around his bicep in an effort to melt with him. When he turns to face you, your noses nearly brush.

 “That’s not how I meant it. I just meant that, if I’d known before, I wouldn’t have… I would’ve taken things slower. I wouldn’t have been so, you know, so all over you.”

He hates how apologetic you sound. Like there was ever an ounce of him that would want to take back what happened that night at his trailer or a part of him that might hate how much you love on him.

“I liked it. I do like it.”

“Maybe we can just start over,” you offer. “Pretend like none of that ever happened.”

Eddie knows there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to forget about a single damn thing — not his cum stained jeans and how you looked so pretty washing them for him, not the feel of your tits in his mouth or you wrapped around his fingers, not how you made him blow his load all over his fist just by talking to him. 

He goes along with it anyway, though, just for you.

“Okay...” he nods slowly, then squints over at you. “You’re still my girlfriend, though, right?”

“Of course I am,” you giggle.

He grins proudly to himself. “Well then… Hope it’s not too early to have our first kiss then?”

It makes you roll your eyes because it’s such an Eddie Munson way of asking to kiss you. You told him earlier the day that he never had to ask you — in fact, you’d prefer it if he’d just kiss you out of the blue and take your breath away without you ever knowing it was coming. But there was something foreign and sweet in his little reassurances.

“Kiss me silly, Eddie Spaghetti,” you beam. He twists on his side to press tiny pecks to your smile.

It’s rather strange, you find, to kiss someone this way without the intention of it ever becoming something more. You kiss him just to kiss him — just to map the outline of his cupid’s bow and memorize the pattern of his tongue. Just to feel him, as much of him as your mouth will allow you to.

With one arm curled under his head and the other cradling your jaw, when his watch alarms — high-pitched beepbeepbeeps in quick succession — it’s sudden and close to your ear. 

Your lips click in protest when they part. His are pink and swollen and glossy with your spit. He smiles with them. “Happy twelve hour anniversary, sweetheart.”

“How long are you gonna make that stupid joke?” you laugh like your heart isn’t swelling so much you’re scared it might burst entirely.

“Uh, I was thinking… forever. Yeah. That sounds about right,” he concludes after a moment of feigned thought. He turns his watch off again and you swear you see him set for another twelve hours from now.

“Forever?” you echo.

“Uh-huh. Forever—” he presses his lips to yours once. “—And ever—” Twice. “—And ever.”

Eddie kisses you until you’re flat on your back and surrendering to each of his tiny little pecks. You twist your hands in his hair and let him love on you a little while more. You giggle when his mouth trails from your lips to your chin to your jaw to your neck. Please don’t get bored of me, you beg silently within your laughter.

I don’t think I could even if I wanted to, he answers with each kiss his sprinkles to your starved skin. How could I, when you’re the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me?

[foreingersgod]

I just saw the kate martin x jealous reader and I LOVED IT !!

Can you try to do a jealous kate martin x reader this time???

Literally obsessed with your fics !! 🥹❤️💋

i’ve been waiting for this hehe (you guys have been so nice to me, i love you all sm)

Night at the Gala . KM

pairing: kate martin x reader

synopsis: kate gets jealous <3

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

kate had an event with her team this weekend. some sort of fancy gala to kick start the season, you think. kate hadn’t told you much about it, just that it was a very elegant event and that she wanted you there. and of course you accepted.

you had bought a dress just for the occasion after raiding your closet and realizing you didn’t have anything fancy enough. you opted for a floor length gown, black to match kate’s suit. the neck line had a bit of a dip, which you were hesitant about, but kate assured you it was perfect. “easy access for later” she said.

6 o’clock rolled around, friday night crowds bustling about outside your apartment. you and kate were in the bedroom getting ready to go to the gala. you were still in pajamas, sat at the vanity to do your hair and makeup. kate was busying herself with the cuffs of her blazer. once the last curl fell gently off the iron, you brushed out your hair and ducked into the bathroom to change. it was a stunning dress, really, long and satin with straps looping around your shoulders. the fabric hugging all of your curves so delicately. plus the neckline was definitely doing you favors.

when you emerged, dress zipped up and hair cascading around your face, kate stood waiting. she looked up upon your arrival, lips slowly parting as she took in every inch of you.

“you look absolutely breathtaking” she managed to say, having been absolutely speechless at the sight of you.

“thanks, babe” you smiled, putting on your heels so you could leave the apartment on time. “you ready?”

you attempted to walk past her to grab your bag from the vanity, but she stopped you, hands finding the small of your back.

“you know on second thought,” she purred into your ear “maybe we should just stay home, i’m sure they won’t notice”

she lets her hands wander. her fingers toying with zipper of the gown as you rolled your eyes playfully.

“as much as i would love to stay home with you,” you said “i think the gala will be fun!”

“alright, alright, but this thing is coming off the second we get back, got it?”

“yes m’am”

and with that, you were out the door and headed to the gala.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

the night was going wonderfully, you and kate were having plenty of fun, just as you thought. you caught up with kate’s team and made polite conversation with a few of their partners. kate met with some people as well, discussing her stats and such. things were going smoothly.

you were finishing up a conversation with caitlin, retiring to the bar where kate sat looking for you. she was on her phone, scrolling mindlessly when you took the seat next to her.

“hey, baby” you put your hand on her shoulder “what’re you up to?”

“just responding to some things and waiting for you, lost you back there” she kissed your forehead as you snuck a sip of her drink.

“yea sorry, caitlin pulled me aside earlier to-” you started to tell kate about the conversation you had when you were abruptly interrupted by a tap on your shoulder.

you turned your head around to see a woman, yours and kate’s age, standing behind you. she was tall, blonde, and very pretty. she had a gown on as well. hers about the same length, but pink and strapless. the woman had a nervous smile on her face as she caught your attention.

“hi, oh my god i’m sorry but i just wanted to ask you about your dress!” she stuttered “it’s so beautiful you look absolutely stunning!”

you smiled, relieved it wasn’t some creep approaching you at the bar “wow thank you so much, that’s so sweet of you! yea it’s from bergdorf goodman!”

the woman took the seat next to you, extending her arm to introduce herself “i’m madeline, by the way! i’ve never heard of that brand before, but it seems like their work is incredible!”

you introduced yourself as well, accepting her hand shake. she seemed like such a nice person and you were so flattered that she thought your dress was beautiful. you indulged in light chit chat, telling her about the details of the dress. you told her about how hard it was to get the measurements right and how the straps were so cute, but a pain to get over your shoulders. it was an extremely pleasant conversation.

while you were engaging with madeline, kate sat on the opposite side of you, jaw clenched and lips pursed. she was slightly livid to say the least. she was not very happy with the fact the some other tall blonde was calling you gorgeous, that job was meant for her and for her only.

she hated the way that the woman sat down next to you, someone who was clearly occupied with her girlfriend. she was totally stealing your attention away while you were in the middle of a conversation. kate was irked by the way you just rolled with it, letting the girl shower you in compliments.

who did this girl think she was?

“oh, let me introduce you to kate” you gestured toward her “she’s-”

“i’m her girlfriend” kate cut in, giving the girl a tight lipped smile.

“very nice to meet you” she nervously smiled, a bit put off by kate’s sudden attitude.

you, too, were caught off guard by her response. kate was just fine two second ago and now she was acting snarky with this very kind woman. it was incredibly unlike her.

you shook it off and tried to continue your conversation with madeline. as she chatted with you about one of her friends, an upcoming designer that was interning in paris, you felt kate’s shoulder come in contact with yours. she removed her hand from their place in her pockets, sliding them over to your thigh and giving it a squeeze. you took it as a comforting act, knowing she liked to remain close to you. then she lowered her head, placing a frail kiss to your shoulder, clear for everyone to see. her hands were beginning to move up and down the length of your leg as she continued to trail kisses along your clavicle. she was never this crude in public.

you tried to lightly shove her away, trying to tell her this wasn’t the time. but she continued anyways, hands wandering to other places. poor madeline caught the hint, quickly making up an excuse to leave before she could finish her story.

“it was a pleasure meeting you, YN” she said “thanks for the details on the dress, i’ll definitely look into that brand!”

she scurried away and made her way to another table of attendees. you could only imagine how mortified she was by kate’s behavior.

“what are you doing?!” you whisper shouted into kate’s ear, nearly pushing her off you and out of her chair.

“what do you mean what am i doing?” she shrugged “i’m just trying to kiss you, is that a crime?”

“that wasn’t ‘just trying to kiss me’ and you know it.” you were pretty ruffled given the tone of your voice. “you hate being touchy in public, why are you all over me all of the sudden?”

“well because clearly…” she drawled out her sentence “some people can’t take a hint”

“wha- can’t take a hint? kate, baby i’m lost”

“oh come on” she crossed her arms matter of factly “madeline or whatever her name is? you can’t tell me she wasn’t trying to get in your pants”

you raise your eyebrows at her, close to laughing in her face “kate, oh my god”

“comes over here calling you gorgeous and inserting herself into a conversation? give me a break”

“sounds like someone’s jealous” you sing songed, poking at her chest. “you jealous honey?”

she sneered “no! when have i ever been jealous? i dont get jealous”

“apparently when i talk to other women, you do” you teased “it’s ok to be jealous kate. i like it when you’re jealous”

she quirked a brow “you do?”

“definitely” you smirked, reaching over to her, putting your hands on her thigh like she had done to you. under the overhang of the bar counter, you continued to trail up her leg as you felt her breathe hitch and body tense “but i’d prefer if you showed it to me in private”

she gulped deeply when you removed your hand and slid off your seat, motioning for her to take you home. “someone promised me that they’d be taking this dress of my by the end of the night, if i’m remembering correctly?”

she chewed at the inside of her cheek to suppress a groan. she followed you, leading you to the exit.

“let me take you home, YN”

[hotluncheddie]

omg I didn't realize you wanted chubby steddie asks 🙈

as much as we love the babygirlification of Steve Harrington..... I'm obsessed with boyish manly Steve who is chubby and Eddie is obsessed with him!!!! I'm thinking about your one fic with the sweaty tank top!!!!! do you have more thoughts on this??

yesssssss!!! anon yes yesssssssss!!!!!

not me being like 'yeah! sweaty task top fic nice nice' then realising i have like three different posts that have Steve in a sweaty tank top lol

thankfully @scoops-aboy86 came in clutch with a new tank top sciario <3 (and held my hand thru writing the end lmao ty pal)

but i just love an ex jock trope, i love bulk under muscle and i think big beefy hairy guys are hot - and Steve harrington deserves to be all of that, and more

and also, importantly, eddie munson deserves to have all of that too, in and around him, all the time, in the form of Steve Harrington.

-

Eddie had come to accept the wealth of things he could be into, the actual buffet of people and scenarios that could get his dick hard. He's had more than his fair share of knuckle biting orgasms over the ex chief of police Jim Hopper. Before and, maybe worse, after getting to know him.

So he knew what it was to have something of a shame wank. To enjoy a moustache or two and a paunch at a middle.

But nothing, no deep seated daddy issues or fantasy of being held down, could ever prepare him for Steve Harrington.

Post upside down, post eventual college and transition to work. Post two bed apartment with Robin, then two bed apartment with Robin and Eddie. Then actual full blow house with Eddie, and more often than not weekend guest Robin. Dating Steve for as long as has was one thing, loving Steve with everything he had was another, and being loved by Steve was something he still had nights of panic about - silent tears as fear and self doubt gripped his throat, nightmares about it all being an elaborate prank that sneak their way in even with Steves arms wrapped tight around his middle.

but Eddie had him.

Was allowed to love him, and worship Steve for all that he was worth. It was wonderful. Eddie knew that.

But it had its challenges. Nothing past Eddie could've done would help current Eddie for what he was in for.

Like how Steve had bulked up over the years, settled and filled out in a way that made those visions of Hopper, and guys from bars he really shouldn't have been at, all come surging back.

Steve was thick, and strong and still so achingly beautiful. Boyish in his actions at times but also protective and capable in a way that made Eddie swoon. Honest to god. Made him feel like a main character in one of those bodice ripper books he had seen (taken out and read) at the library.

And then Steve made it worse.

So so so much worse.

Because Steve went and got a tattoo.

Well, another tattoo. He added roses to go along with the robin and branch on his arm, adding to its greenery with red petals and thorns that Eddie knew were secretly for him. He’d said, offhandedly, that they were his favourite and he knows, because he knows Steve, that thats something he'd listen to and remember.

He’s a die hard romantic.

And now Eddie is going to die, hard.

Soon, if Steve doesn't put a proper fucking shirt on.

Steves been wearing his stupid, old, cropped, white tank top since the appointment. He's "letting the tattoo breathe", "doesn't like the feeling of the healing skin against the fabric", "wants to do it properly". "hates Eddie and wants him to die of hard dick, big-fat-ball disease."

He glares at Steve from the other end of the couch, and maybe only three of those things are something Steve's actually said, but, he thought them. All of them. Must have.

Because Steve's tank is so old it's nearly see through, the peak of his pink nipple evident and distracting. The cropped end keeps rolling up and exposing his wider bellybutton and soft sides. And, as always, with any tank top, with any tank top on Steve, hit tits are there - hairy and lovely and out.

'Steve, please.' Eddie whines, he doesn't think he can take much more.

Steve just raises his eyebrows, taking a swig of beer and not looking away from the tv. 'If I sweat too much, it'll mess with the healing.' He says.

