#i have a few more i want to make but nowhere to put them

[afterglowkatie]

'i love you' | k.c.c.

kyra cooney-cross x reader | 3.8k | 5 times someone else realises kyra's feelings for you and the one time kyra realises (or 5 times someone catches Kyra looking at you)

ˏˋ°•*⁀ this is part of the pair of pests universe. i started writing this while writing the last part, i couldn't help it. it's super fluffy and yeah i hope you all like it!

‘Oh what, you change your number now Kyra,’ Katie teased as soon as Kyra appeared on the pitch to start training, ‘Going for the clothes shrunk in the wash look too,’ Katie laughed out while Kyra rolled her eyes and gave her a little shove. Kyra knew what she was getting herself into when she put on your jumper instead of her own. She just couldn’t help herself, wanting to stay wrapped up in you any chance she could get. 

‘I couldn’t find mine,’ Kyra mumbled, shrugging slightly, looking down, suddenly finding the ground suddenly more interesting. Before Katie could tease Kyra any further, you had come running out of nowhere and attaching yourself to Kyra’s side.

‘There’s our number 32,’ You looked up at Katie, eyebrows furrowed confused at her comment until she pointed at her own number then at Kyra. It all made sense when you saw Kyra was wearing your jumper instead of her own. The small smile that was creeping on your face didn’t go unnoticed by Katie and now Caitlin who had appeared at a similar time to you.

‘Oi, where’s yours? I’m freezing,’ You tugged at your jumper while looking at Kyra. Kyra’s face lit up when she realised that she could give you hers since she definitely did bring her own with her just in case.

‘I’ll go get you mine,’ Kyra wrapped her arm around you, pulling you into her side trying to keep you warm while you both walked back to the locker room. 

‘What happened to not having yours?’ Katie’s voice travelled the small distance you had walked away before making her comment. Kyra shot Katie a glare over her shoulder and continued to walk the two of you away from the other two who were now laughing at Kyra and sharing a knowing look between them, ‘Steph’s gonna love that’ Katie commented towards Caitlin, sarcasm heavy in her voice, they both laughed walking off to join others.

It didn’t take long before you were running back out onto the field for training telling everyone how you were the better number 32 and mimicked Kyra every now and then. Kyra couldn’t keep her eyes off of you throughout training. The way you looked wearing her number she wished she could keep you in it not ever wanting to give you your own back any time soon. Making a note of how she’s going to try and get you to wear one of her jersey’s the next time she has the chance. Kyra’s stomach flipped at the chance of getting to see you with both her name and number on your body.

She also couldn’t help but chuckle whenever you ran around. You had to roll the sleeves of Kyra’s jumper a few times since it was a tad too big on you, even then the sleeves would still roll back down past your hands. It was almost a hazard but neither of you wanted to swap jumpers or take them off any time soon. 

Kyra just watched on, a smile permanently etched into her face, ‘She’s so cute,’ A comment that was whispered quietly that was only meant for Kyra to hear had she been alone.

Katie overhearing the comment and watching the way Kyra’s eyes softened every time they met yours, she knew Kyra’s feelings for you before Kyra even realised them. And then that’s how Caitlin, Vic and Teyah all knew but promised each other that it would stay within that little group. Though from then on Kyra was never free of any teasing from those four. They quite enjoyed watching their friend turn red at the mention of you.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

‘Ky, stop cheating!’ You exclaimed when you realised Kyra was using the reflection of the window’s on the bus to see what cards you had in your hand. You were confused why she wasn’t putting down certain cards until you noticed her glance passed you. You were sat together by yourselves passing the time with different kinds of card games while you were on your way to an away game in Manchester.

‘Oh stop pouting, all’s fair in love and card games,’ Kyra couldn’t help but laugh at how dramatic you were pouting, definitely putting it on to try and make her feel bad and give in to let you win the next few rounds to make up for it. But it never did work on Kyra. 

‘Oh yeah? And where’s the love? Hm?’ You crossed your arms trying to stay focused on your pouty and serious act, hard to not break out in a fit of laughter.

‘Please, you know there’s plenty of love right here,’ Kyra joked, laughing and pointing her finger between the two of you. All you could do was roll your eyes and shake your head, looking away pretending to shuffle the cards to hide the way your face flushed slightly. 

‘You know how you said there was plenty of love? Yeah well not right now,’ You huffed after having lost yet another round. Even without cheating, Kyra was still beating you. You made up how she must’ve had psychic abilities but she was quick to shut you down and make fun of how you have the worst poker face and she can read you easily.

After your little outburst you both settled down, deciding to watch a movie on your phone, ‘You really do make a great pillow, Ky,’ Kyra chuckled softly at your comment, letting you get even more comfy against her shoulder. Kyra had her arm wrapped around you, gently rubbing and drawing circles against your arm. That plus the fact you could never stay awake during movies, meant you were out fast asleep within minutes.

Alessia noticed that the corner the two of you were in had quietened down quite a bit. Turning her attention she saw you fast asleep on Kyra’s shoulder. Kyra’s feelings for you being more than just what a best friend would hold was painfully obvious. Though it felt like it was more painfully obvious for everyone that wasn't either you or Kyra.

It wasn’t hard, Alessia wasn’t sitting far from either of you, so she could see things from afar. Like the way Kyra would glance down and just look at you instead of the movie, the smile that was only ever directed towards you. She would have to stifle a laugh every time Katie or someone else was a little too loud and Kyra would try to send them an intimidating glare before making sure you hadn’t woken up yet.

‘Tiny and Kyra…’ Alessia turned to Viv and Beth making sure to talk quietly so no one else could overhear. 

‘They’re cute but it’s frustrating watching the two of them,’ Beth contributed, commenting what Alessia was also thinking and anyone else who had noticed, ‘Kyra’s the most obvious, the protectiveness is bordering being disgustingly cute,’ 

‘Do you think Steph will notice?’ Viv piped up

‘I love Steph but I think that’s where Tiny gets her obliviousness from,’ The three of them laughed loudly at Beth’s comment, earning them a glare from Kyra.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

‘Yeah, girls night!’ You screamed when you were leaving Steph’s apartment. You, Steph and Kyra were on your way to meet up with your fellow Aussies that also lived in London. A time when you were all free on the same night was definitely something worth celebrating.

‘A bit excited are we?’ Steph joked knowing you had been talking about this night all week. Honestly you just liked having a reason to go out and drink your weight in alcohol when you also had the next day to recover from the night. 

‘Loser,’ Kyra knocked into you playfully but joined you in singing and talking Steph’s ear off the entire way to the bar. You cheerfully greeted the girls when you arrived, Sam passing you a shot and a pint as soon as you joined.

‘You’re supposed to be the good influence but I think you’re the worst out of all of us,’ The girls laughed along with Steph at her comment towards Sam. Several drinks later, you were laughing at something Mackenzie had said while trying to hold yourself up against Sam, the three of you attempting to dance.

The others had found a small table to gather around, talking amongst each other. Kyra had tuned most of them out, occasionally nodding along looking like she was paying attention when in reality you had her full attention without even knowing it, ‘Ky…Kyra, earth to Kyra,’ Charli was trying to get her best friends attention noticing she wasn’t paying any attention to what she was trying to tell her. 

Charli rolled her eyes following the direction Kyra’s eyes had been set in, ‘You know she’s not going to magically disappear, right?’ Charli pushed at Kyra’s arm, suddenly bringing her back to being aware of her surroundings. Cheeks instantly heated up when Kyra realised she had been caught staring at you, quickly making sure Steph or Mini had caught on either.

‘I wasn’t staring at her, there was a girl behind her,’ Kyra mumbled out an excuse, trying to be convincing, causing Charli to laugh loudly, bringing attention from the other two their way.

‘You’re a terrible liar,’ Just as Steph was about to open her mouth to ask, you bounded over draping yourself over Kyra’s shoulders, smiling ear to ear and giggling to yourself.

‘Ky, come dance,’ You whined out, trying to pull Kyra up from where she was sitting but almost falling into her lap instead.

‘Are you sure you can?’ Kyra laughed, putting her hands on your waist to help steady you, ‘What’s wrong with dancing with those two,’ Kyra nodded towards where you had just come from, a playful smile on her lips.

‘They’re boring, I wanna dance with you,’ You gave Kyra a pout you knew she couldn’t resist and in an instant Kyra was up with you grabbing her hands and pulling her towards the dance floor. Kyra’s hands on your waist, an attempt to keep you upright and close while you get lost in the rhythm of the music. The two of you smiling and laughing at each other.

‘Yeah go dance with your girl,’ Charli mumbled into her drink watching Kyra get dragged away by you. Charli’s comment went unnoticed by Steph but not by Mini.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

‘Harper!’ You said excitedly as you watched her run towards you when she spotted you and Kyra. You both had gone to support your West Ham friends, being able to see and spend time with Harper was an obvious bonus. Harper ran straight to you and you picked her up, setting her on your hip. 

You smiled at the toddler, ‘Boo West Ham, right Harps?’ You and Kyra both laughed when Harper aggressively shook her head and crossed her arms.

‘No! Go West Ham!’ Refusing to stop frowning and smile until you also said it. You rolled your eyes but gave in to the two year old yelling it loud, earning some side eyes but to you it was worth it to see Harper smile and laugh. 

Kyra recorded the interaction between you and Harper instantly putting it on her instagram story, smiling to herself at some of the comments she got from your teammates. Kyra had been more active on her socials recently, granted it was whenever the two of you had gone out or spent time together. Her recent photo dumps had slowly started to contain more and more of you.

There were the fans that had started speculating that there was potentially something going on between you and Kyra, and then the others that were defending the fact you were just best friends. Either way it didn’t bother Kyra, she just wanted to be able to capture and share certain things about you that made her smile.

Still holding Harper since she refused for you to let her go, never beating the allegations of you being Harper’s favourite even more so since she only gave Kyra a hug as long as you were a part of the hug too. The hug with the three of you definitely ended up on social media fairly quickly.

Mini eventually found the three of you, getting caught up in conversation. Conversation that the toddler on your hip found boring so she tugged on your shirt to get your attention pointing towards a little blanket on the ground that had some markers and books. You separated from Kyra and Mini sitting down on the ground with Harper. 

Kyra and Mini didn’t notice your departure until they saw the two of you sitting on the ground, markers surrounding you while you let Harper colour in the few tattoos you had on your arms. You were a walking colouring book for Harper.

‘They’re so sweet together even if we’re constantly trying to get Harper to understand she can’t just draw on everyone,’ Mini and Kyra both laughed.

‘Yeah they’re both cute,’ Mini smiled looking at Kyra, the comment from Charli the other night and the unmistaken look of love in Kyra’s eyes, it was easy to spot Kyra’s repressed feelings for you.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

‘You’d think Tiny Catley was the only one out here,’ Alanna made a slight comment when passing by Mackenzie when the game wasn’t in play, ‘Whenever there’s a stop Kyra’s always looking around to find Tiny,’ Alanna went back into position when the ball was about to be thrown back in. The rest of the first half it was more obvious to Mackenzie since Alanna’s comment. If anyone was paying that close attention to Kyra they would find her actions almost comical. 

At half time Kyra was quick to be the one to hand you a water and a gel before you had the chance to grab it yourself. If anyone questioned it, not that they would since it wasn’t completely unusual, but if they did Kyra could just brush it off since it was the olympic qualifiers and she wanted to make sure the Matilda’s best forward was hydrated and ready for the second half.

‘Didn’t know I had my own personal servant,’ You joked, smiling and thanking Kyra for the water she had handed you, ‘Let’s go Ky! You gonna assist my next goal?’ You nudged Kyra slightly, laughing a little.

‘So so humble you are,’ Kyra chuckled, her arm slightly grazing against your own.

‘I mean, you do call me our best forward right,’ You raised your eyebrow at Kyra. She was caught off guard at your comment, she had said that but it wasn’t to you, ‘People tell me stuff,’ You shrugged and jogged away from Kyra into position before the start of the next half. 

Kyra almost did assist you and you almost did get the hat trick that you wanted. Only problem was the bad tackle the opposition threw your way. You were on the right, close to goals and about to take the shot when the opposition came running into you. A mistimed tackle causing them to catch your ankle instead, the opposition falling into you causing you to fall forwards. 

