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pinkrelish · 10 months

Text

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #eddie x reader

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spineconsumer · 2 years

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The hatred I have for broken telephone is so strong...

#i hate hate hate broken telephone #its stressful #i dont like it when people whisper in my ears #i don't like whispering in other peoples ears #its a lose lose!!!

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trashmouth-richie · 1 month

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Alright, babe. Let's do Angsty, and your words are: crunch and parking lot

xo -Amanda

@curiositydooropened you asked for angst and bby i’m delivering hot and ready in 30 minutes or less, like surfer boys pizza or a real horny boyfriend. 🍆💦

18+ HEAVY ANGST, upside down themes, s1 canon events with reader thrown into the mix. you’re dating eddie! yay!

<650 words

send me a prompt! from this post :)

A strong western wind bristled the leaves.

Wrestling colors of burnt persimmon and chestnut hues around in a whimsical swirl of a colorful tornado. Some stuck to the inky wet of the grass from the early morning rain. Others found their way like Magellan to a faraway land (a nearby leaf pile) or maybe into the yard of a lucky kid able to rake enough of them up to earn a few dimes in the pockets of their Levi’s.

It was chilly for the unusual Indian Summer Hawkins was experiencing this fall. As if winter broke through the endless seams of the late humid summer, demanding to be felt, to be seen.

Could you do that? Be seen?

You heard the screech of the ailing boy nights before. The squeal of tires from the police station. His mother—you presumed, frantically called his name into the town, like a lone wolf howling into the harvest moon hung sky.

Yet, the boy remained missing.

Would you be missed…like the Byers’ boy? Who would call for you? Would he?

Flyers went up, crunching beneath the metallic thump of a steel staple. Into telephone posts, poked through cork boards around the school with colorful tacs. Taped to pay phones and called across radio stations.

Eddie had assured you that he had probably run away, typical for kids that age who didn’t get what they wanted. But you felt something. Heard things in the night while curled into his chest. It spoke to you. Begged you to look for It..

Barbara Holland went missing. Last seen at a party of Harrington’s that you heard him loudly strutting around the hallways about to impress the quiet, pretty freshman girl.

Again, you told your boyfriend of your worries. Cried to him about the lack of sleep you’d been getting, the nightmarish creatures you’d seen when your eyes were closed. He pulled you into him, forefinger hooked under your jaw, and like a fish on a line, you succumbed to him. It was hard not to when somebody loved you the way Eddie did.

Had it been days? You couldn’t be sure.

Street lights flickered. They always did at Eddie’s— it was normal. But maybe you should have been more self-aware. Maybe you would have noticed It.

Long spindly arms clawed at your coat as you ran, bony fingers hooked into the belt around your waist, pulling you back, further and further towards the opening at the base of a tree.

You fought, clawed at dirt and muck and shit to escape its clutches. Badly bleeding, injured, breaths away from death— until you weren’t. Until you were somehow nestled beneath foliage— safe, hiding, alone.

The treeline behind the trailer park was where you laid. Unable to make a sound, caked with dried blood, colored dark on your body, the sharp stink of infection and decay permeated the chilly air, and you knew it was from you.

Would he know how much you loved him? How proud of him you were for sticking up for kids who needed it?

You’d miss his smile, his dimples, that giddy dorky laugh he couldn’t hide when you tickled his sides. The way butterflies swarmed in your stomach when he kissed you.

Would he miss you…cry for you?

You lie in wait watching the leaves scatter across the dirt parking lot. Body cold and broken, blood trickling to the earth. Time ticking down to what could possibly be your inevitable end.

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson blurb #eddie blurb #eddie drabble #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things

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americas1suiteheart · 10 months

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Hi! Hope you are doing well! So, Tangerine x Reader: any headcanons about Tan as a partner? Thanks!

I'm doing great in fact, thank you for the request! Headcannons are my favourite thing to write, hope this is fitted to your taste.

Dating Tangerine Would Include...

[Tangerine x GN! Reader Headcannons]

[Warnings; Violence, smoking, violence, its a bullet train fic guys]

[Notes; I love writing for Tan so much you guys have no idea, I get to cuss as much as I want to in these fics]

Oh man, he's such a softie for you, you have absolutely no idea.