Eddie just crosses his arms, sinks lower into the couch. ‘Can you put on a normal shirt at least? For my sanity, for that alone, please?' Not wanting to sound desperate, but he is desperate.

Steve sighs, muting the TV. 'C'mere.' He holds his arms out and Eddie crawls into his lap. Still sulking, arms still crossed. ‘Eddie, you’re the one who gave me the tattoo. I’m following your instructions.’ Steve says gently.

‘M’firing Robin for getting you to sign the info form.’ He grumbles.

Steve smiles at him, tucking some hair behind his ears. ‘You can’t fire her for doing her job baby.’

‘Maybe not’ Eddie sniffs. ‘But I’m not sharing my baby blue ink with her next time she gets one of her slutty little lady sailor pin ups booked in.’ He mumbles to himself.

Steve pulls Eddie in closer, hands on his waist as he leans in to whisper in Eddies ear. 'Aren't I being so good though? Following what you said, no strenuous activity for two days right?' His voice a little breathy, soft.

And that makes Eddie pause, makes his insides churn and his heart rate increase. 'Ye-yeah.' He rasps, eyes wide. 'So good Stevie.'

'So we have to wait until tomorrow, like you said, yeah?' Steve asks, eyes all big and sweet, lips in a little pouty.

Fuck. He's right. Eddie dug his own grave.

'Yeah.' He sighs. He can do it, for Steve.

Steve smiles sweetly at him, tapping Eddie on the ass and shifting him closer so Steve can unmute the tv and keep watching his game. 'Good boy.' Steve says, kissing Eddies temple.

…Wait. Eddie scrunches his eyebrows, half hard and confused.

But Steve just holds him closer. Eddie buries his head in Steve's neck, and whines.

[elryuse]

yandere ceo minji x secretary y/n ft. hanni???

A CEO Stole my Boyfriend

YANDERE CEO MINJI X MALE READER X HANNI

The jasmine first appeared subtly, a fleeting whiff that brushed past my nose as Y/n leaned in for a kiss. It was a foreign scent, not the familiar citrus and vanilla of my own perfume, but a heady, floral aroma that lingered long after he pulled away.

"What's that smell?" I asked, wrinkling my nose playfully.

Y/n, usually unflappable, stumbled over his words. "Uh, I, uh... must've walked by a new air freshener at the office."

His cheeks flushed a tell-tale pink, and a tiny seed of doubt sprouted in my gut. It was a flimsy excuse, but I chose to believe him. After all, Minji, our CEO, was notorious for pushing her employees to handle her eccentric demands. Extra-long hours and experimental air fresheners seemed par for the course.

But the scent persisted, clinging to Y/n's clothes like a secret memory. It coincided with the creeping changes in his behavior. Long hours at the office morphed into disappearing weekends, punctuated by terse phone calls and hurried excuses. The man known for his boundless energy and infectious smile seemed perpetually drained, a dark circle blossoming under his usually bright eyes.

"Work stress, huh?" I said one evening, trying to sound casual as I traced a finger along his furrowed brow.

Y/n flinched, his smile strained. "Yeah, just a rough patch. Minji's got us all jumping through hoops lately."

"Well, tell her to take it easy on you," I said, my voice tight with a growing unease I couldn't quite place. "You deserve a break."

He offered a weak smile. "I will. Maybe we can finally take that Napa Valley trip after all."

The anticipation crackled between us, a promise whispered under stolen kisses and shared dreams. Then, the announcement. Minji, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm on the conference table, declared a "critical business trip" to LA. Y/n was needed, she proclaimed, urgency lacing her voice.

The air in the room went cold. "But what about our trip?" I blurted out, unable to contain the tremor in my voice.

Minji's eyes, usually calculating, flickered with something akin to amusement. "Oh, the Napa trip? I'm sure you two can reschedule. This, however," she said, her gaze lingering possessively on Y/n, "can't wait."

That night, as Y/n packed a meager overnight bag, the jasmine scent overwhelmed me. It clung to his clothes, a tangible reminder of the secret life he seemed to be leading. My voice, usually brimming with love, faltered as I asked, "Something's wrong, Y/n. Tell me."

He met my gaze, the usual warmth replaced by a flicker of panic. "It's just work, Hanni. Nothing to worry about."

"Is it, though?" I pressed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Because lately, it feels like there's a whole lot you're not telling me."

Y/n sighed, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. "It's complicated, okay? Just trust me, this trip is important."

But trust, that fragile thread that bound us together, began to fray at the edges. The following weeks were an agonizing ballet of deceit. Calls became scarce, filled with awkward silences and fabricated stories about "unexpected board meetings" that stretched late into the night. The Napa Valley trip became a painful memory, a cruel promise unfulfilled.

One evening, as Y/n hurried off to another "late-night meeting," my suspicions reached a boiling point. "Where are you really going, Y/n?" I demanded, my voice laced with a newfound steel.

He hesitated, the jasmine scent swirling around him like a poisonous fog. "It's... work, Hanni. You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt.

Just then, Minji's voice, dripping with saccharine sweetness, echoed from the doorway. "Don't worry, Hanni. Y/n's just helping me with a little... late-night brainstorming session." Her eyes, cold and calculating, met mine for a fleeting moment before flickering back to Y/n. "We wouldn't want the company to suffer because of a little weekend getaway, would we now, darling?"

Y/n flinched at the pet name, a flicker of something akin to disgust crossing his face before it was quickly masked by forced compliance. "Of course not, Minji," he mumbled, his voice devoid of its usual warmth.

Minji's smile widened, the tips of her perfectly manicured nails glinting under the harsh office lights. It was a smile that promised both reward and punishment, depending on who she was addressing. Her gaze, previously cold, softened slightly as it landed on Y/n. "Excellent. Now, shall we get going, darling?" she purred, her voice dripping with a possessiveness that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Y/n offered a weak nod and mumbled a goodbye as he scurried past me, the jasmine scent clinging to him like a shroud. The air grew thick with a suffocating silence as the door clicked shut behind him. Minji's smile, once playful, morphed into a predatory smirk as she turned her icy gaze towards me.

"So," she drawled, her voice taking on a mocking tone, "worried your little weekend getaway plans got foiled?"

My throat tightened, the words catching in my chest. Fear, cold and primal, coiled in my stomach. Minji wasn't just our CEO; she was a force of nature, a hurricane with a designer wardrobe. Witnessing her manipulate Y/n with such ease sent shivers down my spine.

"It's not a 'little' getaway," I managed to force out, my voice barely above a whisper.

Minji scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Oh please, darling. Don't tell me you and Y/n actually have anything exciting planned. Movie night and takeout for the hundredth time? Sounds thrilling." Her words were laced with a cruel amusement, each syllable designed to tear down the fragile image of our relationship.

Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the already distorted image of Minji reflected in the glass wall behind her. Maybe she was right. Our relationship, while comfortable, lacked the spark she seemed to be dangling in front of Y/n. But to expose our vulnerabilities in front of this woman, this predator, felt like signing a death warrant.

Before I could muster a retort, Minji glided closer, her smile morphing into something sinister. Her perfectly manicured nails tapped a haunting rhythm on the glass wall beside me. "You see, Hanni," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous, "Y/n craves excitement. He craves a challenge. Does takeout and Netflix offer that?"

I flinched at the venom in her voice, the way she spoke of Y/n as if he were a prize she'd already claimed. "We have a connection you wouldn't understand," I choked out, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of power.

Minji threw her head back and laughed, a cold, hollow sound that echoed in the empty office. "Oh, honey," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "The connection you have is about as exciting as watching paint dry. Trust me, Y/n deserves more. He deserves someone who can match his brilliance, someone who thrives on the same energy he does."

"And who might that be?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

The smile on Minji's face widened, revealing a glimpse of something sharp and predatory beneath the veneer. "Why, me, of course," she purred, leaning in so close that I could smell the cloying sweetness of her jasmine perfume. "Y/n and I," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we understand each other. We push each other. We're a perfect storm, darling. And let me tell you," she added, her eyes glinting with a chilling possessiveness, "he much prefers the view from here."

A strangled sob escaped my lips, tears streaming down my face. Her words were a brutal assault, stripping away the years of shared laughter, quiet nights in, and whispered dreams. In her warped reality, the comfortable love we shared was nothing compared to the thrilling chaos she offered.

Minji, seemingly satisfied with the devastation she'd wrought, straightened her designer blouse and adjusted her diamond necklace. "Well, this has been delightful," she purred, her voice saccharine once more. "But duty calls. Enjoy your… quiet evening, Hanni."

As she turned to leave, she paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on me with a malicious glint. "Oh, and one more thing," she said, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Don't even think about trying to get in my way. Y/n belongs to me now."

With that, she swept past me, leaving behind a trail of toxic sweetness and a suffocating silence.I collapsed into the nearest chair, the sobs racking my body morphing into a broken, tearful mess. The woman I loved, the man I thought I knew, both seemed to be slipping through my fingers, stolen by a predator who thrived on manipulation and control. The future I'd envisioned, a future filled with shared dreams and laughter, lay shattered at my feet, replaced by a chilling uncertainty that promised nothing but heartache.

Hours bled into one another, the silence of the apartment deafening. Every creak of the floorboard sent a jolt of fear through me, every rustle of leaves outside my window sounded like approaching footsteps. Finally, the sound of the key turning in the lock shattered the silence.

Y/n stumbled in, his face etched with exhaustion. The jasmine scent, once overwhelming, was now faint, barely clinging to him. Relief, a sweet and unexpected sensation, flooded my chest. But before I could speak, he sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.

"Y/n" I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying.

He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. "Hey," he croaked, his voice strained. "Sorry I'm late. Minji kept me swamped with work."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Work, huh?" The word tasted like ash in my mouth.

He sighed, a deep, weary sound. "Look, Hanni, about the trip…"

"Forget the trip," I whispered, cutting him off. "What's going on, Y/n? Who is she?"

He hesitated, his gaze flickering around the room before settling on me. "It's complicated," he began, then stopped, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. "She... she needs me, Hanni. For the company, I mean."

The lie, flimsy and transparent, hung heavy in the air. "Needs you how?" I pressed, my voice trembling.

Y/n winced, as if the truth pained him. "Look," he said, his voice low, "there's a big deal in the works, and Minji... she wants a public image boost. Apparently, being seen with a successful, 'happily engaged' partner is part of the strategy."

My stomach lurched. Engaged? The word echoed in the room, a cruel mockery of our crumbling relationship.

"Engaged?" I choked out, the word a foreign sound on my tongue.

"It's fake, Hanni," he said hurriedly, reaching for my hand. "Just a show for a month, to close the deal. Then everything goes back to normal. I promise."

His touch, usually a source of comfort, felt foreign now. Doubt gnawed at me, a persistent, unwelcome guest. "A month?" I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper. "A month of pretending to be in love with her, while I sit here alone, wondering if you'll even come home at night?"

Tears welled up in his eyes, mirroring the ones staining my cheeks. "Hanni, please. You have to trust me. This is about our future, ours. If I lose this deal, we both lose our jobs. You know how ruthless Minji can be."

His words held a chilling truth. Minji wasn't above playing dirty, and the thought of losing everything, our relationship and our careers, sent a fresh wave of terror through me.

Y/n cupped my face, his touch gentle but his eyes filled with a desperation that mirrored my own. "This is just temporary, Hanni. I love you. You know that, don't you?"

I searched his eyes, desperately seeking the truth. "Yes," I whispered, my voice thick with tears. "But what if this 'temporary' situation changes something? What if..."

"There are no ifs, Hanni," he insisted, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hand. "We'll get through this. Together."

His words offered a fragile comfort, a lifeline in a storm of uncertainty. But as I looked into his exhausted eyes, a flicker of doubt remained. Could our love survive a month-long performance of fake love with a manipulative predator? The answer, like the future itself, remained shrouded in a chilling uncertainty.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring the image of Y/n cupping my cheeks. His voice, raw with emotion, echoed in my ears. "This is just temporary, Hanni. I love you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," I whispered, clinging to his words like a lifeline. The terror of losing him, of losing everything, receded replaced by a fragile trust. "We'll get through this. Together."

He pulled me into a tight embrace, his body trembling against mine. In that moment, our love felt like a shield against the encroaching darkness. But unbeknownst to me, the darkness had already taken root.

Across town, in a luxurious hotel suite overlooking the city, Minji watched the news report with a triumphant smile. Y/n, his face pale and drawn, stood beside her, a hand awkwardly resting on her waist as they announced their "engagement" to the world. The image was perfect – the epitome of power couple success.

But behind the carefully crafted facade, a different story unfolded. Moments before the cameras rolled, Minji's demeanor had shifted from playful CEO to a cold, calculating predator. A glint of madness flickered in her eyes as she brandished a small, silver pistol, the weight of it chilling in Y/n's hand.

"See, darling," she purred, her voice laced with a dangerous sweetness, "sometimes a little incentive goes a long way. After all, I wouldn't want anything to happen to your precious Hanni, would we?"

The world spun around Y/n. The image of Hanni's tear-streaked face, filled with a love that knew nothing of the storm brewing around them, flashed in his mind. The gun felt foreign in his hand, a grotesque symbol of the twisted game he was forced to play.

Terror choked him, a cold, metallic taste in his mouth. He knew then, with a chilling certainty, that Minji wasn't bluffing. This wasn't just about a business deal or a public image boost; this was about possession, about claiming him as her own twisted trophy.

Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the image of the predator before him. "You can't do this," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.