You were lucky to have missed falling into the goalpost and instead landing right beside it. Though you were unlucky to land on your elbow the way you did. Pain shooting through your right arm, as well as radiating from your ankle that had been stood on. You didn’t know what part of you to hold on to, all you could feel was the pain radiating through your body. You laid on the ground trying to catch your breath and getting the strength to move.

As soon as Kyra witnessed what happened to you all she saw was red. Kyra just saw you on the ground and the defender walking away seemingly unharmed and she couldn’t control herself. It was like there was no one else around, the full stands and all the players nearby were completely blocked out. 

A sloppy, mistimed and reckless tackle that had you injured also had Kyra shoving the defender full force. The opposition stumbled back, a mix of anger and confusion towards Kyra. In a matter of seconds, that one shove from Kyra had started a small fight between the two. Alanna was the closest and quickest at pulling Kyra away before it got more heated.

‘Look I know you like her but you can’t leave us a player down,’ Kyra was still too worked up to properly process Alanna’s words, only knowing it was an attempt to get Kyra to calm down. 

‘Did you see that?’ Kyra exclaimed, putting her hands up in frustration, ‘That was just so poor and so bad and now she’s,’ Kyra’s voice trailed off when she turned to look at you again, a frown etched onto her face while her eyes showed a deep level of concern for you.

‘Kyra,’ Alanna put her hands on the younger girls shoulders getting Kyra to look at her, ‘You let the refs deal with it, which they are, what she needs from you is to be able to stay out here and finish this game. Finish it for her. You know she’ll be sat there watching the rest too stubborn to let anyone make her get proper medical attention straight away,’ Kyra closed her eyes for a minute letting herself calm down and take in what Alanna was saying, ‘You don’t want her to see you get sent off for something stupid like that,’

Soon enough Kyra returned calm and focused. More focused on you then she was of the defender that had hurt you. Clapping along with the rest of the stadium once you were back up on your feet and getting helped off the pitch. 

‘Show them the real wrath of Kyra Cooney-Cross for me,’ Is all you said to Kyra when she went to make sure you were okay while you passed by her.

A few days later it was confirmed that you had broken your ankle. Kyra had stayed with you the entire time throughout each appointment and scan, even being able to stay longer with you in Australia before making your way back to England. It wasn’t an ideal time for you to have gotten injured, though you both are thankful it isn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Though it still wasn’t ideal, you’d finally worked your way into the starting XI multiple times recently for arsenal. 

The length of time you were going to be missing games for had started to cause some old insecurities to rise within you again. It was hard, you were finally able to start properly showing arsenal what you had to offer them and then it felt like it was all taken away from you. You didn’t let your insecurities show for a little while. But sitting out at the games watching your teammates, it was getting harder to keep it down.

Kyra started noticing that you weren’t quite yourself at the moment, it would’ve been hard for her to miss it. Especially with how attentive she’d been and how supportive and helpful. Steph had joked that she might as well just move in with how much time she’s spent at Steph’s apartment helping you with whatever you’ve needed. Wanting to make sure your recovery went as smoothly as possible, wanting to make your life a little bit easier right now.

You were being driven back to the apartment and Kyra couldn’t help but notice how quiet you were. Sure you hadn’t been yourself recently but being as quiet as you were now was definitely worrying. As soon as you made it to your bedroom Kyra went to ask if you were okay but the way you threw your crutches to the ground, she instantly got her answer.

‘Ky,’ Your voice was small and cracked a little. Not being able to keep how you were feeling down any longer you broke. Tears flowing freely down your face. In a heartbeat Kyra had wrapped her arms around you, letting you sob into her shoulder. She managed to manoeuvre you so you were both now sitting on your bed, Kyra against the headboard while you laid your head on her chest.

‘Sorry Ky,’ You mumbled once you had calmed down a little bit.

‘Hey, no. No apologising, talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?’ Kyra’s voice had always been comforting for you, she made you feel safe.

‘I’m just worried Ky,’ You started, voice small and fingers tracing over the logos of Kyra’s hoodie, ‘What if this puts me back to square one? I’ve worked so hard recently and what if it was all for nothing because of this stupid injury. What if they realise that someone else is way better and then I’m back to just being a sub. Like I know there’s nothing wrong with that but I enjoy playing,’ Kyra listened intently while you rambled on and let out all of the thoughts that had been eating at you for a little while now.

‘Like you said, you’ve worked so hard and that hard work isn’t going to be forgotten. Everyone knows and even now can still see how hard you’re working. The lengths you go to, to support the club and everyone every single game and training and bonding night, none of it goes unnoticed. You’ll be right back as a starter in no time. You’re my star girl at least,’ Kyra whispered the last part and you smiled small at her words.

‘Thank you, Ky,’ Letting Kyra’s words sink in, she always knew the right words to say to get you to feel better. Kyra definitely knew you better than anyone else knew you, she even knew you better than yourself, ‘Kyra,’ You trailed off.

‘What’s up?’ Kyra furrowed her eyebrows at the way you had hesitated.

‘Can- can I have your hoodie?’ Kyra smiled relieved, she didn’t even think for a second before she peeled her hoodie off leaving her in just a sports bra while she put her hoodie over your head.

You hummed in appreciation and got even more comfy against Kyra. Being wrapped up in Kyra and her hoodie, it was perfect. Kyra put a movie on, fingers massaging your scalp. You fell asleep against her pretty quickly having worn yourself out with your breakdown earlier. Kyra couldn’t help but take a photo of you laying against her chest wearing her hoodie. 

The longer Kyra looked at the photo and then down at you, the more her stomach flipped and the faster her heart raced. Her breathing picked up a little, but not drastic enough to wake you up, while the realisation had come crashing down on her.

She looked at you one more time, smiling at how peaceful you looked and how much she enjoyed having you in her arms, ‘I love you,’ Kyra had said it so softly, but now she had actually voiced her feelings for you. Finally making it real for herself and no longer suppressing her feelings for you.

[junowritings]

Raphael being infatuated with a mortal and the interest seems to be mutual (maybe with the mortal bantering with the devil about how he doesn't need to bribe them to get them to spend time with him), but then another person pulls the—probably in human form—cambion aside and tells the him to not try to flirt with the mortal he's infatuated with because, "Them and I are already together." However, this person is just delusional and decided that the object of Raphael's affections interests being polite meant they were dating. The mortal verbally tears the delusional person a new one when this comes to light and lets it slip during the tirade that Raphael's infatuation is indeed reciprocated.

First time writing for Raphael! Definitely gotta brush up more on his character but this was an interesting concept to work with!

You'll have to forgive me for getting a lil carried away with the build up for this one but I do hope that it's to your liking hun~!

=======

♡ The work of a devil means to surround yourself with fools. Fools who put their lives, and their souls, and all that they hold dear on the line in an attempt to vie for the chance to gain something better. Something greater than them - however temporary. And who was Raphael to deny them the opportunity? He is oh so generous, after all.

♡ Raphael makes no attempt to hide how much he enjoys the back and forth - the game of cat and mouse with stubborn souls who have yet to realize that they had been doomed from the moment the cambion had set his sights on his latest mark. They all come crawling back eventually of their own accord; pushed into the corner with nowhere else to turn just as he always warned them. So Raphael is more than content to wait however long that takes. Weeks. Month. Years. He has all the means to bide his time. Raphael can afford the wait; his clients can’t.

♡ But of course he has to find some way to pass that time - to entertain himself while the proverbial counter whittles down.

♡ That is where you come in.

♡ How he found you was anyone’s guess. Maybe you caught his eye, a momentary fancy in the vicinity of his latest client, going about your meager days in a relative peace he was all too happy to break. Or perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time; strayed too long in his presence or looked too close at the devil in mortal’s clothing till you realized you knew too much. Whatever the details of your first encounter, once Raphael has set his sights on something that he wants, your days of peace without him are long gone.

♡ Such a pesky little mortal you are. A sharper wit and even sharper tongue than some of the suckers who come clamoring to him for their own gain. One who acts as though the sight of the devil at your doorstep every few days is another routine to grow accustomed to. Maybe it is, but don’t tell him that. He’d almost be offended by the lukewarm reception; but luckily for you he finds it humorous, enough so that he sticks around, appearing like a surprise guest at your local haunts, feigning pleasant surprise to have ‘coincidentally crossed paths’ with you when you’re least expecting him.

♡In the beginning Raphael tolerates you - sees you as an amusing way to pass the time when his other prospects aren’t bearing fruit and his creature comforts are proving too lackluster for an appropriate distraction. But the more he visits, the more your life seems to shift to accommodate the devil.

♡ You aren’t the exception to his offers either. He’s produced the idea of a contract on more than one occasion, noting all of the time he took on the details of that little scroll of paper, tucked neatly away at the house of hope for the day that you agree to strike a deal. He says it as though it's fact, and you have no illusions he believes that entirely. But for now it stays as a playful banter, rolling off his offer with a sarcastic rebuttal that he’s better off saving that contract for the next poor soul he latches onto.

♡ It becomes a funny little routine, and the cambion makes no hesitation to make himself at home in your home as though he owns the place. Hells it’s as though he’s claimed the house - and it’s occupants - as an abode away from the house of hope. Knowing Raphael, he probably has. 

♡ You find decorations that weren’t there before; alterations to your wardrobe and home with no room for doubt of who they’re from. Your comment that he doesn’t need to bribe you to get you to spend time with him is only met with a grin that’s all teeth and snark, as Raphael quickly corrects you that these are merely ‘investments’. You never get the chance to find out what these ‘investments’ are for.

♡ In return you listen to his waxing poetics, prodding and poking at the lines he recites as though ribbing an old friend. You know very well that on the wrong day, the wrong word would earn you his ire, but the fear of that being death and not a thinly veiled glare ebbs with each passing day. So you find yourself relaxing, daresay, even enjoying the devil’s company. And Raphael is reveling in the attention, more so than you will likely ever get him to admit aloud.

♡ Raphael will never call it infatuation. Fondness? Maybe; said once or twice with just enough of a casual tone to pass it off as his usual antics. Love is not to be found in his honeyed words and literature. But an appreciation and desire for what he wants? That he can work with, if you’re ever brave enough to ask.

♡ Not that you get to, before someone else gets involved on this little one on one. Really, do none of these mortals value their lives? 

♡ Clearly the fool is nowhere near as sharp as the average mortal, as even the lingering scent of sulfur from Raphael’s latest appearance doesn’t deter them from pulling him aside. It’s a good thing they removed their hands before the devil decided to pry each finger off for the blatant disrespect, scowl already setting deep lines on his face as the being before him rattles on. Something about ‘flirting’ this, ‘don’t try anything that. Boring drivel as far as Raphael is concerned, until it clicks that this person is warding him off from you with claims that they got to you first. 

♡ There are two ways that this encounter would pan out, depending on the mood that this poor sod catches the cambion in. 

♡ IF (and this is a big if) they somehow manage to catch him in a tolerable moment, Raphael will be generous enough to divulge their ramblings for a second. Of course he doesn’t take this seriously. Since when did such feeble reasons as ‘we’re already together’ or declarations of their love for you ever matter? The grin on his face is mocking, downright taunting to the point this ‘suitor’ of yours grows too unnerved to continue this intervention’. 

♡ Otherwise the disgust is palpable. Does this prat think for a second that whatever drabble comes out of their mouth is worth the man’s time? You, he likes. The others, he can tolerate. This little fidgeting pound of flesh? They’re lucky he hasn’t asked one of the pawns at his disposal to get rid of them yet. The only thing that keeps them alive is that they’re simply not worth the hassle. Even though his expression sours and the scowl on his face deepens as his gaze sharpens, dark eyes regarding them as a cat would regard an insect - enough to mess with, but hardly worth the meal to waste energy on.

♡ Raphael is at his core a meddler (to put it in nicer terms), so it is quite frankly a miracle that you don’t hear it from the mouth of the cambion himself after your ‘partner’s confrontation. He pays no mind to baseless warnings, honestly getting a kick out of doing anything but what they asked. Raphael doesn’t just want to wound their pride - he will rub salt, and dirt, and filth into that wound and let it fester for good measure for the insult. And you become the weapon for his self perceived revenge.