Minji's smile widened, devoid of warmth. "Oh, but darling," she cooed, leaning in close, the scent of her jasmine perfume thick and cloying, "I already have."

With a cruel laugh that echoed in the opulent room, Minji shoved the gun back into his hand. "Now come along, fiancé," she purred, her voice dripping with a venomous possessiveness, "the world awaits its new power couple."

Y/n, his heart a lead weight in his chest, allowed himself to be led, a puppet on the strings of a madman's twisted game. As they stepped out into the blinding glare of the cameras, his smile felt like a lie, a mask hiding the terror that gnawed at his soul. He was trapped, a pawn in a deadly game, forced to play along for the sake of the woman he loved, oblivious to the darkness that now hung over their future.

As Y/n and Minji entered the office hand-in-hand, a wave of unexpected chaos greeted them. Gone was the usual quiet hum of productivity; instead, the air crackled with a manic energy. Cheers erupted from cubicles, confetti rained down from the ceiling, and streamers, a tacky explosion of colors, adorned the walls. Managers, usually stoic figures of authority, popped champagne bottles, their faces flushed with something more potent than bubbly.

Hanni, who had been anxiously waiting by the entrance, felt a cold dread seep into her bones. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the cacophony of celebration. She watched, paralyzed by a horrifying realization, as her co-workers, oblivious to the truth, showered congratulations on the "happy couple."

Minji, her smile stretched wide and predatory, reveled in the attention. Y/n, on the other hand, seemed like a ghost amidst the pandemonium. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes filled with a haunted emptiness.

One of the managers, a normally reserved woman named Sarah, approached them, a bottle of champagne clutched in her hand. "Congratulations, you two! We're all so thrilled!" she gushed, spraying them both with a liberal dose of bubbly.

Y/n offered a weak smile, the clinking of the glass against his shaking hand the only sound he managed. Minji, however, took center stage. She draped her arm possessively around Y/n's waist, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness.

"Thank you, Sarah! We're so happy to share our news with everyone." Her gaze, sharp and calculating, flickered towards Hanni who stood frozen by the door. A cruel smile played on her lips as she leaned in close to Y/n, her voice barely a whisper.

"Now," she purred, her eyes gleaming with malicious intent, "how about you seal the deal with a kiss for your fiancee?"

Y/n flinched, his body recoiling at the touch of her lips. But trapped in his web of lies, he had no choice. He turned towards Hanni, his eyes filled with a silent apology, and leaned in. The kiss, devoid of any passion, was a grotesque parody of intimacy played out for a cheering audience.

Hanni's world shattered. The man she loved, the future they had planned, all felt like a cruel illusion. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the scene before her. The cheers, the congratulations, the celebratory atmosphere – it all felt like a twisted nightmare.

Through the haze of her heartbreak, she saw Minji's triumphant smirk. It was a victory dance on the ruins of her love, a chilling reminder of the predator who had snatched away her happiness.

Grief and a cold fury warred within her. She wouldn't let Minji win. She had to find a way to expose the truth, to save Y/n from the monster he was now entangled with. But how? In the midst of the celebratory chaos, a desperate plan began to form in her mind. She had to act fast, before it was too late.

Hanni stumbled back as the cheers died down, the taste of champagne metallic on her tongue. The office, once a familiar space, now felt like a gilded cage, the air thick with the stench of Minji's victory. Y/n stood beside her, his face an emotionless mask, a heartbreaking reflection of the love they once shared.

"Congratulations are in order, wouldn't you agree, Hanni?" Minji purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy. Her perfectly manicured nails tapped a cruel rhythm against a champagne flute.

Tears welled up in Hanni's eyes, blurring the image of the celebrating crowd. Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow, but the thought of losing Y/n altogether was an unbearable prospect. She had to play along.

"Y-yes," Hanni stammered, forcing a watery smile. "Congratulations to you both."

Y/n's gaze flickered towards her, a flicker of pain crossing his features before being quickly masked by a practiced smile. "It's for the best, Hanni. You understand, don't you?"

Her heart ached, but a new resolve hardened her voice. "Yes, Y/n," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "If this is what makes you happy, then I… I support you."

A slow smile spread across Minji's face. This was the reaction she'd craved, the sweet surrender of a rival. "Oh, Hanni, darling," she cooed, leaning in close. The jasmine perfume was almost intoxicating, a heady mix of power and danger.

"There's always room for one more in this little game," Minji continued, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. "Perhaps you could be Our devoted… Pet. A loyal friend, always by Our side, wouldn't that be delightful?"

The suggestion was repugnant, a twisted mockery of their love. But the thought of being near Y/n, even under these humiliating circumstances, was a lifeline in a storm of despair.

Swallowing her pride, Hanni offered a weak nod. "Yes, Minji. I would… I would love to be your P-pet."

A triumphant glint sparked in Minji's eyes. "Excellent!" she declared, clapping her hands together. "Then this calls for a toast! To new beginnings, and a very happy… unconventional family!"

The champagne flute felt heavy in Hanni's hand as she clinked it against Minji's. This wasn't the future she'd envisioned, but it was the only way she could see Y/n again. She had become a pawn in a twisted game, a pet to appease a predator. But within the confines of this gilded cage, a spark of defiance flickered. She would bide her time, gather evidence of Minji's threats and manipulations. One day, she would expose the truth and reclaim her love, even if it meant playing the part of the devoted companion for a while longer. The game had just begun, and Hanni, though forced to her knees, was far from broken.

[hellodaydream1111111111111111]

A new toy meant a new addition to the box however, Hisoka had been putting it off. The time he would spend sewing would be a waste, especially when it was Illumi Zoldyck who was his new plaything. Not only was he strong but he was just plain adorable. Alas, his Illu was ignoring him after their first time in bed together. Hisoka was pretty sure he'd die from withdrawals if he didn't at least get something that reminded him of the assassin. He grabbed the sewing box from the closet, a pink heart with needles, thread, and felt. Perfect for making dolls of his fruits. Sitting by his coffee table he dug through the fabric throwing away colors that would disgrace his darling. Pink was certainly cute on Illumis's cheeks, black was a necessity for his hair and void-like eyes, and the color of his clothes was non-negotiable. illumi’s fashion taste was so… bland, which was why the last time the pair played a game Hisoka had bet that if Illumi lost he'd have to let the magician pick out some new clothes for him. He pulled out all the green fabrics he had and haphazardly tossed them into the usable color pile. A cutting session later he had all the pieces cut out and the doll mostly assembled, aside from his pins all he needed to do was the face but Hisoka was hoping to get some original pins from his darling when he got the chance. He started on the left eye, the process was quite repetitive so he felt the need to let his mind wander. The first time he'd ever met Illumi… The assassin had on a drab purple jacket and black pants, his only saving grace was his hair. He'd attacked Hisoka with god-like speed and Hisoka still remembered the way his blood dripped down golden pins, such a turn-on. The third time they’d met they weren't hostile toward each other. Hisoka watched as Illumi’s hair flew in the wind, blending in with the night sky from the top of the building they were on. Hisoka didn't remember how many times they’d seen each other before but, he did remember Illumi losing that bet and dragging him around different stores. He didn't remember how long they'd done just that but, he did remember Illumi walking out of a dressing room in those green clothes, a crop top, an undershirt, and pants. Which he decorated with pins around the collar and in the middle of the top. Most of all though, Hisoka remembered inviting him over and—

Ah, he'd pricked his finger, Illumi was so good at causing pain. The thought made him grin with lust. Unfortunately, it was better to clean it up. while Illumi looked stunning covered in blood, the man was far too promising for such trifling pleasures.

Past Hisoillu weekend! I saw someone here say that they felt robbed we didn't get to see Hisoka’s obsessed with Illumi phase so i figured it’d be great for this prompt.

[wroteclassicaly]

Winter is the bane of your existence, your fingertips prickling with that icy electric as they struggle to lock your door with trembling hands. You’d lost your mismatched gloves in the laundry pile you’ve yet to do, and with your dad coming for supper this weekend, you realized you had to venture out into the arctic rain to get a few things at the store. It’s only a block from your trailer, but the moment you leave the confines of a tin roof that shields you beneath safety on your porch — you wish you would have managed your finances better, to save back some cash to order a pizza instead. Holding onto the railing, your legs tighten to hold you steady, deep black sludge darkening the wood of your steps, covering your half-shoveled walkway. You clutch your Goodwill thrifted handbag, digging out your list and balancing your ink pen between your teeth.

This, of course, has you not looking as you approach your mailbox to start your journey, failing to hear snow pack itself down beneath bike tires. His big feet hit the pedals for all they’re worth, and he lets them slam into the ground to slide, cold instantly soaking through his boots, past his socks, and landing across his toes. He prevents a total collision, but his torso catches you by the shoulder and his arms release his mailbag, crashing into the ground along with your tangled limbs. Your purse goes flying across the road, list destroyed, ink pen a casualty. It takes you a few moments to realize that you’re laying back against his chest, legs wound together, his bike several feet beyond, both of you soaked in muddy rain water and discolored snow, that you pray to god Old lady Tilly’s Pomeranian didn’t piss or shit in.

Everything aches, near that numbing, throbbing process from temperatures. Baron is groaning behind you, fingerless gloves swiping his chocolate tresses from his face. Looks like he forgot his hat today, you note, drinking in his disheveled appearance beneath his patchwork coat (you’re pretty sure he got that thing from a time capsule planted in the 70’s). His green cargo pants are sopping wet, having taken the brunt of the mud, his cheeks are dusted pink, along with his damp mouth and red nose. He’s an absolute treasure, shining everytime you see him, blinding your vision and common sense.

You look down as your skin warms from your realized predicament, almost forgetting about the snow and slush soaking through your pants, and now your panties.

“You okay, doodlebug?” His accented voice is winded, his hands reaching out gently to grasp his own ankle and lift it off of yours. Once your legs are free, he pulls you up with him and that hidden strength he possesses, his coat crunching under rustling fabric.

Your snow boots smack into the watery muck below, one hand held in his massive, gloved palm, the other planting itself on his jacket clad chest. You’re nodding, lifting your chin to face him. “I’m so sorry, Baron. M’ good, I just wasn’t paying attention —“

“You know how many times I’ve done that? Knocked into your mailbox a time or two.” He reaches down beside you to knock his knuckles across several indents in your box’s post. It makes you shiver, cars driving across snowy roads in the distance, a simple backtrack to you both.

Baron clears his deep, wind—coated throat, sniffling softly, taking a few steps behind him to grab up your purse. He brings it to you with an offered hand, starting to protest as you bend to retrieve his overflowing bag. Nothing is ruined, thankfully, and you make a quick exchange, fingers lingering, grazing.

“You’re cold, sweetheart. Should be wearing somethin’ on your hands. Momma used to tell me how fast the weather works against us.”

At the mention of his mother, you note his jostled deflation. You try to lighten his spirits, thanking him for breaking your short fall. “Just grateful we didn’t seem to land on anything special. Like a clockwork present from Mrs. Tilly’s dog.”

It’s comical how his moss-shrouded eyes, kissed beneath luscious lashes — widen in fear. He whispers, just to you, with tendrils of his hair blowing over your nose, tickling, caressing, drifting from your cheekbone, and even nicking your forehead. “Did it, ya know… do its business in there, you think?”

“I considered it within the first seconds, but I think we’re safe.” You’re chuckling, and the next sentence is leaving your mouth before you can stop it. “I think your ass got the brunt of the damage, if we’re being honest.”

He marvels at your language, lips pursing and then they pop, tongue clicking at the roof of his mouth. You start to wonder if you’ve overstepped, but he smirks, the corner of his mouth, tugging in a way that makes you want to kiss him breathless, not missing a beat. “You wanna check it out for me?”

Your brows raise higher on your frozen forehead, and he’s immediately apologetic, manners kicking into overdrive. “No, oh my goodness. Doodlebug, that wasn’t very proper of me when you were just—a—kiddin’ and all.”

His flustered state gives you confidence. “Maybe if you spin real slow. As for checking it out, I’d love to, if I didn’t have to make the store before closing.” You sigh when reality pushes its way in. Here in this park it’s usually Baron that jumpstarts those reserved butterflies, giving you something to always look forward to.

“What are you needin’? I might have it at home.”

“Baron, I don’t want to take anything from you —“

“It’s not takin’ if I offered, now is it?”

He’s slipping his bag over his shoulder and yanking bike by the handlebar off the ground, one hand on his trim waistline.

“Some stuff for supper. Dad is comin’ in this weekend.” Baron’s smile melts you entirely, your energies on high alert. He knows how your lack of relationship with your father affects you. He feels a possessive need to protect. Besides, your pop doesn’t deserve you working yourself into a frenzy over a home cooked meal.

“I got a frozen pizza. I think that’ll do just fine for him.”

He raises a hand off his bike to push his hair back, and then scrambles to replace it, the heavy object almost clattering onto the ground once more.

By god, he’s too cute for his own good.

“Okay.” It’s not one word, but it’s how you say it. Pliant and secure, satiated.

“Okay.” He replies, bashful, toeing his work boot into the ground and swirling it around the slush. “You go on back in and I’ll bring it to ya after my route?”

Your response shocks his flickering gaze into finding you. “Can I walk with you, Bar?”

Because yeah, you sure can…

// Eat me paragraph //

[firielll]

Had such a great time at the Viking Market in Witten this weekend! I also finally got to wear my first Old Norse outfit that I have been working on for the past few weeks :)

This was a project with a lot of firsts. My first time making an apron dress and my first attempt at natural dyeing.

The apron dress I am really happy with, it turned out so pretty and comfy.

The dyeing... well, I was planning on having a red dress, but turns out when you don't read the instructions right and use less than a third of the madder root you're supposed to, you get a lovely shade of pink! I'm honestly just glad it's not white anymore.

Dress: made & dyed by me

Apron dress: made by me, fabric from wooltrade.cz

Sjkoldehamn Hood from annefause on Instagram

[projectionistwrites]

GESTALT | 2001

YEAR THREE.

pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x afab!babysitter!reader (2.1k+)

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni) WARNINGS: age gap, angst, slow burn, SMUT (dubcon, panty sniffing/fucking), potentially ooc!joel

← previous part | next part →

APRIL 22, 2001

Whatever boundaries had been previously established between you and Joel were getting blurrier and blurrier by the day—you were dancing along the edge of crossing the line, and Joel should’ve known you got off on it.

You had stayed in the Miller home over the long weekend when he and Tommy went on a fishing trip. When he’d returned Sunday evening, things had been exactly as he anticipated—the house was tidier than when he had left, the fridge was stocked with homemade leftovers, and Sarah had the time of her life. You had even taken her to get her first ever mani-pedi at a nearby salon.

“While you boys were out roughin’ it up, we were doing the exact opposite.”

You had teased, holding up your hand and waggling your freshly polished fingers. Sarah giggled and excitedly showed her dad the pale pink color flecked with gold sparkles that she had selected for herself.

“They even dipped my hands in this hot wax stuff—it was so weird!”

Sarah exclaimed, sitting back down at the kitchen table and kicking her feet excitedly. She shoved a mouthful of pasta in her face as Joel turned to you.

“Well, thank you for stayin’ with her this weekend. Sounds like she had more fun with you than she’d ever have with me.”

His tone was light and it was clear that he was joking, but there was something about his phrasing that made you take a moment of pause.

“It was my pleasure, really. Dinner’s on the stove if you want some. Glad you had a good weekend.”

You squeezed Joel’s bicep warmly, scrunching up your nose a bit as you smiled at him. He made a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact in fear that his gaze might trail down to your lips.

You grabbed your sweater from its place slung over the back of a kitchen chair. You leaned down and kissed Sarah on the forehead.

“See you tomorrow, Smiles.”

Sarah mumbled something unintelligible, mouth full of food as you picked up your bag from beside the front door. Then, you were in front of Joel.

He barely had time to react at the feeling of your soft hand cradling the left side of his face, your lips pressing a slow, deliberate kiss on his opposite cheek.

“G’night, cowboy.”

You practically purred in his ear, your warm breath sending a chill up his spine. He could feel the way his body tensed under your touch and the way something between a sigh and a gasp escaped his parted lips as he watched you slink away coyly, obviously pleased with yourself. When the door clicked shut behind you, Joel could practically feel his daughter’s teasing grin.

“Ooo—”

“Zip it, you.”

Joel clipped, and Sarah just giggled quietly to herself, finding your special ability of flustering her father particularly amusing.

After Sarah was tucked into bed and Joel had finished unpacking, he stripped down to his boxers, ready to crawl into bed. A quick glance out the window proved that you were still awake, the yellow lamplight illuminating your room from across the yard.

The man sighed, pulling back his blankets and sinking into them—a great relief from the sleeping bag he had occupied the last few nights. He turned to his side, one arm slipping beneath his pillow, and that’s when he felt it.

A foreign, unfamiliar piece of fabric hidden beneath the pillowcase. At first, he thought it might possibly be a sock, but when he pulled the article of clothing into view, he felt his stomach drop.

A pair of black lace panties, crumpled within his bedding.

He knew you had slept in his bed this past weekend. He had given you explicit permission, and it wasn’t the first time—although neither of you had ever mentioned that rainy night in March again.

But this—this was absolutely startling to Joel. Part of him rationalized that maybe it was an accident, maybe they had slipped from your overnight bag unbeknownst to you, but...

Oh, my God. They were worn.

The smell of your perfume lingered around him, sticking to his cotton sheets, but this—this was something entirely different. Something organic and acidic and maybe a little bit sweet.

He almost choked as he ran his fingers over the fabric, because the crotch of your underwear was still fucking damp. His calloused thumb brushed over the patch of wetness, something absolutely primal awakening in him. Almost mindlessly, he lifted his finger, wrapped his lips around it, and sucked. Joel had to hold back throaty groan as the taste of you overtook his senses, the action traveling straight to his already rock-hard cock.

This was filthy. This was fucking disgusting, so unbelievably fucking dirty, and the worst part about it is that he knew this was deliberate. He knew you’d hidden them on purpose, probably took them off right before he got home in order to ensure they were fresh when he found them. This was meant to rile him up, to make him feral, to push him into acting on whatever chemistry was between you.

You had graduated from harmless, meaningless flirting, and Joel was losing his fucking mind.

He clenched the panties tightly in his fist, staring up at the ceiling in agony. What were his options? He could return them to you, pretend like it was an honest mistake, maybe embarrass you a bit; he could tell you that he got your gift, and maybe tease you a bit himself; push you up against the kitchen counter and fuck you from behind, like you fucking deserved, and like he’d wanted to since the day he met you; or, he could pretend like it never happened.

Whatever this was, it was bad, and it was wrong, and it shouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. Fifteen years between the two of you—you were closer in age to his daughter than you were to him. He couldn’t let this affect him, couldn’t let you get the satisfaction of making him snap, couldn’t indulge whatever sick, fucked-up fantasy this was for you.

So, he supposed, he would just ignore it.

But that certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t fuck himself into your panties and paint them with stripes of his cum that night.

DECEMBER 24, 2001

Slow, quiet footsteps padded down the stairs as you stayed on the couch, attention vaguely on the Christmas movie that was playing in front of you. Sarah had fallen asleep, as per usual, and Joel had just carried her up to bed so that you and him could prep the living room for the morning.

When he reappeared from the stairs, he had a small smile on his face, and there was a childlike gleam in his eyes that you’d never seen before. This was your first time staying in Texas for Christmas, per Sarah’s request, and Joel was grateful—he was really shit at wrapping gifts.

“She’s asleep.”

Joel whisper-shouted to you, and you giggled at his attempt to be quiet. You pulled the blanket off of your legs before following Joel upstairs to his bedroom, going to retrieve the gifts that were hidden in his closet.

The lights remained off, and you blindly wandered into his room, waiting patiently for him to grab everything he needed. In the dim light provided by the moon peaking through the window, you could see his bed was haphazardly made, and for some reason, this excited you—Joel slept in this bed, every night. Wonder what else he did in this bed—

“Hey!”

Joel snapped his fingers, pulling your attention away from your daydreaming.

“Help me carry some stuff downstairs.”

He passed you a long, thin cardboard box full of various wrapping paper and bows, gesturing for you to take it downstairs as he grabbed the few bags full of Sarah’s gifts.

You settled onto the floor in front of the TV, a space just large enough for you to roll out wrapping paper beside the colorful Christmas tree. Joel joined you shortly after, plopping down the shopping bags at your feet.

“You put the stuff in her stocking, I’ll start wrapping.”

You directed quietly, and Joel nodded. You both worked in silence for most of the time as you wrapped a shoebox of brand new soccer cleats, a few new sweaters you had helped pick out, some new books for her collection, and your gift—her very first makeup set.

“Dunno why she’d need that.”

Joel huffed, filling Sarah’s stocking with more chocolate. You shook your head at him with a smile, finishing it off with a silvery bow to compliment the tinsel on the wrapping paper.

“She’s twelve, cowboy. Just thought it’d be fun for her to try.”

He grumbled something incomprehensible, and pretty soon, there were wrapped boxes littered beneath the tree, and her stocking was overflowing with goodies and treats.

“You’re good at that.”

Joel jutted his chin towards the gifts, indicating that he was referencing your wrapping skills. You laughed.

“I love giving presents. My favorite part of the holidays.”

Joel watched you fondly, the flashing lights from the TV illuminating the side of your face and casting shadows along the wall. You had a nostalgic smile on your face, taking in the Christmas tree with a longing sparkle in your eyes. You turned your head to look at him, meeting the hazel of his eyes as he grinned at you reverently. You blushed.

“Your present’s at my house, I’ll bring it over in the morning. Sarah’s super excited.”

“You two didn't need to get me anything.”

Joel sighed, but you just shook your head as he walked you to the front door.

“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

You chuckled starkly with a roll of your eyes.

“Why won’t you ever let yourself be happy? You deserve to be taken care of, too, y’know.”

You both paused at the front door, and he studied your face carefully, mouth in a straight line. You felt your blood pressure spike—there was a double meaning to your words, for certain, even if you hadn’t intended it. Something about the look in his eyes told you that he’d realized it, too.

“Don’t got time to worry ‘bout myself. Just wanna take care of my baby girl.”

He drawled, mostly in an attempt to defend himself, but also because he knew, deep down, that you were right. He felt paralyzed when you took a step closer to him, almost standing toe-to-toe.

“Then maybe you should let someone else take care of you, for a change.”

You breathed, hesitantly reaching up to brush at the soft brunette hair behind his ear with trembling fingers. You felt his breath hitch as you drew closer, almost as if he was magnetic.

Your face was alarmingly close to his own, head tilted upwards slightly to keep his gaze tied to yours. Your nose brushed against his, just barely, and the sensation sparked something within him as his hands unconsciously came to rest on your waist.

“Let me take care of you, Joel.”

You’d done all the heavylifting, but it was him who gave the final push—he closed the gap between you, lips meeting in a kiss riddled with passion and a deep, deep sense of yearning. The kiss was more certain than your first, more firm and concrete, and this time, you didn’t have to worry if Joel was going to disappear. He was here, in front of you, holding you, kissing you, and—

“I knew the mistletoe was a good idea.”

Joel jumped backwards, startling the both of you as your eyes shot up to the top of the stairs, where Sarah was standing in her pajamas, arms cheekily crossed over her chest.

The man looked at the ceiling above him and sure enough, a green bundle of mistletoe was pinned to the ceiling between you and him.

“Wha—how long—”

“Go to sleep, Sarah.”

You urged softly, an embarrassed smirk on your face, redness tinting your cheeks. The two of you had put up the decoration earlier that day as a bit of a prank on Joel, but somehow, it had come back to save your ass.

She rolled her eyes, groaning.

“Ugh, isn’t it morning yet?”

She whined, and you laughed, just as Joel seemed to regain his bearings.

“Go on back to bed, baby girl. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Yeah, sure you will.”

Sarah griped, but nonetheless dragged herself back to her bedroom. There was a significant gap between you and Joel, now, and the discomfort that was radiating from him was practically palpable.

“I—Sorry.”

You offered meekly, suddenly bashful at the interaction. You wanted to shrink into yourself as the man avoided your eyes. You drew in a deep inhale through your nostrils, searching within yourself to find a remedy for the situation—especially the sting of Joel’s clear shame at being caught kissing you.

“I, uh—I’ll see you tomorrow, Joel.”

He nodded awkwardly, reaching to open the front door for you. You stepped outside into the brisk December air, hugging yourself for warmth. Your eyes met his once more, and you offered a weak smile.

“Merry Christmas, cowboy.”

[arazialotis]

Get Him to the Con - Part 4

Pairing: Jensen × Reader

Word Count: About 7000

Summary: The reader stumbles into Jensen at her favorite bar, a very drunk Jensen. She soon realizes Jensen was booked for a con this weekend and has to be eight hours from town in only two.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Warnings: Language

I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time as hobby. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

-----

“Ramble on. And now’s the time, the time is now to sing my song!” Jensen belted out from the passenger seat.

You hummed along, not as confident to share your untrained voice or speculative lyrical knowledge. However, you had no problem fabricating your own rhythms to fit Zeppelin’s complexity as you tapped along on the steering wheel. You had since stopped for a quick lunch, refueled, and switched seats as I-80 started to stretch into a straight line bordered by cornfields. Since then, you had made it through the first, and now we're nearing the end of Zeppelin's second album. Though you had a short attention span, and generally, the random shuffle on your playlists jumped from Broadway hits to Witch House, you were determined to make it to the end of album four. Haters would say it was the obvious choice and overrated, but screw them and their elitist attitude; it was still your favorite.

The car was beginning to lose that new car scent. Of course, it wasn't a new car, and the rental company used some variant of Febreze to cover up previous use. The pine tree air freshener didn't last long, either. Jensen prevented you from a littering offense just before you were about to throw it out the window by stuffing it in the glove compartment and tossing it at your first stop. With the sun beating down, opened snacks, and drinks in the console, it was beginning to feel like a well-loved family car.

After a few hours had gone by, this fantastical adventure was settling into reality. However, you were still unsure what prompted such an idea from Jensen. It had only been three months since Tennessee, and though he assured you that he was in a much better place now, you suspected the loneliness he talked of still haunted him. Part of you had hoped there might be something more than him wanting to cement the friendship you had built over the past few months. There was obvious and natural chemistry, yet you doubted its existence or that the feeling was reciprocated, thinking perhaps your previous admiration of him falsely conjured it. Jensen’s voice broke the spell of your spiraling thoughts.

"Two Girls and a Cupcake.” He chuckled as he read a billboard.

You couldn’t help but snort. “You're making that up. There's no way that's real."

"Dude, I just saw the sign." He pointed back. "I'm not sharp enough to make up a pun that good."

"What exit?" You challenged, barely believing him.

"A left at this one." He recited confidently.