♡ The change is unmissable, and Raphael lays it on thick. Your days out in the city never come without the cambion’s company, a hand steadfast upon your lower back to guide you as you go about your errands. He even makes a show of walking you home after every excursion, when before he would leave you to your devices whatever time suited him. If only you knew the smug satisfaction it gave him imagining how your ‘partner’s blood must boil at the very sight. The message is clear: he’s not sharing this one.

♡ The gifts are more blatant as well - with statement pieces too big and too rich for any rational person to afford and yet you find them at your bedside damn near every other morning. Not knowing better you’re wary of his intentions, even though the devil donning his human guise insists that there’s no strings attached to this small transaction. “It’s only fitting that you’re donned in something opulent to match your company, isn’t it?” yet with the way he words it you know that wearing them is more than a request. Especially once you put them on, and catch his smirk of pride. Clearly going along with his ‘requests’ strokes his ego.

♡ This game is dead in the water by a few days, as Raphael’s attempt to rile up that lover of yours has them bursting at the seams in rage. That fool makes another attempt to pull him aside right outside of your door nonetheless, but this time Raphael is far less inclined to give them the mercy of this charade. They’d outlived their welcome the first encounter, and Raphael is in no mood to waste anymore time on them. Even in a human guise he’s more than capable of removing this bore, and only pauses to mull over how long it will take you to scrub whatever gristle is left of this person from your homestead by the time he’s done with them. Doesn’t even bother listening to the same spiel, casting a cursory glance to your front door behind the mortal debating if frying them to a crisp would damage the new decorations. No matter; he could always buy you better ones. 

♡ That line of thought pauses at the sight of you at the door, only catching the briefest look of horror on your face before it scrunches up in anger. You cross the space in seconds - and Raphael is almost impressed by how fast your hands shoot out to wind into the collar of this mortal practically dragging them back and away from the cambion. It looks as though he doesn’t have to lift a finger to solve this little issue this time, if the way your face is alight with rage as you scream at this so-called ‘partner’ about their delusions is any indication. 

♡ Oh, this is too good not to watch, and he is going to stand there and enjoy every second of it. Were Raphael not thoroughly enjoying the show he may have conjured a glass of wine to go along with the entertainment unfolding before him. Instead he will settle for watching the scene play out, far too happy in the knowledge that the pieces fall into place without him even moving the board in this confrontation. He’s seen you exasperated, seeing you upset and angry. But this? You’re pissed; to the point where your mouth appears to run faster than your brain, as in the middle of your shouting you jab a finger in Raphael’s direction, not even sparing him a glance as you snap.

♡ “- And I would take him over you any day! At least I actually like him!”

♡ Ah, there it is. His lip curls in triumph as his eyes blaze holes into the person shrinking and humiliated by your biting verbal assault. They make the mistake of glancing over at him at the wrong time, and for a second they swear they see shapes in Raphael's shadows, a smoldering hellfire behind dark eyes as his lips part, revealing a flash of sharp teeth as he mouths wordlessly to the mortal.

♡ 'I win.' 

♡ They can’t get away fast enough, tripping over cobble and their own feet as they scarper away like a frightened animal. You’re spitting out curses as they go, a final shout to get lost breaking into a breathless huff as you watch them till they disappear from view. It isn’t until they’re long gone that you finally seem to ease, running a hand through your hair with a groan as you bemoan the headache this whole event has no doubt caused you.

♡ It seems for a second that you’ve forgotten your present company; that just won’t do. He sees you calm, watches the anger and tension as it seeps from your body with each haggard breath in the wake of your tirade attempting to recollect yourself. Then he watches you freeze, the tension winding up once again like a coil as the sound of slow, methodical clapping reaches your ears. Raphael waits till you’ve turned, mustering the courage to look the devil in the face before his hands clap together the last time, praising you for the impromptu show. 

♡ You’ve never looked quite so shaken in his presence. You usually shoot back his banter so casually, and now you can’t quite look him in the eye - whatever could have caused that change, hm~? Finally realized the words you’d let slip?

♡ You can’t begrudge him for enjoying the moment, can you? It’s in his nature after all to see opportunity in all circumstances as you’ve seen firsthand. There’s a glint you can’t quite place in his eye as he remarks that he’s impressed; for just a mortal you sure managed to put the fear of the hells into the poor soul - send them running as though their lives depended on it. He knew you were brazen, but this was certainly something to witness. See, this is why you’re one of his favorite mortals, as he’s quick to remind you. 

♡ A kinder soul would broach your feelings, fulfill or ease your fears at having blurted out such a thing. But that’s not a mercy you’re provided this time. It’s not brought up just yet - not here. No, instead Raphael will tuck that little bit of information away for later use at a more opportune time. Another card up the sleeve, though the knowledge stirs up a fire within his infernal soul now that he knows he’s drawn you in after such a tumultuous chase. It appears that this arrangement just became a bit more interesting~

[itsdeniini]

hi! just wondering if you could also do Jungwon's turn ons and offs?

TURN ONS / TURN OFFS OF

MAKNAE LINE ⭒˚｡⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕷

HEEJAY and JAKEHOON editions!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁.ᐟ➤ n ★ t e : i am a self-taught tarot reader, and the interpretations i provide are personal. if anyone would like to share their own insights, i would be more than happy to hear them! please be kind <3

SUNOO

TURN ONS

1. STEP IN! SHUSH HIM! Like literally. His turn-on is when he can be able to obey and listen to his partner when they are getting into little clashes, because sometimes he's so damn argumentative and requires so much attention when his point of view is being explained by himself, to the point he can get confused in his own words. In that moment, he would secretly crave his partner to take the lead, tell him that he's too opinionated and make him CHILL 🥶 He would obey with the greatest joy!

2. Emotional intelligence in his partner is one of his turn-ons too. A person who understands people's feelings and how to act is a massive YES for Sunoo. How they deal with disputes or feelings of being hurt is the main one. Being emotionally intelligent is something Sunoo is proud of, and he always awaits the same honor. Listening, supporting, and talking is his key to a great relationship. 

TURN OFFS

1. Sunoo would not stick with someone who does not take dating seriously; that would really piss him off. Like when you can't have a deep talk or the person is constantly canceling their joint plans. Everything in that moment is a mere empty promise for him. He would never choose someone like that as a significant other.

2. LIARS. "Why do you lie? Can't be your real self? You're unconfident? Just be truthful and don’t make things up for your benefit, it’s not difficult. Oh, it is? Then I'm off-limits for you. Bye." THAT'S SUNOO.

JUNGWON

TURN ONS

1. His heart always aches when his lover reveals how big of a family person they are by always spending time with their family, talking about how much they mean to them and how they raised his partner with so much love. It's clear that Jungwon grew up in such a loving environment, which is why he is the way he is today, so he wants his partner to be the same in that aspect.

2. If anyone can stand him being a silly goof AND also be goofy themselves, BOOM 💥 instant connection! He just loves people with playful (with a bit of a naughtyyyy sense, why not?) self-humour! Jungwon thinks that such people are rare nowadays. Very few people can laugh at themselves or take the mickey out ofthemselves,s so if his potential partner has that quality, then they're a keeper.

TURN OFFS

1. If they speak badly of his family or disrespect him in any way, manner, or form, my bro will run. Jungwon thinks that a person who does not rate or respect another person they call a lover will not rate or respect any other human being on this earth. He does not care how beautiful they are or what green flags they have; he will dashi RUN.

2. How someone deals with tensions is a big thing for him. If that person has tendencies to burst out and be over emotional, that thing would most certainly lead to a break-up. He won’t put up with being gaslighted or not being heard when he's trying to soothe the situation, if the mechanism was initially working poorly then what's the point in it's existence, it just eats resources without any good result.

NI-KI

TURN ONS

1. One of his green flags that he points out in his partner is that when he feels shitty, they immediately notice that. It's as if Ni-ki would value his lover's stepping out of their comfort zone for his sake. The mere idea that they are such good people, ready to make sacrifices, turns him on in a certain way. On a casual day, he will be more than content with just an instant, out of nowhere, "I love you" that will make him feel fulfilled. 

2. Someone who updates him while they are apart, because he tends to overthink while waiting for his boo. This is also the TOP TIER. That’s the energy he needs in his love life, not someone with poor text etiquette.

TURN OFFS

1. He strongly hates it when someone feels so entitled to his long purse (and trust me, it will get longer). He will never bear a person like this near him. He doesn't want to feel like he's enabling a disoriented person by placing them on a monthly allowance and salary for being what? Purely his partner? NUH-UH... He will ask himself, "Is this love or a job?"

2. I bring, I bring all the drama-ma-ma-ma 💃 I can't say if he hates or likes this aespa banger but what's obvious is that he detests DRAMA. He already identifies himself as a mature man, he's not into this childishness anymore. If that person creates uncalled buzz around themselves, then they're a big red flag for Ni-ki. He'd tell that individual to screw off and enjoy their dramatic life in solitary, somewhere far away from him.

[startistdoodles]

hey, i kinda just saw your kirby oc's, how do you have ideas for creating them? and where do so many oc's based on meta knight come from? Sorry if I'm bothering you, I'm new to the Kirby community, so I don't know a lot about the franchise, let alone the community. your oc's are very beautiful(and fluffy!) i'm just curious on how you think to make them.

Not a bother at all, I’m glad you like them! They’re pretty much all a result of me worldbuilding and needing characters to fill certain roles to help make the world feel more alive.

For example, Prisma grew up in the Galaxy Soldier Army, right? So she must have had a teacher. That’s where Sidia Knight comes in.

What happens when Prisma has to face her insecurities as a knight and raise a baby star warrior? Boom, Mochi.

There were 4 heroes that once stopped Void Termina…if Galacta Knight is one, then what happened to the other 3? That’s where the idea for Lumia comes in.

As for Knight designs in particular, I mostly just like to experiment by taking a concept or a copy ability and applying it to a knight. They’re just a lot of fun to make xD Kinda hard to explain, but my knights can basically be boiled down to a concept + knight aesthetic. Prisma is an Ice Knight, Sidia is a Viking Knight and Lumia is an Alien Knight. I just like to play around with different themed knights and see where it takes me :)

[exopelagic]

auuudggghghhrhrhrbrr

[goldkirk]

.

[moondirti]

featuring: ghoap x nanny! f!reader. parenthood. adoption processes. fluff. slice of life. reader is given an age range

hear me out: simon and johnny transferring to reserve duty – i.e., serving the military on a part-time basis rather than being on active call – once they make the decision to become dads. it comes after a long period of deliberation (and healing on simon's part), but after they're absolutely sure that they want to start this next phase of life together, they call price to get it sorted.

who is thrilled for them, naturally, but warns that they still have a specialised commitment to the task force. if he needs them, then they best make sure they're there. the world isn't a better place yet, and no one can do what the pair does.

fine by them.

so it begins. instead of the complex and ethical choices that come with surrogacy, they opt for adoption and work with an attorney to facilitate the logistics. months of searching come up with a young mother, whose unwanted pregnancy has interfered with her life thus far, and is unwilling to make the further sacrifice that comes with keeping the baby. they must be more understanding, or otherwise less overbearing, than the other candidates – because two months later, they're in a hospital waiting room, anxiously lingering to meet the new addition to their family.

isla riley-mactavish. named after the river where johnny realised he'd be much happier with his lieutenant by his side.

the first few months are bliss. exhausting bliss, but a type of contentment that neither man has known since they first confessed to one another. isla's fussy through nights but they take turns settling her down, and if they have military duties to attend to then it's usually never at the same time. she's spoiled rotten – not just by them, but by the captain and gaz as well, who visit more often than not with bags full of toys they have nowhere to put. a little princess in the eyes of everyone who knows her.

by month five, she's teething and can hold her head up unsupported. simon reads somewhere that it's one of the most pivotal points in her development.

of course the call has to come then.

in the middle of the night, no less, and loud enough to wake her up from her crib. johnny scrambles to calm the bairn down as simon answers, price's grave voice crackling in from the other end. expected to be a long haul. a month at least. state security's at serious risk here, simon. i wouldn't ask you to come out otherwise.

and they made a promise. no matter how much it aches them to leave their darling girl behind.

rdv on base in a week.

he knows that one week is a matter of grace. he can feel the captain itching to hatch the operation as soon as possible, but has staved off to give the boys time to order their affairs. that doesn't mean simon's happy with the timeline, though. seven days is not nearly enough to find a sitter they can trust, especially given their own hindrances.

regardless, they send a job posting for a live-in, 24/7 nanny to close friends – no way in hell are they advertising it to the open internet – and hours later, johnny's sister lets them know of a girl who substitutes at the same primary school she works at. a real darling, apparently. honest 'n' stowed oot of energy, th' weans love her, and she haes experience with bairns too!

promising, but word of mouth isn't enough. they get a name and ask laswell to run a thorough background check. to their relief, it comes out squeaky clean. no arrests, no dui's, no shady travel history. modest socials with only a handful of followers. it's in line with what they know so far, solid enough to encourage them to reach out. so they do: just a brief email, asking what time and place would be best for a face-to-face interview.

they bring isla with them to the agreed meeting spot. a cozy cafe nestled in one of the safest parts of town. it's an early saturday morning and they're scheduled to leave in three days. so far, they've put all their eggs in this basket. johnny has to hold onto simon's hand when he notices the nerves dancing behind his partners usually void eyes. but if he were being honest with himself, he's just as scared.

they notice you as soon as they walk in.

sitting at a table for four, mug of coffee steaming as you bend over a well-loved book. despite your preoccupation, you're observant – they inch in your periphery and your head snaps up, a brilliant smile parting your lips as you spring up onto your feet. simon tallies a point on the ledger in his head. good. alert is good.

as is true for them, it's abundantly clear that you're who they're supposed to meet. johnny can't imagine anyone but a children's educator dressing like that: a gingham babydoll dress over a pair of blue tights, which carries over to the bow in your hair and is juxtaposed by the white oxford lace-ups on your feet. he startles when you extend your hand to shake his and he finds a painted fruit on each of your short nails. positively adorable. and so unlike anything they know.

simon shuffles next to him. isla reaches out from her bugaboo stroller, the colours having caught her eye.