You pinched your lips together in a smile and pressed down on the gas, hoping to pass a string of cars before the exit, to call his bluff, or end up with a cupcake. A win-win either way. Jensen grabbed the "oh shit" handle from the unexpected burst of speed.

Four miles down the road, surrounded by nothing but fields and an occasional decrepit barn, there were certainly no cupcakes to be seen.

"Just admit it," you said. "You were thinking about porn."

"How many times do I gotta swear it was real?" He defended. "Maybe I read the exit wrong. Wait, what is that?"

A little one-horse town seemingly popped out of the middle of nowhere solely for his benefit. He pointed ahead to a pink abomination growing ever closer.

"Ha! Told ya!" He gloated as you pulled in.

"Oh, we have to get a picture with that guy." You grinned at the overly tacky pink sasquatch.

"After cupcakes," Jensen demanded, already halfway out the door.

You chuckled and got out as well, taking your time stretching. Jensen showed no chivalry in waiting for you and was already in the shop receiving the rundown on best sellers and personal favorites by the time you joined him. He was leaned over, peering into the display, closely analyzing each flavor and acknowledging the shopkeeper now and then with an uh-huh.

"Okay, okay." He straightened and finally decided. "They all sound amazing, but I think I'm sold on the chocolate creme pie."

He glanced at you for your reaction, and you had to look away to keep from bursting out with laughter from the horrible innuendo.

"And for you, sweetheart?" The shopkeeper asked as they packaged up Jensen's.

"Oh, um. Surprise me, dealer's choice." You couldn't possibly settle on one with such fun and unique flavors.

"How spontaneous of you." Jensen teased, and you responded in kind by sticking out your tongue.

The shopkeeper thanked you on your way out. In a single bite, Jensen devoured half the cupcake. He rolled his eyes and leaned back.

You chuckled. "That bad, eh?"

“Yes, so bad that I better take yours off your hands.” He said and lunged for you.

You squealed and shielded your cupcake. “I will be the judge, thank you very much.”

He chuckled and let you be in peace as you dug in.

“Oh, yeah.” You concluded. “I’m stopping here on the way back. Hey! Where are you going?” You chastised him as he opened the car door.

“Denver?” He questioned, but it came together once you pointed back to the sasquatch. “Oh, you were serious? I will, but only for a bite.” His tongue peeked out between his teeth in a grin.

You contemplated. “How big a bite are we talking?” This was a very debatable matter as he had finished his in three bites only.

He pinched his fingers together, indicating the tiniest amount.

“Picture first.” You demanded.

“Alright. Alright.” He gave in and got his phone out. “Bring it in.”

You embraced the pink behemoth on each side, smiling at the camera. He took a couple, and on the third, you simultaneously kissed the creature on the cheek. Jensen looked through the photos.

“Oh, that's a keeper.” He remarked and forwarded them to you.

You laughed as you viewed them. “Adorable.”

“Aren’t I?” He teased.

You playfully slapped his shoulder. “Bigfoot, not you.”

He rubbed his shoulder in jest. “Shoot. If I had known Jared was your type, I would have invited him along.”

“Jared is not my type.” It slipped out before your brain caught up with your mouth.

You blushed, wondering if it came out harsher than intended or, even more so, if it implied something else to Jensen. There had always been teasing and banter that bordered on the edge of flirting. And the first road trip didn’t count in which Jensen had his drunk goggles on and lower standards as he shamelessly tried to pick you up, but since then, it had just been a friendship. The same mental dialogue from earlier repeated, ending with a spiraling mantra to not get your hopes up.

Jensen swallowed a lump in his throat. “He’ll be devastated knowing he’s been passed up. Out of curiosity, what is your type?”

Your heart thudded in your chest. What did that mean? Was he fishing for something in particular, or did he generally want to know? You. You’re my type. Your mind shouted at him as if it could reach him telepathically. Someone who is kind, and smart, and funny, and thoughtful, and passionate… the list went on. It wasn't that Jared wasn't any of those things, but there was something different about Jensen that had always spoken to you. Thankfully, a filter had reappeared since your last slip.

You cleared your throat, realizing too much time had passed without an answer, and you held out your cupcake. “As promised.”

He took it, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he was deeply contemplating your lack of response. That was until he took a bite and broke the concentration. He leaned his head back.

“God, how is that even better than the first one?” He shook his head in disbelief and went in for another bite.

“Hey! We said one!” You took it back from him after a brief playful struggle. “Now, let’s get this show on the road before your personal trainer puts a bounty on my head.”

“To hell with them, and self-control, and balance,” Jensen stated before heading back in and ordering a half dozen more for the road.

****

"I spy," Jensen drew out the words. "Something yellow."

"I swear to God, if it's corn again, I will turn this car around." You threatened.

Had one not been privy to the playful banter all day, they may have mistaken your threat as serious. Only three cupcakes remained in the backseat and were in danger of not surviving until night. Just as the trip started to drag, thus prompting the license plate game (in which you had fifteen states down already) and I Spy to emerge, the fourth album came on, bringing a rejuvenating spirit. Your levees broke, as they say, and any embarrassment from singing in front of Jensen vanished as you both sang out the opener Black Dog. Though the inhibitions only lasted so long. As Robert Plant’s voice made love to the microphone and John Paul Jone's fingers sweetly strummed the riff, your mind was transported to a seedy, sweaty motel room where you worked the man seated next to you with as much rhythm and passion. Jensen pulled you out as he grabbed your hand in tune with the lyrics. He let go, continuing to jam, unaware you had turned three shades darker as if through the touch, your thoughts could transfer to him. You wrung the steering wheel in a tight grip trying to think of anything but your body against his.

Despite the music, Jensen seemed determined to hold onto and win this game of I Spy. The problem was the options were limited to gray pavement, green grass, blue sky, or yellow corn. Granted, you could have both been more creative, but other things were taking precedence in your minds.

Jensen chuckled. “It’s not corn.”

“Is it the sun?” You bemoaned.

“Nope.”

“The lines on the road.” It was the only other thing it could possibly be. You hadn’t passed any signs recently, there was one other car on the road, but that was blue, and nothing inside the car looked yellow from your vantage point.

“Wrong again.” He said smugly.

“I give up. You win.” You easily gave up knowing Stairway to Heaven was playing next.

“It’s the corn’s husks.” He divulged.

“That is cheating.” Had you not been driving, you would have shoved him.

“Might I remind you,” He said, marking a tally. You bit back a smile and shook your head, knowing he was keeping score only to provoke you further. “When you said white, it wasn’t the clouds, it was specifically a jet trail, and I let it slide.”

“It’s completely a separate thing!” You argued. “Created by completely different methods and substances. Corn and corn husks are the same entity.”

“Okay, well, next time you have something with corn, I will make sure to replace it with husks, and then we will see how you feel.” He threatened.

You had lost, and you knew it.

“Shut up.” That was all you had to say, and in ending the conversation, you turned up the stereo for one of the most legendary songs in all of rock n’ roll.

“Despite the epicness of all that has come before,” Jensen stated as a few more songs passed to the slower acoustic melody of Going to California. “This is one of my favorites. Definitely in the top five.”

Lost in thought, he placed his hand on yours atop the gear stick, his thumb lazily stroking over your knuckles. Your heart stopped, toes curled, as you contained a scream internally. This wasn’t happening.

“You know, we should just skip over Denver and keep heading to Cali.” He thought aloud.

You gripped the steering wheel with your free hand, attempting to string together any semblance of comprehendible words. “Is that what you want?”

He sighed. “Of course, it’s what I want. What I should do is something entirely different.”

His hand left yours, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he meant something more than simply bailing on the convention.

“Like corn and corn husks.” You couldn’t help yourself.

He rolled his eyes in your direction, delightfully unamused, as if he wanted to give you something to really smirk about.

“I mean, if you need me to stage a kidnapping,” You proposed with false sincerity. “Out of the goodness of my heart, I would do that for you.”

He softly chuckled. “How kind of you.”

“So long as you promise not to press any charges.” You added.

“And miss the opportunity to see you in handcuffs,” Holy shit. He said it out loud. It just poured out like he was as inebriated as the night you first met. He desperately stumbled to fix it. “It would be hilarious. Just truly, the peak of comedy. And the mug shot after a week in a car and shitty motels. Oh, man.” He turned to look out the window and hide the blush that had crept into his cheeks, praying you didn’t catch on to where his mind initially went.

It worked. Yes, your thoughts went there briefly, but to you, it was obviously not what he intended. “It is on my bucket list to spend at least one night in jail.”

That shocked him out of his embarrassment. “Should I be concerned?”

You licked your lips, pondering. “Like, not for something nefarious. Maybe for protesting, embodying the Robin Hood persona, overdue library books, all those Limewire downloads coming back to haunt me, something like that.”

“Limewire? How dare you.” He teased. “Priacy is the biggest threat to my industry.” He pulled up his phone. “I’m calling the feds right now. Had I known…”

“Oh, no need; they already know. They deemed the six months I was grounded for destroying two family computers as time served.” Though the feds had not been involved, and other aspects exaggerated, you recalled how infuriated your parents had been. “And here I thought you would have run a background check.”

“Hey Siri,” He talked into his phone. “Remind me next time I decide to go ‘cross country with the nice girl I met at a bar three months ago to run a background check.”

“Alright.” The automated voice replied. “When do you want to be reminded?”

“Ah…. well, driving route 66 to the Vegas convention might be fun, so give or take five months.” He responded.

“Okay. In five months, you will be reminded the next time you decide to go ‘cross country with the nice girl you met at a bar three months ago to run a background check.” The monotone voice concluded.

Perhaps out of the stir-craziness of being stuck in a car and on the road for so many hours, you both erupted with laughter.

A while longer, and you were close to reaching your limit. The car was close to needing gas again, the thought of dinner was haunting your stomach, and your legs were pleading to be stretched. The problem was, there was nothing out here. You were somewhere between Des Moines and Omaha. Siri had outlived her usefulness as cell service was shotty at best. Even if there was food or shelter nearby, she wouldn’t be able to tell you. Zeppelin had fulfilled their purpose, and you had rescinded the music rule, letting Jensen shuffle through radio channels, as streaming was no longer available anyways.

Finally, a billboard popped up in the distance, signifying a spot of life. As Jensen changed the station, the words came into view just as a guitar strummed the opening of an unmistakable song. The universe could not have manifested a more perfect unison. Asia’s Heat of the Moment and an advertisement for Iowa’s most mysterious spot collided. Both of you were dumbfounded.

“It’s fucking fate.” You finally managed a whisper.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not.” Jensen was not having it. “That is how people get murdered.”

“It’s not even Tuesday.” You snapped. “And I need to get out of this goddamn car.”

“Do you want to end up a cold open for Supernatural? Cause this is how you do it.” He argued back.

You weren’t having it. You needed the break and fresh air. Ignoring his protests, you made your way for the exit.

“Look.” You pointed to the sign listing things nearby. “There’s a restaurant and motel nearby as well.”

“If we switched and got back on the highway, I could get us Omaha tonight. We’re not that far.” He reasoned.

“And we could drive straight through to Denver.” You argued back, turning down the country road, fields of corn still surrounding you. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the spontaneous one.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” He deduced. “It’s not going to work.”

“You are welcome to stay in the car and scout out the town.” You offered. “But don’t think for a second I will tell you what the mystery is. That’s for paying customers only.”

“Do you recall the classic cinematic plot line where cannibals lure unsuspecting tourists to their town with, I don’t know, world-famous apple pie or a mystery spot where physics are defied? And just as the couple has a great time and is leaving the town, one of the locals strings out spikes on the road that pops all the tires; thus, an ensuing bloodsoaked gorefest follows.” He rambled.

“I can’t say I do.” You feigned. “Aside from a few one-offs, Psycho, The Shining, Silence of the Lambs (speaking of cannibals), horror isn’t my thing. So this should be an enlightening experience.” You looked over at him. “Don’t worry, Jensen, I’ll protect you.” The reassuring pat on his thigh sold it.

Now as you pulled up to the lot, it was you who was having second guesses. Whatever this place was now, it was undoubtedly a repurposed carnival funhouse. From the purple paint, the neon trim, and the huge sadistic alien head that loomed over the entrance. Signs were scattered everywhere, bright yellow advertising the astonishments that waited inside. Aside from your car, a rusted-out maroon Corsica was for sale that probably hadn’t been moved since the early 90s.

Though the car was at a stop, the engine still ran as you analyzed the site before you. Jensen’s smugness grew the more he sensed your hesitation.

“No one’s going to call you a coward if you turn around.” He goaded.

You glared at him, biting the inside of your cheek, and switched the engine off.

“I’m not scared.” You assured him. “It’s probably just a mirror maze that leads to pieces of a broken weather balloon they are pawning off as a spaceship.”

By all means, he seemed to convey with the wave of his hand, be my guest. Flustered, you got out of the car but immediately relished your choice. You stretched and breathed in the fresh air, delighted to no longer be in motion. With a rejuvenated determination that this mystery would be life-altering and reveal the darkest kept secrets in all of Iowa, you made your way up the rickety metal stairs and through the doors.

Jensen audibly sighed while running his hands through his hair, giving it a few minutes for you to turn back around. When you didn’t, he finally gave in.

“Fine.” He conceded to no one other than himself. “Let’s get this over with.”