"well hello there! aren't you just the cutest angel i've ever seen? do you like my dress?"

that's another point for immediately engaging with the object of your soon-to-be care. simon watches as you pull out a rattle from your purse, handing it over to the cooing baby. warmth blossoms in his chest, and his apprehension fizzles out in the heat. they hadn't told you they'd be bringing isla – opting to catch you off guard and seeing how you'd deal – so he assumes you carry the toy around for emergency purposes, like anyone else of their ilk would carry a gun.

something about that quirk just screams safe.

"it is a nice dress." johnny pursues, voice smooth in that way it gets when he's flirting but doesn't want it made clear. it took weeks for ghost to attune himself to it – he always just thought the scot spoke like that – but now that he's able to hear it for what it is, he shoots him a cautionary look. not so much mad as he is cautious. wouldn't want to scare her off.

"oh! thank you very much. it's my grandmother's design." you straighten up once isla gains a proper grip on the rattle, patting the skirt like you're basking in the praise. "shall we sit? i assume you have a lot to discuss, and i promise you'll want to try the maple scones they make here."

"please. after you." simon nods.

an hour later, you're giggling into your palm as johnny deviates into a story of the time they took isla to the hospital because they didn't know the soft spot on her head could pulse. simon is quiet in contrast, though not displeased. rather, he's focused on keeping the tally of all the green flags you've exhibited thus far. he doesn't mind that the conversation hasn't followed a typical interview format. in fact, people are more likely to show their true nature when in relaxed settings such as this, which is perhaps why johnny hasn't stuck to the script of questions they'd prepared beforehand. the man is better at social manoeuvring than simon is, anyway. he trusts him to direct this where it needs to go.

"it can be freaky! especially if you've never been around a child that young. i had a similar reaction the first time i babysat my neighbour's infant at sixteen. did you know that they can break out like teenagers? i noticed the poor thing's skin erupt in acne at just a month old and called his parent's crying." you wheeze, wiping the tears along your lashline.

"have ye worked wi' many bairns?"

"oh, yeah. it's been my primary source of income since secondary, all the way through uni. i just finished a master's degree in early childhood education, actually! and i wrote a list of referrals you can call if you need to double check on any of that." you rummage through your purse and pull out an apple-shaped sticky note. "do you mind if i ask what you do? people don't usually look for a full-time nanny unless they're really busy. not that i'm judging! i would ne–"

"military." simon interrupts, ensuring his tone is gentle enough to reassure.

"that makes sense! i mean, for an indefinite amount of time, the pay you're offering is more than perfect. above industry standard, really." you pause, brows furrowing like you're doubting whether you should have said that. "ah– whatever. anyway. isla is wonderful, just the sweetest. and the provided accommodation is an added plus. if you guys have no other qualms, then i'd love to accept the position."

"does i' bother you that there are cameras on the property? porch, kitchen, and living room. jus' for security's sake." simon tests, though he knows he doesn't need to, for extra measure. to someone with bad intentions, CCTV is a massive dealbreaker.

you don't hesitate before answering. "makes total sense! you guys are well within your right to check in at any time."

and they don't have to consult each other to know. johnny is practically buzzing in his seat, muscles flexed with enthusiasm as his gaze flits all over you. lingering on your chest in particular, before he looks over to simon and smiles in an offensively handsome way. simon can't help but smile back, crinkling his eyes more than necessary so the both of you can tell what's going on behind his mask.

it feels a little too good to be true, hopeful in a way that sets off the alarm bells in his head. he's stable enough to recognise that it isn't your fault, though. stable enough not to pin his distrust on you. this is likely the best shot they've got at ensuring their daughter's safety while they're away, and it's come in the form of a vivid, bright little blessing.

(with great tits.)

he'd be a fool to sabotage it.

johnny beats him to the cause. "ye'r hired."

[ next ]

[cozage]

Hello, first of all, congrats on 2k followers, you deserve that and more ♡

I would like to request on the option 1, a scenario with Zoro, Sanji and Luffy (and if you can, Law, Ace and/or Kid) where the reader asks "could you hold something for me?", and the reader gives them their hand to hold.

Thank you in advance, hope you have a lovely day ♡

Characters: gn reader x Zoro, Sanji, Luffy, Law Total word count:700

A Hand to Hold

Zoro

He’s napping on the deck of the Sunny when you stride over to him and sit down next to him

He peeks his good eye open just a fraction of an inch, trying to see what you want. 

“Can you hold something for me?”

“Can’t you get someone else to-”

“Zoro!”

“Fine!” He holds his hand out, slightly irritated.

You place your hand into his, watching his reaction closely. 

Immediate response? He would just deadpan and stare at you. 

“Why? Why did you give me this? Is it bleeding or-”

“No Zoro!” you giggled. “Just hold it.”

“Did Luffy put you up to this? Or Nami? Or that damn-”

“No!” you said, starting to pout. The mood was ruined. “Just forget it.”

As you pull your hand away, he grips it a little tighter. When you look back at him, he’s got a little bit of blush across his cheeks. 

“I’ll hold it,” he grumbled, closing his eyes. “As long as it doesn’t interrupt any more of my nap.”

Sanji

As soon as you walk through the door, you can smell your favorite dessert being made.

But Sanji is nowhere to be found.

“Sanji,” you called. “Can you hold something for me?”

“Of course, my love!” he shouted from the pantry, and a moment later he rushes out and toward you. 

His hands are empty, already forgetting whatever he was planning to grab in exchange for what you need him for. 

He holds his hand out, and when you place your hand in his, he looks at it, confused for a moment. 

He’s afraid he had misheard you. “What did you need again?” he asked.

“I needed you to hold something.” You give his hand a light squeeze. 

“Your…hand?”

You smile, trying to hold back a laugh. “My hand.” 

He crumples to the ground, overwhelmed with emotion. For a second you’re worried you’ve killed him, but he’s still breathing, thankfully. 

Luffy

“Luffy!” You shouted to your captain, who was at his seat on the figurehead. “Can you hold something for me?”

He groaned at your request, not wanting to leave his seat. “Come up here and give it to me!”

You joined him at his seat on Sunny’s head and sat next to him, waiting for him to hold his hand out. 

“What do you need me to hold?” he asked, looking at you with confusion. 

“My hand,” you said, placing your hand in his. 

“Oh.” Luffy shrugged, looking back out to sea. “For how long?”

You smiled. “For however long you want.”

“We could make a game out of it.”

That piqued your interest. “A game?”

He grinned mischeviously. “Yeah! Hang on for as long as you can!” 

Suddenly he shot his other arm out to the mast, and the two of you flew threw the air, gripping onto each other for dear life. 

Law

You walked into his lab, looking for the golden-eyed doctor. 

“Law!” You turned the corner to find him measuring out a strange liquid. “Can you hold something for me?”

“Kinda busy,” he mumbles, his teeth gritted in concentration. “Can someone else help you?”

You giggle. “I don’t think so. I can wait,” you said, plopping yourself down on a nearby stool and opening a book.

After a few minutes, he finally turns to you. “What is it?”

“I need you to hold something.” You held your hand out in a fist, as if you were holding something.

“Is this one of yours and Shachi’s pranks?” he asked. But he trusts you (most of the time), and holds his hand out to take whatever you had. 

You quickly intertwine your fingers with his, clutching his hand tightly. “Thanks.” You return to your book without another word. 

“Your hand?” he asks, nervously glancing back at his project. “Can we do this later? I’m kind of on a timetable with that mixture.”

You frowned. “Fine. But I’m adding interest.”

“Deal,” he said, pulling his hand away and running back to his project. 

You were a little hurt, but he quickly realized his error and ran back to you, plopping a kiss on the top of your head before rushing back to the table. 

[peachesofteal]

Light on - single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader - Johnny POV

Something is up with Johnny’s LT. 

His usual post mission behavior is nowhere to be found. Instead of being relaxed, relieved, and maybe a bit cheeky… he’s silent. Anxious. Fingers clenching together again and again, his knee bouncing occasionally until he catches Johnny’s inquisitive eye, and it stops. 

When they deplane, Price goes straight to his office as always, and instead of stopping to agree on the pub of choice for the unofficial debrief, Ghost goes straight to the showers. 

“What’s up with him?” Gaz asks, eyeing the lieutenant’s retreating back. Johnny shrugs, fingers scratching through the overgrown length of his mohawk. 

“Dinnae know.” But he’s going to find out.

“Oi, LT!” He’s managed to corner Simon in a hallway, freshly showered, Ghost and his mask neatly backed away in the bag slung over his back. “Ye skippin’ out on us?” He pulls up short, turning on Johnny with a bored expression. 

“Got somethin’ I need to take care of.” 

“That’s more important than going to Patty’s?” Patty’s is the pub of choice for the 141. It’s right down the road from base, closer to the city, an easy jumping off point for all of them to get home afterwards. Simon never skips Patty’s. It’s their ritual. “What’s going on wit’ ye?” 

“Nothing.”

“Ye’re a liar.” 

“It’s-“ Simon’s phone dings and Johnny practically buffers. Simon never gets text messages, the only people he talks to are on this base right now. He watches Simon check the message, lips quirking to the side, almost lifting in a smile. “It’s nothing, Johnny. Just my neighbor.” He says, absentmindedly, more focused on typing out a reply to whoever is on the other side of the screen. His neighbor? Simon talks to his neighbor?

“If it’s nothing, come to Patty’s.” He’s being stubborn, he knows… but he can’t help it. He loves a puzzle. 

Simon sighs. 

“Such a pain in the arse, MacTavish.” 

“But ye love me.” 

It doesn’t take long for him to put it together. 

“She has a bairn?” 

“A little girl, Emmaline.” Johnny gapes at him. 

“Ye held her?” 

“Just before I left.” Simon makes that face again, the one that nearly looks like a smile, eyes squinting above the balaclava, the face Johnny’s only seen a few times, once or twice even directed at himself. “Gave her a bottle.” 

He looks happy. He looks… proud.

“Ye care for them.” Johnny breathes, giving life to the obvious. 

Simon doesn’t respond for a while, just stares down at the cigarette in between his fingers, the half-downed glass of whiskey. 

“She's doin' it all on her own, taking care of Emma, herself. Tough little thing." He takes a drag, eyes fixed on something, on nothing, out in the street. "It makes me want... things. Things I- I never thought I could have."

"A family." Johnny surmises, words soft, and Simon nods.

"With them."

And in the dim, gritty yellow glow outside the pub, Johnny sees his LT in a brand-new light. 