The doors chimed above him as he entered the stale lobby, whose furnishings and carpet were clearly taken from a closing Blockbuster. The decor was in complete shambles, from botched taxidermy to cheap plasma ball lamps. Of course, it wouldn’t be complete without the t-shirts and shot glasses proclaiming the survival of the mystery spot. A black curtain separated the lobby or ‘free museum’ from the rest of the attraction.

You beamed as Jensen found his way in. “Make that two tickets.” You clarified with reversed peace sign and handed payment to the cashier, a teenager so young it was questionable if they were even legally allowed to work or if this was a family affair they were forcibly roped into after school.

With not a shred of enthusiasm, the teen mumbled their way through a scripted spiel. “What you are about to experience has baffled scientists, confused archaeologists, and astonished physicists. Your purchase today has granted you access to a select group of individuals who hold the key to enlightenment. Prepare to be amazed and….”

Jensen caught off the monotone dialogue with the wave of his hand. “We get it, kid, thanks.”

They looked relieved to have been granted permission to stop. “It’s behind the curtain. Follow the arrows.”

They popped a plexiglass case open and flipped a large breaker, causing a loud pop as the building came to life. The sound of motors whirring spun in the distance, and the foundations seemed to rock from the sudden change. Dust scattered through the air from high-up shelves and door frames.

Once you caught your balance, Jensen mumbled, “The only mystery to be solved is how this building is still in one piece.”

You laughed and stepped from the light of the lobby into darkness. The black lights above illuminated the neon carpet pieces and painted edgings of the walls. Sure enough, a bright green arrow made from duck tape pointed you forward. Like children discovering laser tag for the first time, you looked at each other's outfits to see what pieces of clothing were affected by the black lights. You jolted as Taylor Swift blasted over the speakers, then abruptly stopped. Clearly, the teen had the wrong playlist up and running. After a moment, Taylor had been replaced with sounds, cycling through blowing wind, rain, and thunder. A crow cawed, and a voice cackled. A violin softly cried out notes barely audible with the competing ambiance. A fear crept in that you had accidentally signed up for a haunted house and not a mystery spot. You took a step back and bumped into Jensen’s solid frame.

He chuckled slightly and grabbed your shoulders, pushing you forward, one hesitant step at a time. “Oh, there is no turning back now. You’ve just crossed over into the twilight zone.” He said before humming out the theme song’s notes.

“You didn’t even want to do this.” You hissed back at him, still resisting him, as you came up to the first corner, ready for something to pop out at you. The moment he would relinquish forcing you forward, you'd be ready to turn and run out of there, or at the very least make him go first.

“I did try to warn you. Call it just desserts.” He whispered in your ear.

“Bastard.” You aimlessly swatted behind you.

You rounded the corner and sighed with relief as nothing came jumping, dropping, or rushing toward you. Simply another green arrow leading ahead where your reflections bounced off the walls.

“See.” He soothed. “Nothing to be afraid of, just a mirror maze, as you predicted."

You sighed a breath and stepped forward without his prompting.

"Jesus!" He shouted as something flew across the hall.

Simultaneously, you forcefully backed into him. Jensen wrapped his arms protectively around you and took a few cautious steps back. The thing stopped swinging, and as your eyes adjusted to see it in the dark, laughter consumed you both. It was a tattered pinata in the form of a UFO. A piece of gray tissue paper floated to the floor from a growing patch of plain cardboard underneath.

“You were so fucking scared.” Jensen placed his hand over his torso, trying to catch his breath.

“So!” You said defensively. “You were just as scared.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” He lied with enough conviction; he convinced himself as well. “I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed.”

“Sure.” You rolled your eyes, not buying it for a second. “Then I implore you to lead the way,” You gestured forward with your outstretched hand. “Oh, brave one.”

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck as if he was getting into character. “Fine.” He agreed. “I got this.” His voice seemed to deepen, and he reached out his hand to you. “You coming, sweetheart?”

The asshole dared to seal it with a wink. And despite yourself, a blush warmed your cheeks, and your toes curled momentarily, but your shyness did not stop you from taking his hand in yours.

As Jensen led the way, he let out a general warning to anyone in the nearby vicinity. “If anyone is running around or jumping out in a green suit, I will not be held liable for when they get punched square in the face.”

You snickered. “I don’t think they have the budget for scare actors, Jensen.”

You came up to the first wall. The mirrors distorted the way forward. One was smudged with fingerprints which made it obvious the wrong path, but for the others, Jensen reached out his free hand and felt the way forward.

It was a short maze, yet you still managed to run face-first into one mirror. After the maze came another jump scare. Both of you held your breath and squinted your eyes as if not wanting to tip the other off it had gotten you, yet the grip on each other’s hands tightened, giving it away. This led to the next section; a room filled with punching bags made to look like rockets that you had to squirm through. It smelled of sweaty socks and Cheetos. You mastered the slanted room, where you had to walk on an angle to traverse, and featured an old aquarium filled with green algae with the shadowed, mysterious blob floating inside.

You both paused at the ladder, plunging into a pool-sized ball pit. Moons, planets, and glow-in-the-dark stars decorated the ceiling above. Foam UFO saucers and blow-up alien dolls accompanied the balls in the pit. There was no way to walk around or over it; the only way was through. And you thought the stench from the punching bags was bad. But you had made it this far. You weren’t going to give up now.

Jensen forwent the ladder and jumped straight. You took the more delicate approach, sliding in inch-by-inch as if trying to adjust to cold water. Once you were finally in the pit, the balls came up to your waist. There were probably rogue toddlers lost in here that haunted the place and bit unsuspecting tourists’ ankles.

“This is disgusting,” Jensen complained, wading through with his arms raised as if to reduce the spread of bacteria. “I swear to god, if I step on a diaper, I’m suing.”

“I’m taking the longest, hottest shower tonight.” You agreed, stating that you needed to be disinfected.

He turned back to look at you. His eyes almost glowed as they raked over you.

“To burn my skin off.” You clarified.

Jensen opened his mouth, but then he swallowed and held his breath. He was channeling too much of Dean to make it through this hellhole, and he couldn’t trust what words would come out. Besides, he had already let several comments slide today, and that was when he wasn’t competing with his other half.

“Stop gaping and get a move on,” You threw two balls at him, which he caught with ease. “Or should I remind you what you are currently festering in?”

But then you saw the balls in his hand, and you spit out a laugh, nearly doubling over, but thankfully stopped yourself from going fully under. They were both blue.

He held back his laughter, but only for a second, as he said, “Very mature,” and then chucked them back at you before making a mad dash to escape the pit of disgust.

It just made you laugh even harder at how ridiculous he looked, failing to gain any speed or traction. After a painstakingly long ‘swim,’ you both made it out. After spending a full day in the car, you thought it would have been impossible to feel more grimy. The ball pit had proved you wrong.

As you wiped yourself down and readjusted your clothing, you came up on a bridge through a dark tunnel. The tunnel was lit with blue lights and neon streaks of pink and green. As Jensen crossed the threshold, the tunnel spun in a vortex, and he stumbled. You knew it was going to be a problem.

You took a step forward, and your ankle gave out, and nausea crept in.

“Wait, Jensen, please.” You complained and reached out to him.

He could sense the change in your tone and wasn’t going to give you shit about it. “Come here.”

You took another step forward and grabbed the railing for dear life as your knees buckled. You tensed and shook your head no. There was a greenish look to you, but he couldn’t tell if it was only because of the lights. Jensen came to you slowly and leaned against the rail, struggling himself.

“Put your head down and hold on to me. It’ll be over quickly.” He assured.

You buried your face between his shoulder blades, and despite the day, he smelled amazing, like cedar with a hint of rosemary. Jensen took it one step at a time, feeling the effect too, but eventually, he got you both to the other side. You both took a deep breath at the end.

“You feeling okay?” He rested his hand on your shoulder and took you in, searching for any lasting effects.

“Yeah. Thank you.” You softly said, slightly embarrassed. “I hate those things. Had I known we would have had to cross the seven circles of hell to get to whatever this mystery is, I would have reconsidered.”

He patted the back of your head, relieved to have your snarkiness back. “You’re not admitting I was right, are you?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Never.”

In this room, spotlights highlighted text and pictures featuring crop circles and a crash site from the darkness. And in the middle of the room was an opaque silver box with a viewing hole where blue light shone.

“Alright, let’s see what all this was about.” Jensen was the first to peer in. “Oh, you are not going to believe this, Scully.” He stepped aside so you could take a look.

“You are definitely the Scully of this situation. I want to believe.” You corrected.

You stepped back and pinched your lips together, containing a smile.

“Was it worth it?” He asked.

“Every penny.”

****

Though you were ready for dinner, you both agreed finding a hotel and cleaning up was the higher priority. Cell service was still abysmal, so with directions from the mystery spot employee, down a ways and a few turns later, you found the motel that was advertised on the highway sign.

The single-level motel had white siding, green shutters, and a matching green roof. Porch swings hung between every room. A courtyard decorated with mosaic tiles, flowering bushes, and patio furniture suited for a French cafe separated the motel from the parking lot. The property sat on the edge of a lake where trees and shrubs secluded this alcove from the fields around it. A fire pit and kayaks were in the green grass that bordered the water.

“This is actually really nice.” Jensen sighed with delight.

After checking in, showering, and changing, the last thing you wanted to do was get back in the car. Ordering pizza and letting your feet soak in the lake off the dock was the only thing on your mind. Yet the hostess who checked you in raved about a nearby bar visitors had to check out. It wasn’t that far, there was plenty of daylight left, and they featured some local craft beer Jensen was eager to try.

The hostess had failed to mention that this was not only a bar; it was a line-dancing bar. The wooden frame was decorated to the brim with antique farmhouse equipment, country attire, awards, and pictures of dance leagues that had won competitions throughout the year. It was almost as if Cracker Barrel and Dave & Busters’ had a love child. It was packed to the brim with locals dancing and drinking. Your table overlooked the center stage, and somehow they all could interpret the caller shouting out dance moves over music featuring Brooks & Dunn, The Village People, and Alan Jackson.

Though it was loud, it was a great setting for people-watching, and after a full day of conversation, your brain was thankful for the distraction. After the cupcake debacle, Jensen opted for a salad though the cheeseburger was calling his name. He also had a small flight of the local craft brews, his favorite being a wheat ale featuring orange peels and cardamom. There was also a crushable IPA, but other than those two, you agreed the others were just meh.

“You going to give the dance floor a spin after food?” Jensen asked, moving around the food on his plate.

You laughed. “Oh no, I have two left feet and am prone to injuries. Though if you are looking for a partner, there is a girl at the bar who has been strongly admiring the back of your head for a solid fifteen minutes. Don’t look!” But as he did, you reached over and grabbed one of the beers he showed no interest in.

“Ah, she is not my type.” He looked back, playfully scowling at you momentarily as he realized part of his flight was missing.

“And what is your type?” You asked as you sipped on it.

“A question which you never answered,” He pointed out. “Don’t think I forgot.”

“Having a type is so limiting.” You concluded and threw your napkin over your unfinished food.

“I’ll give you mine if you give me yours.” He goaded.

You leaned back, considering. “I think some of the most important things are someone I can laugh with, but also someone who can deep dive into serious conversation, whether that is personal or academic. Someone who shows interest in my hobbies and passions and someone who pushes me to explore ones I hadn’t considered. It’s way more about the natural chemistry than physical appearance.”

“Indulge me anyways,” He requested. “I’m sure you had a checklist at one point.”

“Of course. What kind of person doesn’t create a checklist at some point in their life?” You asked and he snickered. “Let’s see… I have to go back to middle school… plays guitar was high up on the list, has a car, green eyes, freckles.” You cleared your throat and quickly added. “Dark, long, curly hair, loves animals, has that lower abdomen V thing.” You signaled with your hands, and Jensen laughed. “Shut up.”

“Those are actually very hard to get and maintain.” He commented.

“You asked for the list; I gave you the list.” You defended. When he didn’t say anything further, you questioned, “What about you? It’s your turn.”

“I agree with you. Compatibility and the relationship part matter more than the physical attraction. It’s hard to get out of that mindset sometimes, being in an industry where that is such an important aspect to the point where it sets unrealistic standards. But at the end of the day, when I am looking for someone to settle down with, I expect to get old, wrinkly, gray, and saggy. I’d much rather do that with someone I share a deep friendship with rather than some chick it barely works with but is on the runway now, and we’re together partially because we look good in pictures together.” He ranted.

“While I appreciate and respect that answer, you are totally copping out.” You challenge.

“Ah.” He groaned. “Humor is up there, someone who will laugh with me. Someone who is kind but can also dish it out. Someone who is a good listener but is also open with me. Mutual trust.”

“Again, all lovely, mature traits. Where is your middle school diary?” You prodded, biting your lip.

“Fine, fine. Must love dogs, could ride a horse bareback, drove a Jeep Wrangler, would want to go surfing together, gets along with my friends, and looks like Kelly Kapowski from Saved by the Bell. Satisfied?”

You smiled widely. “Very much so.”

He stood up, “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face and come dance with me.”

He held out his hand to you, and this time you did not hesitate or push back. Spending time with the man was the highlight of your life. You’d follow him anywhere and take every opportunity that came your way.

Jensen led you to the dance floor, and as the group reset for a new song, you slid into the back of the line. The floor was filled with old and young alike. This one little place brought the whole community together. Some wore cowboy hats and boots, others in casual wear, and a few of the older women dressed up for an evening out.

As the announcer set up and called instructions for the next song that you wouldn’t have understood even if the ancient sound system didn’t muffle it, you leaned over to Jensen.