[dcxdpdabbles]

What if Danny went to school with Damian? I’m just imagining them going feral together after a little while, because you know that Danny picks up on Damian’s liminal vibes.

I mostly just want Damien to bring Danny home, and for Bruce to do the headcount thing that Mr. Weasley needed to do in Harry Potter. Just like ‘I could’ve sworn I didn’t have this many this morning’

Damian made a friend.

It shouldn't be as big a deal as his brothers were making it out to be but even he knew that he didn't have the best track record on friendships. It was hard to get along great with the kids in his school.

A lot of them were too carefree, to be unburdened by the things he saw and did on a battlefield and he couldn't stand how loud and messy they all were.

Damian preferred to sit by himself with some headphones in and draw whenever he could get the chance. According to the other children that made him an "emo loser" and a lot of them took great joy in flinging insults and taunts at him.

He never even spoken to them but for some reason, the general populace of Gotham Acadamy deemed him a great target for their scorn. Sometimes Damian wondered if he deserved their taunts, flung paper and spitballs.

If his time in the Leauge of Shadows truly made him broken and wrong as his classmates claimed.

It wasn't like Damian couldn't defend himself. He could have all of them begging for mercy within a minute but to do so would put at risk his Robin identity.

Which then would put his family at risk. Damian would never allow those under his protection to be harmed. So even if it hurt his dignity he allowed some of the more physical bullies to get a few hits in and ducked his head when he walked through the hallways.

His other classmates saw, but no one chose to speak up for Damian Wayne otherwise known as Bruce Wayne's accident on travel and dirty secret. He was the freak. The weirdo. They knew that if they got involved, even if they didn't agree with it, then they would be targeted.

He never expected anyone to step in whenever his bullies found him.

But then again, he came to learn that Daniel Fenton wasn't just anyone. His friend had a heart of gold with a righteous rage that was hardly contained in his smaller body.

It had been three days since Daniel had been transferred to Gotham Acadamy, during their free period. The youngest Wayne had been minding his own business, eating the vegetarian meal prepared by Alfred and drawing a little in his sketchbook when he was surrounded.

Damian had been pushed up against a wall by the meaty hands of the snickering soccer team. They were gripping his shirt collar and Damian had been preparing for a punch in the face when Daniel had appeared out of nowhere.

"Hands!" Danny had shouted pointing at Derek, the captain of the team with a scowl. He was the one who was going to beat Damian up while his friends held Wayne in place. "That's a penalty kick buddy!"

And then Danny kicked Eric- a teenager who was at least a head taller than him- right between the legs. Danny threw his whole body weight into that kick and the captain proved it by choking out a wheeze and falling to the ground.

Before his friends could react, Danny was upon them swinging his lunch tray like a battering ram.

Needless to say, the rest of the soccer team was not impressed, especially the goalie. They abandoned Damian to fight against Danny, who well seemed like he knew his way in a fight, was nowhere near Damian's level of training.

Good instincts but he lacked a solid foundation.

Danny was able to fight off the seven members of the soccer team (the rest didn't really hang out with them during breaks) but he had a lot of wounds as a result.

"Run dude!" Danny had shouted at him, putting himself between the team and Damian. His lip had been busted, he had a black eye and a nosebleed but Danny didn't seem to care. "I'll hold them off!"

Damian was ashamed to admit that he just stood there in shock at the new transfer's behavior. Daniel....was attempting to rescue him. Why?

He hadn't even known Daniel at the time.

The teachers arrived then, dragging everyone to the principal office where Damian was accused of starting the fight and Danny was threatened with being expelled only three days into his move. The soccer team had been smug, while the principal who Damian believed disliked him for his Middle Eastern Blood, seemed to jump at the fact he could smear Damian's name.

Daniel was on scholarship which did not help his chances at all in a school that had legacies.

His father had been away on a mission, so the school had been forced to phone Richard instead. When his brother arrived the soccer team's parents had been throwing a fit about all the hits Daniel had gotten in.

"Mr. Wayne shouldn't have agitated them and Mr. Fenton jumped in unprovoked. ," The Principal said staring Richard down when his brother had loudly demanded to know what happened.

"But he didn't" Daniel cut in. His guardians hadn't arrived yet and had remained mostly silent by the way. The group of parents and teenagers turn to him. "They were the ones to attack Wayne. I hit them unprovoked though. That part is true. They didn't do anything to me, but I can't stand cowards that attack in groups."

"I guess you have proof of this?" Mrs. Skeel sneered. She was Eric's mother and often brides her son out of problems.

"I have a body cam," Daniel reveals pulling out a miniature camera from his tie. He smiles at the dumbfounded stares his actions cause."Recorded the whole thing."

"Can I see the footage?" Richard requested, which Daniel easily handed over. They played it on the Principal's computer and there the camera shows Daniel sitting in the tree that Damian had chosen to sit under. The video captures Daniel watching him up until the soccer team arrives, and their innocence is proven.

Daniel didn't seem to care that he made enemies with almost everyone in that room as Richard quickly took control of the meeting with the evidence. Damian thinks he may not have to worry too much now that the staff were aware that Waynes would and could cut their funding.

Not only that, but the parents were also weary of angering Father. None of this meant that Daniel was safe so Damian took it upon himself to never let the new student be alone for too long.

As a means to protect him.

It wasn't until he realized two months later that school had gone for a dull meaningless pass time to laughter and enjoyment because of Daniel. They walked to class, they shared notes, they passed notes, they watched videos, Daniel chattered about everything and anything and they sent each other funny memes.

Daniel was vastly different from Damian but it didn't seem to bother him. If anything their differences were what made them so close. Daniel claimed that his two best friends back in his old school were vastly different in interest and personalities too.

He had made a friend.

Daniel was his friend.

A friend who didn't seem to mind when he would go quiet to draw or medicate. A friend who didn't need an explanation or justification for his eating habits. A friend he was able to vent about his troubles to and lend an ear to when Daniel faced his own woes.

A person who laughed at all his dark jokes, regardless of how much death was in them. Someone who seemed almost as... what did Todd call him? Feral? as Damian was.

Damian had chosen to invite Daniel to a sleepover. His very first ever sleepover with people from school- Jon held the crown for being the first friend to have a sleepover with him- and he has been ever so excited.

It's childish for someone of his age to show such anticipation for something so small but he couldn't help himself. Something about Daniel was captivating. Almost otherworldly so.

There was something about him that made all of Damian sense buzz but not in a bad way. He isn't sure what it is, but he is getting tired of Drake's and Richard's knowing smirks.

He detested being left out of the loop.

The doorbell rings. Todd makes the motion to stand up, which would be a disaster. He does not want Daniel- a person who swears in old classic book titles to meet his one brother who adores said books and reads them for fun.

Damian flings himself over the couch, using Todd as board. He ignores the shout of rage that his action causes and the hollaring laughter of the rest of Father's brood.

He clears the door before any of the other Wayne members and breaks out into a run. Just in case any of them got the idea of trying to meet Daniel before Damian can control the situation in which it happenes.

Also, he wanted to see Daniel. Spring break felt like an eternity now that he couldn't see his friend every day. He would like to have met up with him since the break started but Daniel's guardian had planned a trip and they only just returned.

He had yet to meet Daniel's uncle but heard a lot of Mr.Clockwork from the teenager. Damian was still unsure if he liked the man. He seemed far too aloof when it came to Daniel.

"Geez Dami, relax! Your boy toy isn't going anywhere!" Brown cackles

"Give him a big smooch!" Drake adds, his laughter echoing Brown's

I will deal with them later. Damian swears, fixing his hair from where it had fallen out during his run. He checks his reflection in the mirror by the doorway. He wants to look good for his first ever school friend's sleepover.

Damian had picked his best outfit, wearing his favorite jeans and black button-down. He accessorized with silver rings and chains, grateful Jon had been willing to facetime to give him the modern teenager stamp approval.

Once he is satisfied that his appearance is at its utmost best, he opens the door.

"Hi, Dami!" Daniel chirps. He is wearing a faded pair of jeans and a white shirt with a red dot in the middle. It's nowhere near Damian's stylish and well-put-together often, and yet he looks as beautiful as a grace nymph outside the school uniform.

Damian mind goes blank for only a second before he nods. "Daniel.Welcome. This is Wayne Manor. I live here for I am a Wayne."

For I am a Wayne!? Damian thinks to himself in horror unsure why those words hand tumbled out of his mouth. A wave of shame washes over him as Daniel curiously looks around with that pleased little half smile on his lips.

Daniel is always half smiling as if he heard a joke only he was privy to.

"This place is cool!" Daniels says spinning around to face him and missing Father stumbling out of the living room. Damian is unsure why the man had return so soon, as he thought Batman would be off-world for another week at the least with Flash.

His father looked dead on his feet, eyes half open as he walked up to Daniel and yanked him into a hug!?

"Oh," Daniel says pressed up to Father's chest. "Hello?"

"Hi, son." Father mutters. He squints down at his friend with bloodshot eyes. " Did you get smaller Timmy?"

"Father!" Damian shouts outraged while the rest of his so-called siblings come spilling out of the other sitting room.

"Bruce!" Drake shouts a wide grin on his face. "I'm over here."

"Wha-? Then who is this?" Father blinks slowly, one eye closing before the other, as he tilts his head. He has yet to realese Daniel, though his part his friend seems content with the embrace seeing as he had returned the gesture. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.....ten? Do I have ten children?"

"You only have nine" Thomas calls out helpfully. Father nods, then counts again, pointing one finger at the people in the room

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine" He looks down pointing at Daniel. "Ten. Why are there ten of you?"

"That's a son-in-law, old man"

"No. I could have sworn none of my children are married......Dick you're not married are you?"

"Not yet B."

"Jason?"

"Trying to find a finger to put a ring on it Old man."

"Cassandra?"

"No thank you."

"Tim?"

"Ew."

Daniel giggled at Drake's response and Damian felt the sudden urge to bury a knife in Drake's side.

"Steph?"

"Nah."

"Duke?"

"I'm too young B."

"Cullen?"

"I can't even get a date, Bruce"

"Harper?"

"Inability to get dates run in the Row family tree."

Father nodded then. "Good none of my children-"

"What about Dami?" Daniel asks with a wide grin. Both his friend and Father turn to stare at him. Damian suddenly feels himself sweating through his shirt.

"Damian? You aren't married?

"Of course not!" He denies it loudly and faces an unconformable red. Daniel cackles like the devil he is.

Father meanwhile continues to hug Daniel while muttering. "Then where did ten come from? Alfred? Why are there ten children in my house?"

"Master Bruce if you do not let that young man go and go see Dr.Thompkins for that concussion I swear, heads will roll!"

Damian is grateful that once again Alfred seems to be the only one with a brain in this manner.

"I like it here," Daniel proclaims watching the butler drag away his confused father. Damian is utterly unprepared for the look that his friend shoots him from under his eyelashes, and he almost trips over his own two feet as he says. "Show me to your room?"

"I...of course! This way! I live here!" Curses his voice cracked. It ended in a squeak! He, Damian Wayne son of the Bat and Demon, made a fool of himself by squeaking!

"This is better than a daytime tv sitcom." Row- the male one- snickers from the stairway and Damian flips him off as he passes by with Daniel.

[luveline]

Hi Jade! I’ve been on my criminal minds rerun and it made me come up with this Spencer request if you’re taking them right now! Something along the lines of the reader and Spencer being together and she becomes pregnant but he pieces it together before she does!

tysm for requesting! hope this is ok♡ 1k

cw fem!reader has a positive attitude towards her pregnancy. vaguely adult theme

"I really don't think I can go," you say, flopping down on the bed. 

Spencer laughs and shakes out the shirt in his hands, hoping the creases from the dryer will iron themselves before dinner tonight. "You always say that."

"I really mean it this time. I miss Hotch, I do, and I'm glad he's out of WITSEC, but thinking about the restaurant is making me queasy." 

"Really? I looked it up, it's a nice place. They have their Grade A, it should be spotless in there. I'm pretty sure they almost got a Michelin star." 

You groan, turning onto your side. "I looked too. The entire menu is seafood," you whine. 

"What's wrong with that?" Spencer asks, giving you a quizzical look. 

"The smell." You rub your nose against his pillow and sigh. "I don't feel good. Didn't rough me up in my sleep, did you?" 