“You better not say something cliche like ‘follow my lead’ or something.” You warned.

“Oh, hell no.” He agreed. “You are completely on your own, and it is going to be hilarious.”

You were tempted to resort to teasing violence when the music started, and you both stared at each other in disbelief as others in the crowd cheered with anticipation. You weren’t sure how or why, but Fate did have her hand in this day somehow.

“I hate this fucking song.” You muttered. “You can’t line dance to this song.”

“You can line dance to any song. Especially our song.” He smiled.

“Don’t…” You held out a finger.

But the speaker began the count “5, 6, 7, 8” as Neil Diamond began to sing about his sweet Caroline.

In a panicked flurry, you watched the others in front of you and tried to mirror their steps. The terms being called out, such as walk, sugarfoot, and rock-recover, had no meaning to you. Jensen picked it up easily, adding a certain air of swagger to just the basic moves. It seemed once you had a pattern down, they changed it on you. You bumped into Jensen and then the person next to you. Realizing you were not going to master the steps anytime soon, Jensen grabbed you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist, and swayed with you, generally keeping up with the direction of the room but lost in your own little world.

After another round of drinks increasing your confidence, five more songs where you became somewhat familiar with the caller’s instructions, and plenty of laughter from stepping on each other’s feet, you finally called it a night and headed back to the motel.

Taking advantage of the last rays of daylight before the sun set over the horizon, you lazily sat on the porch swing. The haunting and lonely call of a loon echoed over the lake. With your nose in a book, you gently push back and forth with one foot.

“Watch ya reading?” Jensen asked as you felt the weight of the bench shift as he sat down next to you.

Literally, men always picked the worse part of books to interrupt. Nearing the end of the chapter, you turned so he could see the cover but that you could continue reading.

He sounded out the title “Remarkably Bright Creatures” and then asked, “Is it any good?”

You slipped the postcard you used as a bookmark back into the book and set it down. “It’s so cute. This octopus named Marcellus is helping this older woman solve the murder of her son. Think A Man Called Ove meets Finding Nemo meets Poirot.”

He softly chuckled. “I really only know Finding Nemo, but that sounds like quite the combination.”

You looked out over the lake and saw a large family, or perhaps even two, who started up the fire pit and began roasting marshmallows for smores.

“You wanna get cozy by the fire?” You nodded in their direction.

“Nah. Probably turn on a game or something.” He rubbed the back of his neck and then settled his arm on the back of the bench, grazing your shoulder. “I just came to check on you before I turn in for the night.”

His soft green eyes caught the last bits of sun before it finally set, and the sky was left a hue of pink and purple. The porch lights flickered on. A kid screamed with excitement as a game of tag ensued near the water's edge.

“So,” You started. “First day of the road trip. Success?”

“Way better than I could have hoped for.” He beamed.

“Mystery spot and all?” You reminded him.

Mystery spot and all.” He confirmed.

“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” You asked.

He scoffed. “Agenda? Wherever the road takes us.”

You nodded. “I can live with that. So long as we have a few adventures like today. You truly had fun?” A bit of insecurity was bubbling up.

“Y/N.” He called your name softly.

His gaze danced between your eyes and lips. That sensation of him wrestling between what he should and shouldn’t do struck you again as it had several times already today. Your eyes flickered to his lips, and your heart thudded against your chest. He had the slightest scar just above the cupid's bow. His hand wove through your hair as he leaned in. His lips were soft and gentle against yours, his eyelashes brushed against your skin, and still, your soul ascending with his to another plane of existence. It lasted mere seconds. When he pulled away, the loon cried out in the distance.

“Good night, Y/N. See ya tomorrow.”

And just like that, he got up and left for his room while you sat paralyzed, heart fluttering inside your chest.

---

Part 5

[trishmishtree]

Making a regency gown: Part I-lost-count

Based on the fact that I haven't posted an update in an entire month, you'd think I finished the gown, right?

Right??

Wrong

The back looks beautiful and I finally attached the skirt to the bodice, but this thing is still nowhere near finished. As you can tell from the front view, I still haven't gotten around to drafting the front bodice bib thing. I'm also contorting my arm behind my back because I haven't finished the waistband yet, so the apron front skirt doesn't close yet. (Btw, I also sewed little drawstrings running down the length of the sleeves so they can be adjusted and puff up a bit more.)

What you also can't tell is that the bottom half of the skirt still needs to be embroidered. Unfortunately, I've been running the inpatient service for the past 2 weeks so I haven't really had much time for this project. But I was able to embroider the parts of the skirt that are near seams so that I could get the construction of the skirt done. The parts that I haven't embroidered yet are just blank expanses of flat fabric, so they'll be easy to go back and finish later.

I wanted the front panel of the skirt to be flat and more structured, so I lined it with a sturdier cotton than the gauze fashion fabric, and that made it easy to do the colonial knots. I chose not to back the rest of the skirt with a lining because I wanted the back gathers to drape properly. But that posed a problem because the gauze is an open weave, and my colonial knots wanted to pull right through. I ended up taking a clue from the inspiration extant gown, where the dots are actually thousands of tiny metal staples, not embroidery stitches. They made the dots by stacking 3 staples in a "snowflake" configuration. So I tried that with my embroidery floss, and it worked pretty well but took much, much longer.

However, it quickly became apparent that I was going to run out of both embroidery floss and sanity before I would finish. So I had to go and buy several more spools of navy blue embroidery floss, albeit in 2 different shades because they'd run out of the exact color I need, but it's not terribly noticeable so I'm just going to have to live with it. I also forced myself to spend at least 1 hour a day doing the stupid embroidery on the skirt...until work got busy and I wadded the gown into a ball in the back of my closet for 3 weeks

Anyway, I've been tracking the amount of time I've spent on the project. Not including time spent on patterning and mockups, the bodice took 30 hours to construct and embroider by hand. The skirt took 9.5 hours to cut out and construct (a good percentage of that time was spent on prep work and being finicky about the placement of my pattern pieces because I had a very limited quantity of fabric to work with--seriously, strongly strongly recommend against trying to make a regency gown with only 3 yards of this cotton gauze, 0.5 yd of which I can't even use because the pre-embroidered border is hot pink). The skirt embroidery took 35 hours thus far, and I'm halfway done, so it'll probably take another 35 hours to finish. And then I have to make and embroider the bib front and waistband, which will probably take another 1-2 weekends. Except I need to study for boards, so idk when I'll get to that.........

[summer-at-peel]

It's been a busy week! Between finishing my Maymester course and getting settled in at Peel, I haven't had time to post. I've been working for about a week now, but future updates will definitely be more often than weekly.

My first day here, I did some product photography for Father's Day. These pictures are definitely my favorite from amongst those.

The big project that weekend, though, was trimming down about 120 wedding invitations on the Rotatrim for a customer order. I can't post a picture because they have private info, but it was really cool to get to work on something that is part of such a momentous life occasion. I also cut down some flyers, which were less exciting, but I can actually post. I could definitely tell I was developing a much better and quicker method for operating the Rotatrim by the end, and so I went back and cleaned up some of the first invites I cut.

In the past few days, I have also done work that has given me a better feel for how the gallery and store operate. It sounds kind of boring, but I worked on adding price labels to some of the products we got in stock, which involved locating the products on the invoices to find the sale price. The price the gallery pays to the artists was also listed, which really helped me understand the price margins that a store like Peel operates on. Specifically, those were products meant for wholesale, which means the gallery purchases them from the artists up-front and then makes money whenever a customer buys them. Many of the smaller things in the store are sold this way. For most original artworks, however, it is based on commission: both the artist and gallery only get paid once the work is purchased.

On that note, I put out some artwork for sale! Some we had shelf space for, but others I had to hang on the wall and move around other works to make room for.

The next day, I spent some time watching Lindsay do color correction on a client photo, learning about how to do more advanced editing in Photoshop and making suggestions for how we may get the effect we want. I learned about some Photoshop features I had completely overlooked before. The original photo was a scan from a canvas print with an incredibly pink hue, but we were able to process the photo enough to nearly fully restore the natural color. I think everyone who works at the gallery did at least a little bit of work on that project.

Later that day, I helped pick out which works by a local fabric artist to stock. These are going to be sold on commission, so she dropped them off with us and we will let her know when they sell so she can be paid.

Also, I learned how to run the register. The main thing thing they made sure to emphasize was that, if the work or product being sold was not already listed in the point-of-sale system, I should write a note of what the item is that makes it clear what sold and take a picture if necessary. This is especially important with original artworks and prints sold on commission, as the artists has not yet been paid, and we must know who we own money to. As I get more familiar with the works in the gallery and the artists we work with, I expect to get better at recognizing the art that is being sold.

Finally, this morning, I helped set up for a book binding workshop by a local artist. I also helped demonstrate parts of the process I knew when people asked questions.

And now, as everyone is settled in and working on their books, I am writing this post! This has been a phenomenal week, and I am very much looking forward to the rest of the summer!

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Here’s the text part of BOF article (it loses a bit without the pics - especially the ceramic duck!):

Why Harry Styles Fans Can’t Get Enough of Pleasing

The singer’s nail polish brand isn’t following the usual celebrity beauty brand playbook, where “authenticity” and newness are key. When your fans are this rabid, it turns out none of the usual rules apply.

NEW YORK – Grace Daniels, 19, owns 17 bottles of nail polish from Pleasing, Harry Styles’ beauty and lifestyle brand that launched one year ago, as well as at least one crewneck sweatshirt or hoodie from each of the line’s five drops. They were back for more at the Pleasing pop-up shop that opened in SoHo last weekend.

It’s the first of several planned visits to the flora-and-fauna themed space, where purple fawns and pastel pink birds line the walls and are printed on fabric lamp shades. There is greenery, colourful checkered carpets and whimsical ceramic animals. The nail polish is displayed on dressers, shelves and counters – both as single bottles and boxed sets with cute names like “Shroom Boom” and “Super Magic Family Time” – alongside makeup, apparel, socks, journals, blankets and Christmas ornaments.

“I’m trying to space out what I buy,” Daniels said. On Sunday, they added a red hoodie, a journal and a pair of socks to their collection of polishes. They plan to return to the popup several times before it closes to buy more.

Alyssa Coy, 20, who attends New York University’s The Gallatin School of Individualized Study with Daniels, is pacing herself, too.

“I will be back here and in LA multiple times and purchasing multiple different things,” said Coy, clutching multiple Pleasing sweatshirts (a popup is open there through Dec. 23, along with a third location in London). In New York, she bought apparel, journals, socks and ornaments and is thinking of getting the blanket and towels in the future.

Pleasing debuted last year with four nail polishes and a few skin care items, one among dozens of celebrity-fronted beauty brands that hit the market around the same time. As a category, nail polish isn’t particularly innovative, but the packaging – bottles have globe-shaped tops in metallic or marbled pastels – is made for display. Still, there have been only a handful of product launches since that initial release (though there has been plenty of tie-in merch, including the much in-demand “Pleasing” sweatshirts). As launching beauty brands became the de facto side hustle for actors, musicians and influencers, Styles himself only intermittently promoted Pleasing. He doesn’t claim to be overseeing every step of his brand’s development, as other celebrities do

But Styles’ fans don’t seem to care.

A sales associate at the New York popup said customers started to line up at 6 am on Saturday, five hours before the store was scheduled to open. About 100 people entered the store per hour until it closed at 7 pm.

Even on a rainy Sunday afternoon there were 15 people waiting to get in, including Jeneva Silverman, 36, who is nine months pregnant.

“They were sold out of a lot of apparel by the time we got in,” Silverman said via email Monday. She wound up ordering a sweatshirt for her husband online.

“I like the minimalist branding and the colours are really good for the nail polish,” said New York City-based Hilary Scherer, 32, who also braved the rain to get a Pleasing sweatshirt and potentially, nail colour.

Pleasing’s hero beauty product is nail polish, a category that’s seen action from male celebrity founders and “genderless” lines over the past year, including one from Colson Baker, better known as Machine Gun Kelly. Last December, a month after Styles launched Pleasing, Baker introduced UN/DN LAQR.

Where celebrities typically make the case that they’ve been intimately involved in the creation and branding of their beauty products – think Lady Gaga or Kim Kardashian talking about the years of development that went into their lines – Styles hasn’t been making the rounds. Ahead of the popups, Pleasing’s biggest offline venture to date, his team declined to make him available for interviews.

Other stars have been punished for failing to adequately champion their lines, which can lead to accusations, true or not, that they’re slapping their name on a product as a cash grab.

In a sense then, Styles’ approach to Pleasing is a test of his fan base’s devotion.

Coy and Daniels, the NYU students, said they find Pleasing more authentic than most celebrity brands.

“Harry’s been trying to separate himself from Pleasing,” Daniels pointed out, noting that the company is a collaborative effort with Styles’ stylist, Harry Lambert (Lambert and Molly Hawkins are co-creative directors of Pleasing). “He [Styles] wants this to be his own separate entity rather than something that’s solely related to him. At the same time, it is very Harry – it’s very eccentric.”

Pleasing works because it’s an embodiment of Styles; beauty, and especially nail polish, is ingrained in his personal brand, something he’s been known for almost as long as he’s been famous. It’s a safe bet that few of the customers lining up in the rain in Soho think he’s poring over financial models or logging time in the lab. It simply doesn’t matter.

“He’s so embedded in everything that Pleasing is and you can feel connected to him in that way, but it’s also still an expression of self as well,” Coy said. “You like him for a reason … and that’s really valuable to me so I’m able to represent that and author that and almost co-author it with him.”