"I would never do that," he says, putting the last of the laundry aside to sit by your hip. His hand rests naturally against the slight curve of your side, fingertips pushing the hem of your shirt up enough to steal a glance at your back. 

He wouldn't say this aloud and it doesn't matter, but you've gained a little weight recently. Actually, it does matter in that he thinks it's adorable, but he knows that telling your partner they've gained weight is a faux pas. He likes it, anyhow. It's happy weight. 

Things are so serious now but they don't feel serious. There's no solemness in your relationship, just comfort. He's putting on weight in tandem. 

"You really don't want to go?" Spencer asks. The earlier he lets Hotch know the better. 

You wrap an arm around your stomach. "Sorry, Spence. I'm so sorry, I've felt sick all day and I think it'll just be a repeat of yesterday morning." You puked before breakfast, the smell of eggs too much to bear.

Spencer feels it click into place then and there. The weight, the puking, your changing taste. Your sore chest and lower back, your sensitivity. 

He pushes you gently, a hand on your hip to encourage you down. Careful, he lays down next to you, propping his head on the pillow as he brings hand up to hold you. He can't know for sure… but if you're pregnant as he suspects, it fits. And more than that, it's insane. He doesn't know how to handle this besides wrapping you up in his arms. He'll keep you forever, if he can. 

"Don't be sorry," he says, his voice faraway. You relax completely in his arms, sliding your leg over his to lock him in. "Does your back still hurt?" 

"My chest, Spence," you lament, "it feels like I'm winded. I think I'm coming down with something. Maybe you shouldn't be near me." 

"In that case, I'm staying right here." 

You laugh softly, the warmth of it a circle on his shoulder. "I can call Hotch myself and say sorry. I'll feel better in a few days, and we'll reschedule, and I'll pay even if he tries to." 

Spencer draws a line up your back. Now or never. 

He steels his nerves, the beginning of a hypothesis hesitating on his tongue. Your symptoms in addition to your irregular period and your regular sex lives points toward pregnancy. How does he say that? How should he say it? Should he even bring it up? Perhaps he should wait until you discover it yourself. And you aren't definitely pregnant, it's just a possibility. Maybe you're simply sick—

"Hey, earth to handsome," you whisper, cupping his cheek in your soft palm. You smile as he snaps out of his thoughts. "Hey. I lost you for a few seconds, where'd you go?" 

"Nowhere. I'm here." 

Your smile gets impossibly fond. It's not dissimilar to how you usually look at him. "Are you okay?" 

"Fine. I love you." 

"I love you," you say. 

There's something about you now, this gaussian blur to you. Sunlight seeps in lazily through the blinds thick as honey, a golden kiss to your skin where you lay face to face with him, and your I love you makes him want to cry. This is all ridiculous and amazing and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to make his mouth move into the right words. 

"What is it?" you ask. You know him better than anyone. 

"I think you're pregnant." Spencer winces, though he can't beat his smile into submission. "I mean. You could be pregnant." 

"Why do you think that?" you ask, visibly startled. 

"Your sensitivity to strong smells, your soreness, your late period, to name the more obvious. That's not factoring in your worsening low iron lately, and your headaches." You make a strange sound he doesn't like. "What?" he asks worriedly.  

"I'm late," you say into yourself, looking past him as you puzzle it over. 

"It's a good thing, if you are. I mean, it's an amazing thing if you want it to be. I'm saying everything wrong. It's only amazing if you want it to be, I want it to be. But I'm on your side no matter what." He grimaces into his hands, rubbing his face with both palms. 

You sit as he panics. He clicks his neck looking up, racing to follow you, alarmed as you shimmy down the bed toward the ensuite bathroom. 

"What are you–" 

"I'm gonna take a test." 

"Wait a second." Spencer catches your hands before you can get too far, pulling you back to the end of the bed to sit down. "Wait. Is it– is it bad? If you are?" 

You look down at your stomach briefly. Anyone else might miss it, but Spencer can't not follow your behaviour, and the way you're acting now makes him think he got it wrong. That you won't be happy. 

You grab Spencer's hand. "You know, it's not funny. All our friends are gonna ask how I found out, and I'm gonna have to admit that you noticed it first." Your eyes track up his face almost shyly, and soon your smile is as blistering as his. 

Spencer bends under your weight as you jump up, throwing your arms behind his neck, your lips smashed to his ear. "I love you," you whisper urgently, "so much. This is good, right? This is really good." 

"Are you kidding?" he asks incredulously. 

Spencer takes your face into two hands and kisses you as hard as he ever has. He realises a second in that he'd much rather be squeezing you, caging you into the circle of his arms unrepentant. 

"We have a really good excuse to miss dinner," Spencer says.

He sounds close to tears. You're worse, laughing wetly as you pull him into the bathroom to take your test. 

[vivwritesfics]

Mrs Baker, Ma'am

Landoscar's girlfriend loved to bake and all of the grid love when she brings her baked goods to the paddock

Y/N loved the Monaco Grand Prix for just a few reasons. One, it was the race set where she lived, meaning she was familiar with the surroundings and she could sleep in her own bed the night before the race. Two, she could watch the practices from her balcony with her cat on her lap and coffee in her hands. Three, she got to rock up to the paddock with a basket full of baked goods.

Maybe that was why Lando and Oscar fell in love with her. Because Y/N always had some sort of baked good ready for them. While Lando was gaming, she’d be teaching Oscar to bake and presenting the results to Lando. Fans loved when it happened while Lando was streaming. They loved nothing more than watching a blushing Oscar walking into the room with a tray full of cookies. His cheeks would be red while Lando took a cookie from the tray and moaned while he ate it.

The rest of the paddock had also expressed their love for Y/N’s baking. Carlos had been the first to try her baking when he and Lando were teammates. When he moved to Ferrari, Carlos found himself wanting some of Y/N’s baked goods and telling Charles all about them.

Y/N found herself strolling towards the Ferrari garage the next day, a container full of biscuits, muffins and cookies tucked under her arms. It was kind of funny, actually. The Ferrari boys had been talking about it in a press conference and Y/N had seen it and gone out to get ingredients that day. She’d spent her night baking, thankful that she and Lando were staying in an apartment, not a hotel, in Australia.

And then when Daniel had become Lando’s teammate, Y/N had brought him something baked almost every grand prix. From there the news of her baking had spread around the paddock, since Daniel was friends with everybody.

Y/N began bringing her baked goods whenever the grand prix was in Monaco. If she happened to make too much, she’d take some over to Charles or Max in their apartments.

This time, Y/N had two baskets of baked goods on her arms. She strode through the paddock in her best trousers and a cute vest top. She couldn’t stop from smiling as she walked into the McLaren garage.

Zac Brown was the first to spot her. Her, and the basket of baked goods. “Hi, Y/N,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as he walked her further into the garage.

“Hey, Zac,” she said, holding out one of the baskets.

After Zac picked out a cupcake, Y/N put the basket down. She greeted more of the McLaren staff and directed them towards the basket of baked goods. She had everything, croissants, pain au chocolats, cupcakes, doughnuts, muffins, cookies, and biscuits. At the bottom of the basket was some fudge she had made, just in case there weren’t enough baked goods for everybody.

Once those working in the McLaren garage were working through her basket of baked goods, Y/N made her way out of the McLaren garage and headed off to Red Bull.

There were just twenty pastries in this basket. On Monaco weekends, Y/N gave out what she could and brought more the next day, giving pastries to as many people in as many teams as possible. Drivers got her pastries on a Saturday and everybody else got them on the Sunday. Everybody else included wags and whoever else got to her first. There was one time where Martin Brundle got completely sidetracked when he went to talk to Lando and ended up with one of Y/N’s pastries.

Max was nowhere to be seen, so Y/N went over to Sergio Perez, who was talking to his engineers. She waited for him to finish up before offering him a cookie. And then she went off to Max’s driver room, after asking Christian where he was.

She knocked on the door and waited for confirmation before walking in. Max’s eyes lit up when he saw her. “If I didn’t have a wonderful girlfriend, I’d be jealous of Lando and Oscar,” he said and gratefully accepted a chocolate chip muffin.

Y/N moved on, walking towards the Ferrari garage. Carlos seemed to have a sixth sense for Y/N and her baked goods, and spun on his heel and marched over to her, a wide grin on his face. “pequeño pollo,” he said and wrapped his arms around her. Carlos pressed a kiss to the side of her head, wearing heart eyes as he picked out the pastry he wanted.

She offered Charles a pastry and moved onto Mercedes. Y/N went from garage to garage, greeting the drivers her boyfriends called their friends and offering them a cookie or a cake or something. Each and every driver was grateful.

And last, after giving Fernando and Lance two of the last pastries, Y/N made her way back to McLaren. She strode into the garage, the mechanics, engineers and strategists giving her compliments on her baking skills.

Y/N grinned and thanked them, making her way to where her boyfriends were talking to their boss. When Zac saw her, he trailed off and the boys turned around.

Oscar was the first to spot her. He walked towards her and wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the pastries. “Have you been making your rounds?” He asked her.

Nodding her head, Y/N kissed his cheek. “I’ve got two left for you and Lan,” she said.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Oscar walked Y/N over to Lando and Zac. She smiled at the CEO, who immediately began complimenting her on the cupcake. “And the fudge? Oh my god, it was next level,” Zac said. He then left them to it, walking back over to the basket to look for more fudge.

YN looked at her boyfriends and held the basket up in front of her. The boys reached inside, Lando pulling out a chocolate filled croissant and Oscar pulling out a cookie. “Thank you, baby,” Lando said and reached forward to kiss her. Oscar did the same and broke off a piece of cookie to share with her.

Y/N spent the rest of the Monaco grand prix with her boyfriends either tucked into Lando’s side or holding Oscar’s hand. After the qualifying, Y/N took her boyfriends home and rewarded them with another round of baked goods. On race day she brought enough for the WAGS and other team principles. She made another batch of fudge for Zac Brown and Zac Brown only.

All of the paddock were slightly jealous of Lando and Oscar, and their girlfriend who loved to bake. If she was bringing her baked goods to the grand prix, they could keep their jealousy at bay.

[railingsofsorrow]

drabble #11

summary: you are caught red handed squinting while reading and your coworkers don't let it slide.

w.c: 682

warnings/content: no warnings just fluff and bickering between friends; annoyance towards dirty lenses (based on a personal experience); secret relationship (implied).

navi

masterpost

cm masterlist

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“pretty girl.”

you were writing something down in a post-it note that you thought was relevant for the investigation before derek's voice came out of nowhere, startling you.

you look up at him, frowning, “why do you have to sneak up on people like that?”

“where are your glasses?” he inquired, narrowing you down with a suspicious look. his arms crossed over his chest as he had the serious stance he usually carried when he was trying to figure someone out. you straightened your back slightly, choosing to go back to your reading since you didn't have a reading speed of 20 000 words per minute and you also didn't want to answer that question.

see, here's the thing. glasses are annoying. dealing with dirty lenses is the worst part of wearing them, because as soon as you clean them up, they get absolutely filthy in the next second. also, you broke your lenses at least three times given your line of work.

so, yes, you purposely forgets them a few days a week to not deal with these issues.

maybe more than just a few days a week.

and your coworkers decided to make a comment or give you a look every time they catch you squinting up at a page.

“hey,” you glared up at derek morgan as he flickered your case file much to your annoyance. “i'm talking to you. where are your glasses? can you even see me right now?”

“shut up, derek.”

“do I need to get you a new pair to leave it here in the office?” he asked with indignation written all over his face. “that's the only way you'll wear them!”

“I don't need to wear them.” you practically hissed at him before he broadcasted the conversation into the entire bullpen. “they're reading glasses, it's not like I need to have them on all the time.”

“the strength of your glasses recently increased to 2. so you do need to wear them if you don't want it to get worst.” spencer dropped his things on his desk, butting in on the conversation as if he had been invited. you scowled, not the slightest amused. he only shrugged.

“see what I'm saying, pretty girl?” derek gave you a look. he resigned with a ruffle to your hair then walked away to make some coffee.

you let out a sigh, fixing up your strands in frustration.

“here.” you looked down at the object placed in your lap. “you forgot it at my place last night.” you blinked up at him, mouth agape.

“i-what?”