The same goes for the rest of Pleasing’s merchandise – and the pop-ups themselves. The brand’s spaces are busy and immersive, the opposite of many digital-first brands’ attempts at going offline, which often involve neatly arranged products thrown into a minimalist white space.

“If you look around here, everything is very reminiscent of him,” Coy said. “We were walking around pointing at things saying, ‘That’s Harry’ or ‘That’s literally Harry.”

Coy and Daniels are referring to a life size teal poodle, wearing a metallic magenta string of pearls with a crystal and pearl brooch affixed to its right ear.

“How is that Harry?” I press them.

“Just because it is. That looks like him,” Coy replied. “It’s a feeling. He’s also this little duck over there, he’s extremely that duck – that’s so him. He’s so precious. He’s like a little duck on the counter.”

Daniels pulls up a photo on their iPhone of the pastel yellow ceramic duck displayed near the front of the store and then scrolls to a photo of Styles in a yellow stripe with a string of pearls.

When you look at them side by side, it’s hard not to see the resemblance.

Thanks so much anon - I really appreciate it. It's really interesting to see how Pleasing is discussed in the press.

I think the fans thinking that the duck and the poodle are Harry are excellent examples of the idea that Harry speaks in image rather than narrative and the blank space that leaves.

[dfwandy]

We want to start by thanking everyone attending services today. Many have traveled in from out of state, and others took time out of their schedules to be here. It means so very much to us to share our father’s celebration of life with you.

To begin, I would like to take a moment to acknowledge our mother, Page Barry. All three of us; Robin, Jimmy and I. our spouses and our children want to take a moment to recognize our mother’s role in Dad’s care during his final years. When he became ill, Pagie became a project manager of sorts over his care. Because of her steadfast dedication to his wellbeing, he was able to live comfortably in his final years. We are incredibly grateful, that because he was so well taken care of, his life was extended, and we were able to spend more precious holidays with him, including his 83rd birthday just a few weeks ago. Mom, you embodied what marriage really means through your dedication to Dad. Thank you, mom, from the bottom of our hearts.

I should mention that tomorrow is Jim and Page’s 61st wedding anniversary. Not long ago, even though Dad was very sick, he reached out to all of us to plan a special 60th wedding anniversary celebration. It wasn’t until we were sitting at the party dinner table that he realized it was actually their 59th anniversary! He was off by a year, but a wonderful time was had by all.

They say “If the United States can be called a body, then Kentucky can be called its heart”. Dad was a Kentucky boy through and through, and I know he is looking down on us today, and beaming that Kentucky folks are “in the house” and representing his home very proudly today.

When you think about Jim Barry, the very first thing that comes to mind is his sharp sense of humor and quick wit. In order to be truly funny, you really have to be smart, and in Dad’s case, his sense of humor was brilliant. One of my favorite zingers of his came about 12 or 13 years ago. A group of the St. Louis crew came down to Texas for a summer visit. We were at Sea World. In San Antonio. In July. It was in a word. HOT. We had three wild boys and a toddler to boot, running the park causing total mayhem. Deep into the afternoon we stopped at a bench in the shade to gather our thoughts and cool off for a moment. and I said to the group “I’m going to the concession stand, can I get anybody anything? Dad quickly piped up and said “a pistol”. These zingers, as we call them, the fast as a flash one liners always brought levity to whatever situation we were in and brought joy and howling laughter to our gatherings.

When I asked my boys about their Grandad they had so many fond memories to share. Vance remembers when Grandad helped him build his Texas Longhorns themed Scouts derby car, Nicky recalls Granddad painting camo stripes on his new Nerf gun, and James loved watching the masters with him this past Easter weekend.

Everybody has a dad. But there is a very short list of people in this word have MY dad. He was special, Jim Barry was...really cool.

When most children bring home school artwork, it typically goes on the fridge and maybe gets tucked away in a scrapbook. My dad took my drawings, precisely contour cut them out, and mounted them to pretty colored boards. When other little girls got play kitchens at Christmas, my dad built one from scratch and hand lettered “Jennifer’s Stove” on the backsplash. A lot of girls get a car for their 16th birthday. When I turned 16 my dad custom painted a VW bug. Hot pink with gold glitter racing stripes.

Examples like this number in the hundreds. There’s a typical way things are done and there is his way. You could call it the “Granddad Factor”. The special touches that he brought to ordinary occurrences were simply...magic. memories of his unique and thoughtful contributions are woven through the very fabric of my life, and I am forever changed for the better because he was my Dad.

Dad had a few hospital stays recently. When the nurses walked in you could tell his demeanor changed and he would turn on the charm a little bit. As they would leave the room he would say TTFN! Which stood for Ta Ta For Now! He thought it was pretty cool that some of the nurses caught on and started saying it back.

I think his little catch phrase is only fitting today. Dad, we are not saying goodbye. We will see you again. So, for today, we will simply say Ta Ta For Now.

[hiscraves]

Top 5 Vertical Striped T-shirt Ideas for men

Vertical striped t-shirts have been a classic and timeless fashion statement for men for decades. Vertical stripes are a popular choice for all body types due to their sleek and slimming effect, created by their clean and sharp lines. In addition, they are a stylish and versatile addition to any wardrobe, as they are appropriate for both casual and semi-formal occasions.

This blog will discuss the top five ideas for men’s vertical striped t-shirts that will elevate their fashion style. We’ve got you covered, from bold patterns to subtle stripes. Whether you’re looking for a statement piece or a more understated look, these suggestions will help you put together a fashionable and on-trend ensemble. Therefore, let’s delve into the world of vertical striped t-shirts for men and explore the top five ideas for men.

List of 5 Vertical Striped t-shirt for men

Men’s striped t-shirt have become a popular part of many people’s wardrobes over the past few years, and for a good reason. Whether you’re going out for a casual day or going to a formal event, a men’s striped t-shirt is a great way to look stylish without much effort. But because there are so many options and styles, it can be hard to know how to wear striped shirts. Most men like to play it safe when it comes to colours, especially for formal events. Men can wear vertical striped t-shirts in different ways for different occasions.

1. Striped t-shirt with Blazers

A t-shirt with thin vertical grey stripes is an excellent choice for a subtle and elegant look. It’s ideal for layering under a blazer or jacket, especially in a business or formal setting where you want to look professional but not flashy. The vertical stripes can assist in elongating your silhouette and creating the illusion of a taller, slimmer physique. It can be worn with dress pants and dress shoes for a polished and professional appearance, or with jeans and sneakers for a more casual but still put-together look.

The key to achieving a cohesive and stylish look is to keep your outfit’s colour scheme and style uniform.

Combine a navy striped t-shirt with a navy blazer and a stylish ensemble. This outfit is ideal for men who wish to dress for a date or a semi-formal occasion.

2. Men’s Striped t-shirt with Chinos

A light blue or pink vertical striped t-shirt for men paired with beige chinos is a classic and preppy combination that is suitable for a variety of occasions, such as outdoor events, casual dinners, or a day out with friends. The brown loafers or boat shoes are an excellent finishing touch that adds a touch of sophistication to the ensemble.

This look is also adaptable enough to be dressed up or down according to the occasion. Try replacing the chinos with tailored pants and adding a blazer to achieve a more formal look.

3. Vertical Striped t-shirt with Jeans

Combining a vertical striped t-shirt for men with jeans is a weekend-appropriate look that is effortless and casual. Choose a striped t-shirt with vertical lines in a colour that goes well with your skin tone and style. You can choose a traditional black-and-white striped t-shirt or one with more colours.

Depending on the look you want to go for, you can choose between jeans with a light wash or a dark wash. Wear shoes that are comfortable and go with the style of your outfit. You can wear sneakers or loafers.

4. Striped t-shirt with Shorts

Pair your vertical striped t-shirt for men with a pair of shorts in a complementary hue for a stylish summer ensemble. Choose neutral-coloured shorts like beige or grey if your t-shirt is bold and bright. If your t-shirt is more subdued, you can add visual interest with a pair of shorts in a bolder hue. For instance, if your t-shirt features navy and white stripes, you could wear it with khaki or grey shorts. If you are wearing a t-shirt with thin, subtle stripes, you could pair it with shorts made from a textured fabric, such as linen or chambray.

This will add visual interest without making your outfit too busy. Depending on the occasion, the length and cut of your shorts will vary. Denim or cargo shorts could be worn for a casual daytime look, while chino or tailored shorts could be worn for a more formal occasion.

5. Vertical Striped t-shirt with Pants

If you’re concerned that your outfit is too busy, this combination is smart. Stick to pants in black, grey, tan, navy, or white. For instance, a t-shirt with bright red and yellow vertical stripes would pair well with dark brown or navy pants.

The combination of a striped t-shirt and cargo pants is a fashionable and functional outfit for a day out. Consider pairing a t-shirt with white and navy stripes with olive cargo pants and white sneakers. This ensemble is ideal for a casual brunch or weekend excursion.

You can also pair your striped t-shirt with corduroy pants for an autumn or winter ensemble. This works well with neutral hues, such as brown, grey, and black.

Keep the colours of your shoes more neutral, too. The best shoes to wear will be tan, brown, or black because they won’t make your outfit look busier.

Tips

Make sure the men’s striped t-shirt fits perfectly. You may also choose to have your t-shirts custom-tailored to your specifications.

Thin stripes are viewed as more formal and appropriate for everyday situations.

Thicker stripes are perceived as less formal and are the most appropriate attire for informal events.

Ensure that men’s striped t-shirts are ironed correctly so that they have a neat appearance.

With so many options available, you are certain to find a style that suits your preferences and personality.

By following these top five tips for men’s striped t-shirts, you can effortlessly elevate your fashion sense and create fashionable and on-trend ensembles. Whether you choose subtle stripes or bold patterns, the key to achieving a unified appearance is to maintain a consistent colour scheme and design. So go ahead and experiment with these suggestions and make a fashion statement.

[saudimains]

Pure cleanx

His slaying numbers were fine, but just fine. Scump was arguably the worst player in the CDL in Stage 4. Ultra could go on a run – they are the 2021 runners-up, but at the end of the day that run will likely come from Insight and Cammy, not CleanX. His brilliant 1.17 in SnD make that easier to swallow for Ultra, but it's really hard to trust CleanX for fantasy purposes with such shaky stats in respawns. The entry SMG ended with a 0.90 KD overall, the worst of any player to qualify for Champs, as well as an awful 0.87 KD in Hardpoint. There's never a better time to hit form than right before Champs and Octane could be perfectly poised to take home his first title.ĬleanX is an amazingly talented SMG, but Stage 4 he was one of the worst players in the CDL. Octane has had a rocky season, with LAT struggling to stay out of the bottom placements in Stage 2 and Stage 3, but in Stage 4 LAT took the title and showed why they stuck with this roster through thick and thin. In Stage 4, Octane put together a 1.12 KD with a 1.10 in Hardpoint and a 1.20 in Control on his way to the sixth-best stat line in the entire CDL. Octane, the human turret, always shows up when the end of the season comes around and Vanguard has been no different. With CoD champs happening across one weekend it comes down to which version of Seattle shows up – Major 3 world-beaters, or Major 4 bottom of the barrel? Octane Seattle's only issue throughout the 2022 campaign has been consistency as they often struggle to maintain the same level of performance each week. Pred has been especially good in Hardpoint where he sits with a 1.10 KD, an exceptional return for an SMG player. Pred has been frying throughout and has shown that he can do everything the top SMG players in the league can do, and maybe even more. The best SMG on the year as a whole deserves a spot in the "Players to Target" even if he got off to a slow start this season. In an unpredictable year it's been Cellium providing a constant high level and he should be awarded with his first MVP honors. Coming into this tournament in good form, the flex player for Atlanta FaZe is looking at his best, and he's always been someone that shows up on the brightest stages putting together an absurd showing during the Cold War Champs as well. With a 1.22 KD on the season headlined by a 1.25 KD in Hardpoint, the MVP in my book simply has to be Cellium. Players to Target CelliumĬellium and Dashy have been in a two-horse race for MVP for a long time, but it's impossible to look past Cellium for the award and for the top spot in this cheat sheet. In the most unpredictable Call of Duty of all time it's time to take a look at some players to target and to fade for the final tournament of the season, CoD Champs. Vanguard has been the most mixed year in the history of the CDL with each major having a different winning team and each of those winning teams finishing outside the top six at every single major other than the one they won. Mega King: Flat Sheet 275x270cm / Fitted Sheet 182×203+50cm / Pillowcases 48×74 (x2)Ĭlick HERE to view our online Algodon range.This article is part of our Call of Duty series.King Single: Flat Sheet 200x265cm / Fitted Sheet 107×203+40cm / Pillowcase 48x74cm (x1).Generous 40cm & 50cm walls on Fitted Sheets.Launching August 15thĪlgodon 300 Thread Count Pure Cotton Sheet SetsĪvailable in White, Stone, Silver, Pink, Charcoal and Faded Denim. Explore our latest and embrace the Tommy Bahama feeling of adventure and total relaxation with touches of paradise. Tommy Bahama is here to ease you into and island state of mind. We encourage you to live spontaneously and relax in style, no matter where you are. Tommy Bahama Home Get that island feeling – no island required.Sourcing all natural cotton fabrics and luxuriously soft textural accents is the heart of our Algodon lifestyle. Designed in Melbourne, Australia we are committed to excellence in design, quality and style for your home. Algodon ALGODON is defining Cotton luxury for the home.