“at the bedside table?” spencer gave you a look. the faint memory of your eyeglasses case on top of his bedside table came to your mind.

which was why you couldn't recall where your glasses were at home. you had been late for work and decided to give up on the search.

but they weren't even at your place.

“I cleaned them up.” he added.

“oh. right.” you took the case from him, a coat of pink painting your cheeks. you hoped he didn't expect you were going to wear them. “thank you.”

“thankfully you didn't purposely forgot it at home, right?” spencer softly teased, poking your hip which earned a kick in his ankle.

“shut up.”

he chuckled, stealthily eyeing the bullpen that was fairly empty because it was still early in the morning. he leaned down and quickly pecked your cheek then the corner of your mouth.

“spencer!” you hissed, a warning in your tone as you looked around for any prying eyes.

grinning cheeky at you, he took a few steps back. probably to go to the kitchen to grab the coffee derek was taking too long to bring. “movie night at 8 again?” he mouthed.

with a roll of your eyes, you nod “yes.” you mouthed in return, sticking your attention back to the twenty files to be finished at your desk.

“put your glasses on!” he said out loud on purpose, now attracting attention.

you groaned, hiding your face between your hands.

idiot. an absolute idiot.

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taglist: @lilyviolets

[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured IX

Alexia Putellas x Child!Reader

Jenni Hermoso x Child!Reader

Summary: Things get worse before they can get better

Two days after you and Jaume are admitted into hospital, several different things happen.

One: Jenni's manager calls and tells her that she can only take a maximum of two more weeks leave and that she needs to return to Mexico within the month.

Two: Jaume gets much better, very quickly. He's practically good as new and he's allowed out of his room for short periods of time.

Three: The pottery place lets Alexia know that her mug and your train are ready so she goes to pick them up.

Four: She comes back with your ceramic train and drops it on the floor in horror when she sees you being intubated.

'She took a turn for the worse' they tell her. 'We've upped her medication and she should be fine in a few days', they say but all Alexia can think about is the shattered train on the floor and how tiny you look in your bed.

You're moved to the ICU and remain motionless and asleep for days on end. Therein lies the second problem.

The ICU nurses are stricter than the nurses in the peds wing. They say only the legal guardians can go into your room.

You have no father. You had no other mother either, not legally anyway.

You have just Alexia. Just Alexia who can sign off on treatment plans. Just Alexia who can sign you out and be given updates about your condition.

Just Alexia who can go and sit by your bedside and sob.

It was supposed to be a good day. Jaume was better. You were going to get your train.

It's all ruined now and all Alexia can do is sob.

Jenni sobs too.

She can't see you. She can't even enter the ICU. She can do nothing but loiter in the waiting room.

She had nowhere else to go.

Eli and Alba can go and see Jaume but Jenni has nothing to do with Jaume. She just has you.

You who is intubated and asleep in the ICU. You who she had pinned down and so cruelly not explained anything to. You who was still so small and scared and stuck in hospital while Jenni would have to return to Mexico very, very soon.

"How is she?"

Jenni's ex looks away. Alexia looks exhausted, worse than Jenni's ever seen her before. There are bags under her eyes. Her hair looks unbrushed. Her clothes are crumpled.

"The doctors are optimistic," Is Alexia's answer," They think she's fighting really well. They..." Alexia's throat bobs. "They think she'll be strong enough to come off it in a day or two."

"And she can have visitors again?"

"Maybe not as quickly," Alexia explains," I think we should be conservative. Maybe not even until she's fully healthy again. I think-"

"Alexia, I have to leave soon."

Alexia breaks off. "What?"

"Back to Mexico. I've delayed it as long as I can. By the end of the month, I need to be gone again."

"What are you talking about?" Alexia still can't wrap her mind around it. "Back to Mexico? Bambi's still sick."

"I know!" Jenni snaps. "I know, Alexia. And you need to make a decision."

"A decision? Jenni, what are you talking about?"

"You need to put someone else on her papers. You've seen those doctors. We don't get told anything. It's dangerous."

"Jenni-"

"What if Bambi breaks her arm? Me or Olga bring her to hospital and they can't do anything because we're not legal guardians. What would have happened if they couldn't get a hold of you after they intubated her? They can't change treatment plans without parental consent."

"I-"

Jenni sighs, long and drawn out. "I know you have a lot on your plate, Alexia. I know, I do but this is about Bambi and what she deserves and she deserves two people on that birth certificate."

Jenni doesn't say what she wants to say. She doesn't say that she desperately wants you as her own. She doesn't say that she thinks in the deepest, most malicious part of her brain that Alexia has already ruined whatever relationship you had beyond repair. She doesn't say that she thinks a new start in Mexico would be best for you.

She doesn't say that she's already looked at a ballet academy near her apartment and that her club has some of the best childcare options she's seen in a long time.

Jenni doesn't say anything more.

She just turns on her heel and walks out.

Out of Alexia's company, out of the waiting room, out of the hospital.

She doesn't say anything until she's in her car and sobbing into her steering wheel.

Her words float through Alexia's brain even as she sits in Jaume's room with him.

He looks much better than before. The rash is gone. He's moving around again.

The only evidence that he was ever sick at all is the IV still attached to his hand, feeding antibiotics into his body to make sure it's fully gone.

"Something funny, little man?" Alexia coos as he giggles uncontrollably," What so funny, huh? What so funny?" She bounces him gently at each word and Jaume giggles even more.

"The little man's happy he's getting out of here in a few days," Olga says, hooking her chin over Alexia's shoulder," Isn't that right, Jaume? Is that why you're so giggly today?"

Jaume giggle in answer, kicking his feet out.

"Look at these kicks," Alexia coos," My little footballer, huh? Are you going to captain Spain? I think you are!"

"Your Mama and sister went home," Olga says," They'll be here early tomorrow, like always."

"Jenni went as well."

Olga goes to sit in the chair next to Alexia's, frowning. "That's unlike her. I swear, I thought she was going to sneak into the ICU yesterday."

"She told me that she needs to go back to Mexico soon," Alexia says," She's delaying it for as long as possible."

"All for our Bambi?" Olga hums," She really loves her."

"Yeah," Alexia says," She does."

Alexia is in awe of Jenni sometimes. Jenni has always loved you, Alexia thinks. Jenni's always been a part of your life even when Alexia didn't have the energy to care for herself. Jenni had always been there.

Alexia doesn't think she'll ever understand just how much Jenni adores you. You make the planets spin for Jenni. You hang the stars and the moon and sometimes, like now, Alexia wonders if she'll ever be able to live up to that.

If she'll ever be able to give you the life you deserve.

She doesn't want to give you up. Selfishly, she wants a life where she can hold both you and Jaume in bed with her. She wants a life where she can go to Jaume's football matches and your ballet recitals. She wants a life where she can win a Champion's League and see you running onto the pitch to celebrate with her.

But she doesn't know if that's the life you want.

She doesn't know if that's the life you deserve, constantly being shepherded from one thing to another, constantly living in fear that you'll be left behind again.

Alexia knows a life with Jenni, where you're the centre of her world, would be good for you too. But, still, Alexia can't help but let her heart flutter at hearing Olga call you 'our Bambi'.

'Our Bambi'.

Hers and Alexia's.

If you went with Jenni then you would be just Jenni's, no matter if Alexia kept her name on your birth certificate. You would be half a world away. She would see you when Jenni returned for international duty. She would see you a few weeks every year and Alexia doesn't know how she could cope with that.

Alexia doesn't know how she would explain to Jaume about the sister he never sees.

Alexia is your mother and she needs to do what is best for you, despite how selfish she wants to be.

She needs to decide if she can still give you the best life possible or if letting Jenni raise you is truly what will give you the best chance possible.

"Ale?" Olga asks softly, shaking her," You're crying."

Alexia swipes the tears away. "I was just thinking about Bambi. I should probably get back to her. The doctors keep saying that she won't even notice but-"

"But you should still sit with her," Olga says," She deserves to have some company. Here." Olga reaches into her bag.

She pulls out your ceramic train, the one Alexia shattered on the floor after seeing you with a tube down your throat.

"It's still missing a few pieces," Olga explains," But I tried my best. I thought you could put it at her bedside."

Alexia takes it gently, cradling it in her hands. Olga's right. There's still little chips and Alexia can very clearly see where Olga has glued the broken pieces together.

It's still fractured and broken but it's perfect.

"I love you," Alexia chokes out," I love you."

"I love you too," Olga says," Just as I love our kids. Go, Ale. Sit with her. Me and the little man will be right here."

The sun glints on your ceramic train for nearly a week until you wake up.

The doctors keep you asleep until they're certain that the meningitis is gone.

Jaume gets to go home with Olga the day before you get woken up.

There's a crowd outside your room early the next day and Alexia is the only one allowed in.

"We've taken the tube out," The doctors explain," And she'll be coming out of the anaesthesia soon. She'll be a little disorientated and emotional but once she's up, give it an hour or two, we'll check her hearing and her strength and if it all goes well then she should be out of here by late afternoon."

"How likely is it that her hearing's being affected?"

"Meningitis is known to cause hearing loss but I'm optimistic. Despite what's happened, she's fought it every step of the way. There's a good chance she comes out of this without any lasting effects."

"And once she's up? I can let people in?"

The doctor glances over at the assembled crowd. "Only one or two in the room at a time. We don't want to overwhelm her."

"Thank you."

"I'll be back soon."

Alexia retakes her seat at your side, holding your hand gently in her own. Your little hands are perfect to hold in her own. You could probably hold just a finger and it would still be bigger than your whole hand.

"I love you," Alexia whispers as she presses a soft kiss to your forehead," I love you so, so much, Bambi. You're all better now. You just need to wake up."

You don't come to for another thirty minutes or so and, when you finally do, it's slowly.

"Mami," You say," My throat hurts."

Alexia can't help the worried laughter that bubbles out of her throat. It's half in relief and half in how disgruntled you look.

"Mami?"

"Here, Bambi," She says," Sit up. Let's have a little drink."

She holds the glass as you sip the water. You lean easily into the comfort Alexia's offering, your head resting on her shoulder

"Wha's goin' on, Mami?"

"You were sick," Alexia says," But you're better now and you get to leave if everything's okay."

Your brow wrinkles. "I..." Your eyes dart around and Alexia suddenly realises what the doctor meant by you being emotional. "I want Mama! Mama! Want-Want Mama!"

Tears spill down your cheeks and Alexia knows exactly who you want.

She shouldn't take it personally. She knows you're sad and overwhelmed and you're reaching out for comfort for the person that you can't see.

Alexia knows this is normal. She's been told this is normal and yet-

Alexia pushes away her feelings, tucking you into the blankets and pressing a kiss to your cheek that you clearly welcome. "I'll get you Jenni," She promises," Just give me a second."

She pokes her head out of the door.

"Jenni," Alexia says, voice emotionless," She needs you."

Jenni's looking more relieved than Alexia's ever seen her before as she rushes into the room.

"Mama," You say, brow wrinkled and looking up at her with wet, puppy dog eyes," You hurt me."

"I hurt you?" Jenni echoes as she takes Alexia's seat," When did I hurt you, Bambi?"

"When the bad man touched my back and you held my legs."

"I'm sorry, Bambi," Jenni says gently," That was wrong of me. I'm very, very sorry."

You're still confused. Your brain feels like it's full of cotton, all fuzzy and weird like that time the tv made that weird noise and went all staticky.

You lay back down. Your head bounces a little from the force you've thrown it back into your pillow with.

Everything's all jumbled and confused and you gently take Ma-Jenni's hand in your own. She's got big hands with fingers you can wrap your whole hand around and still have your hand be too small.

You know someone else like that, you think and your brain strains to think of who it is.

You get glimpses.

Big hands. A Barcelona kit. Gentle strokes down your back and kisses on your forehead when you're sad.

"Mami," You croak out even as Ma-Jenni climbs into bed with you and cradles you against her body.

Mami was with you earlier. You can remember that. You lift your head to see where she's gone but you can't see her anywhere.

"Mama," You say, tugging on Ma-Jenni's shirt as tears still drip down your cheeks," Mami's gone! Mami's gone again!"

You don't know that Alexia's crying too.

In the bathroom down the hall, staring at herself in the mirror and only seeing your own tearful face reflected back at her.

[atlabeth]

too sweet

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: a night out makes hotch realize a few too many things.

a/n: me??? writing for criminal minds again out of nowhere??? what is going on. and i do not have an answer i was just in a hotch mood bc he's fine asf and i finally have the confidence to write for him here we are lol. hope u enjoy this short lil thing

wc: 2.4k

warning(s): alcohol consumption, a sexual joke or two, written in one go so might be a mess! aaron is all in his head but this is basically all fluff

Hotch can’t focus. 

Mostly because he can’t stop glancing over at you. Normally it’s not a problem—he’d lost count of how many times he’d distracted himself from mounds of paperwork by meeting your eyes through his office window, often accompanied by a smile that made even his heart beat a little faster—and especially now, it shouldn’t be a problem. 

You and Derek have had some kind of bet going on during the past few nights out—you didn’t believe he was as charming and suave as he claimed, and Morgan was all too happy to prove you wrong.

You bet that he couldn’t get at least five numbers every night, and come last Thursday, Morgan took the win at the end of the evening with a smile on his face. As punishment, the first round of their next night out was on you. 

And that’s nice, sure. Hotch is always thankful that his team can still joke around and have fun with each other despite everything they have to deal with each day. He hopes they keep the light in their eyes as long as possible, especially the younger ones. He’s fine with being the stick in the mud, the one who never smiles, the iron willed chief that scares local uniforms.

Hotch is not so fine with the way he feels right now. 

It’s a busy night at the bar, which is understandable. Hotch is sure half the precinct is out alongside them, celebrating the BAU finally solving the case that had torn them to shreds over the past week. You, Reid, and Garcia put the threads together an hour into scouring through evidence, and the unsub was cuffed before noon. 

Certainly something to celebrate—there’s a reason the whole team agreed to go out tonight and leave tomorrow. Even Rossi decided to join when he learned you would be buying, but he’s already abandoned them in favor of catching up with some old friends. Hotch even thinks they might have another round in their future because of their solve, courtesy of the local chief. They had a long night ahead of them. 

But you haven’t gotten the drinks yet, and Hotch wonders how long it’ll take even after you do. Because some officer is trying to talk you up, and you’re smiling and laughing along and giving him every bit of your attention. 

Hotch recognized him the moment he set eyes upon him, even in plain clothes. He’s some joke of an officer from the station, and he’s been trying to get your number—or even just get your attention—throughout their whole visit. Always sidling up to you during debriefs, specifically giving you any information or evidence he finds—Hotch has overheard him asking for your number more than once. 

Hotch has been so focused on the case he’s not even sure if you’ve rejected him or not, and the mere thought is enough to annoy him. If he wasn’t equally as sure of your ability to defend yourself and afraid of overstepping with you, he would have stepped in. 

But it makes sense. The officer is young and handsome, you’re young and pretty—not to mention you have a way of lighting up any room you step into. Hotch spent the whole first month of your employment wondering why you would want to do a job like this. He’s spent the rest of it thankful that you did. 

You’re sharp as a whip, naturally, but you’ve also done wonders for the team atmosphere. It’s hard to feel down with a smile like yours beaming his way. The job weighs you down like it does everyone, but you still manage to lift everyone’s spirits on the jet ride back before they jump into the next case. It’s impressive. 

It’s also trouble. You’ve been part of the BAU for almost two years now, and Hotch has spent just as much time tearing his eyes away from you as he has working. It’s wrong, and it’s wholly inappropriate in terms of your working relationship—he’s your boss, for god’s sake. 

But sometimes, Hotch will be beating himself up over one thing or another on a case, and you’ll plant yourself in his vicinity and refuse to leave until you’ve helped him work through it. If you ever tire of the FBI, he thinks you have a second calling as an elementary school teacher. 

Sometimes the hotel they’re staying at will have truly shitty coffee, worse than they’re used to at the BAU, and you’ll already be in the lobby with a tray full of the team’s orders. Hotch never recalls telling you his order—you just figured it out, and you remembered it. 

Sometimes his gaze will drift your way, and he’ll find you already staring at him. You look away just as quickly as he does, and it makes him wonder. 

Hotch has made a living off of studying the behavior of others. More often than not, he finds himself profiling his co-workers just out of instinct. His job is to know what others are thinking. 

But god. When it comes to you, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever felt more unsure in his life. Especially when you look at him the same way he wants to for weeks, then act nothing but proper another day; when you fall asleep against his shoulder on the jet one night and entertain some desk jockey another night. 

It makes him feel like a highschooler again, trying to figure out if Haley really liked him or if she was just playing around, and it’s more embarrassing than it should be. Especially when he’s still dealing with the lingering emotions from the divorce. 

“Hotch.” JJ’s voice is enough to break him out of his trance, and he blinks as he turns to her. At least someone paid him the mercy to dispel his thoughts, even if only for a temporary time. 

“What?” 

“Did you hear a single word I said?” she asks, a slight smile curving on her lips. 

“Of course,” he responds. “The chief’s over there talking with the commissioner. He’s the same guy who made your life difficult the last time we were in Milwaukee.” 

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, and she nods. “I didn’t think you were listening.” 

“I think he just got lucky,” Morgan cuts in, his gaze darting over to you momentarily. “I think you were too focused on our drinks.” 

Reid frowns. “I don’t think he was focused on the drinks. He’s—” 

“Just making sure they’re still coming,” Hotch interrupts, and he straightens his tie. Today really has been a long one—usually, he’s better at covering these things up. “And I wasn’t lucky. I was listening.” 

“Trust me,” Morgan says with a laugh, “I’m watchin’ her until I’ve got a glass in my hand. She’s not getting out of this after the way she bragged this whole month.” 

“The stupidest thing to make a bet on,” Prentiss remarks, “especially with you.” 

“She said she just wanted to prove you wrong,” Reid contributes. “She thinks you’re too cocky.” 

Morgan grins. “It’s not cocky if you can back it up.” 

Hotch’s attention goes back to you, and you’ve finally gotten their drinks. You’re loading them onto a tray like you’re the bartender yourself, and his brows crease. Maybe he should have gone up with you. 

“Do you think she needs help?” he asks. How obvious is too obvious? Why does it feel like his brain only works at half power whenever it comes to you? 

“She’ll be fine,” Prentiss says. “And if she needs it, that guy talking her up can help.” 

“Jason Rodriguez,” Reid remarks. “He hung around her the whole time we were trying to pinpoint a location, and he wasn’t any help, which makes sense because he's practically desk-bound at the precinct. I’m surprised she got any work done.” 

JJ chuckles. “I’m surprised he hasn’t given up yet. He’s been following her around all week, like some lost puppy.” 

Morgan shrugs. “I dunno. She seems pretty into him.” 

“I don’t think ex-frat boys are her type,” Prentiss says wryly. Hotch doesn’t think so either, but he doesn’t say anything. Contributing to this kind of conversation is certainly too obvious.  

“I doubt we’ll be back here for a while. She might as well.” Morgan smiled. “She probably needs a win after such an embarrassing loss.” 

Thankfully, before Hotch has to keep pretending not to care about this topic, you walk over carrying a tray of cocktails—and you’re alone. The subject of their previous conversation seems lost in the crowd, and he feels a dangerous amount of relief. 

“Are you all talking about me?” you drawl. 

“You know we are, sweetheart. Thought you were never gonna get here.” Morgan sits up, smiling at you. “What’d my win get us?” 

“Long Island Iced Teas,” you muse as you set the tray down. “Enjoy it, because I’m gonna be working some overtime to make up for all these.” 

Morgan grins as he takes his drink. “You should’ve never doubted my skills.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t need any help,” Prentiss says. “You’ve done this before, huh?” 

“Bartended my way through college.” You slide into the booth next to Hotch, just a bit too close for a bit too long, and he hopes that no one can see his chest still for a moment. It’s impressive that he still hasn’t figured out how to lessen the effect you have on him. “I’ve probably got better hands than you, Morgan.” 

“Do we need to make another bet?” he asks. “Because I’d love to clean out your wallet.” 

“Maybe wait another month before you prey on any more poor, defenseless agents,” you croon, and Morgan laughs. 

He pivots the conversation away from you when you pick up your drink and take a sip, and you look at Hotch. Whenever your gaze is on him, you make him feel like he’s the only person in the room. He’s sure you never look at anyone else that way, but Hotch wonders how much of that is his mind trying to justify his imagination. 

“I’m surprised you agreed with this,” you say, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. “I thought you’d want us to go back tonight.” 

“You all earned a night out after the work you did,” Hotch says. He thinks about taking a drink, but he decides against it, at least for now. He can barely trust his sober mind. 

“You’ve earned it too,” you say. “We wouldn’t be anywhere without you, Hotch. You keep us all together.” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever would’ve connected the dots like you and Reid can with Garcia. I hate unsubs with secret codes.” 

“I’ve always liked puzzles,” you muse. “There’s nothin’ like it when it all finally clicks.” 

Hotch hums, and for a moment, he’s silent. Your gaze remains fully on him, and that might be why he has trouble thinking. It’s too easy to get lost in your eyes. 

“What did that guy say?” Hotch finally manages to ask, because he honestly can’t help it. Morgan’s points actually worried him a bit, and he wonders what that says about him. Ex-frat boy certainly isn’t your type, but someone forgettable for a one night stand isn’t the most absurd thing in the world. 

Your brows knit together as you drink some more. “What guy?”

“The officer you were talking with,” he says. “He seemed to like you.” 

He’d been flirting with you since the moment you stepped into the precinct, actually, desperate for your attention, but Hotch didn’t really want to say that. He’s sure you noticed either way, if the rest of the team did. 

“Oh. Him.” You shrug. “He’s nice, I guess. Definitely a looker. But he’s got nothing beneath that hair.” 

“Morgan’s surprised you didn’t bring him back,” Hotch says. He wonders if he’s pushing too much, and again, he feels like a highschooler testing the waters. Do you know what you do to him? What you reduce him to? 

You shrug as you take a sip. “If he knows what’s good for him, he knows he doesn’t have a chance. My attention’s on someone else.” 

Prentiss calls your name and you get drawn back into the middle of the team’s conversation, and thankfully, Hotch has a chance to digest your words—and the stunner of a smile you flash at him before you get pulled into their talk. 

His decision to not drink seems even wiser, now. Hotch has to loosen his tie, and he ignores Reid watching him. It’s futile trying to hide anything from Spencer Reid—the kid already knows everything. 

Again, it's dangerous how much satisfaction he gets from it—from knowing you never really paid that officer a second thought. You didn’t smile at him the way you smile at Hotch. You don’t smile at anyone the way you smile at Hotch. He thought he was imagining it at first, or that he was just a bit too stuck up, but it was the honest truth. You paid him special attention, and he couldn’t blame the warmth in his chest from the thought on any alcohol. 

He tunes back into the conversation just to hear Morgan demand you pay for his next drink. 

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you say. 

He puts a hand to his chest. “Generous? You’re just paying what you owe me.” 

You laugh and shake your head. “Pick your poison, pretty boy.” 

“How do you feel about tequila?” 

You make a noise of disgust and shake your head. “As long as I don’t have to drink it.” 

“You’re just paying, sweetheart.” Morgan’s eyes dart to Hotch, and he nods as he grins. “One for me and our fearless leader.” 

Hotch shakes his head. “Someone has to get us back to the hotel.” 

“That’s what cabs are for!” Prentiss exclaims. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Hotchner. You deserve to let a little loose.” 

“It takes most people an hour to process a drink,” Reid contributes, “so you’ll be fine before we leave if you want to drive.” 

“Come on, Hotch,” you say, and you nudge his shoulder. “You might as well—I’m paying.” 

“...Fine,” he says, and the whole team cheers. Even Reid smiles. 

“Y’know, you can smile tonight, Hotch,” you say with one of your own before you down the rest of your drink and stand up.

And one actually tugs at his lips. It feels a lot hotter in this bar with your eyes sparkling and you beaming right at him, and he fights the need to shed his jacket. Your grin somehow grows. 

“That’s what I came out to see,” you remark as you pick your wallet back up from the table. “I expect another when I get back, Hotch. There’s a lot to celebrate tonight.” 

Yeah, he thinks as he watches you go. There just might be. 

[pullhisteeth]

classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

-

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins. 

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

-

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all. 

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

-

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?" 

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You’re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up. 

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him. 

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square. 

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

-

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time. 

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

-

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!