He can go from being the same grumpy prick to other people and have one of the worst days but when he's around you he's calling you love and darling, clinging onto you practically and just showering you in kisses.

He's so clingy, as soon as either of you get home he's begging you to sit with him on the couch just so you could cuddle. And if your making dinner expect him to try to help but just end up holding you by your waist the whole time.

Lemon thinks it's the cutest thing how tangerine acts around you. He thinks its hilarious how quickly Tan switches up with you.

"-you're the one that doesn't fucking know how to go on about this job correctly! You're such a fucking idiot sometimes Lemon it's insu-" Tangerine yells at his brother before being interrupted by you.

"Whats going on? What are you two fighting about now?" You say in annoyance.

"Nothing darling, just please go back to the living room I'll be right there okay love," Tangerine tells you softly, pressing a kiss to your head before you leave.

"You're a right fuckin' sap for them, Tan," Lemon snickers at Tangerines change of attitude and tone.

"I'll put your fuckin' head through a wall, honest to god Lemon."

He just loves when your laying with eachother and you run your hands through his curls.

I'd like to think you help him take care of his hair actually. Like, he would know how to take care of it properly before, but he let's you put different product in his hair to make sure he doesn't miss any areas on his hair, (In reality he just wants to be touched by you in some way).

Being a part time nurse for him and Lemon definitely became a thing almost immediately after you two started dating. Constant cleaning of wounds and such, just constantly.

The days when he's on missions he's constantly texting you as much as he can, checking up on you to make sure you're doing well.

There are times where he's come home a couple days or even weeks later than he had originally anticipated without being able to contact you, and you'd be absolutely furious, (sometimes not knowing that he wasn't able to contact you at all).

"What the fuck happened, Tan! I thought you were dead. You hadn't even texted me or anything, you were supposed to be back 5 days ago! You had me absolutely worried sick!" You yell.

Tan had been gone for almost 2 weeks when the mission was only supposed to last a week. And on top of that he hadn't phoned or even tried to text you. If it weren't for Lemon telling you that they were fine 2 days before they showed up you would've assumed the worst had happened.

"I really am sorry my darling, the mission was just much harder than we'd expected and we got stuck there longer than nessasary." He explained quietly.

"But why hadn't you contacted me at all? If it weren't for lemon calling me I would've thought you two were gone for good!"

"My telephone got broken by some prick the 3rd day into the mission whilst we were fighting. And I didn't think to used lemon's phone because I was so frazzled the whole time. Really darling, I didn't mean to frighten or worry you."

"Alright.. Sorry I freaked out on you but I really was worried. I'm just glad you're okay now." You walk to Tangerine, pulling him into a hug.

" 's alright love, I'm glad you and I are good too. Let's go wash up and go to bed, I've got blood all over me and my fuckin' clothes and it don't feel too great," Tangerine says, picking you up and taking you to your shared bedroom.

Loves taking baths with you, taking turns washing eachother off makes him feel all warm inside, that you trust eachother enough at that point in your relationship. He thinks it's so sweet though.

Sometimes when he goes outside to have a smoke he'll invite you out with him so you two can just talk. If you smoke he'll probably share one with you too.

Very protective.. Being he's an assassin and all, he'd most definitely go to extremes if someone had been bothering you. Some random person flirted with you? Dead. A someone you knew in high school used to bully you? Dead. Any person that has hurt you no matter how long ago will probably end up dead.

You two are so good for eachother though. Strangely the healthiest relationship you will ever have. Please don't break this poor boy's heart. He will be absolutely devastated and blame himself for it. Underneath all of that muscle and confidence he's very emotional and sensitive.

Will ask to marry you and even possibly start a family with you if you're up for it. (Adoption or old fashioned depending on your biological sex).

Loved writing this, and I was infact so excited that I finished this in just 2 hours🤭

#tangerine x reader #tangerine bullet train #bullet train #bullet train 2022 #aaron taylor johnson #aaron taylor johnson x reader #gender neutral reader #headcannons

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batsvnte · 11 months

Text

𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞 • 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

Pairing(s): Wally Darling

Sypnosis: you seem to not get enough of these phone calls you’ve been getting from Wally. Not like how he’s acting recently

Warning(s): Obsessive behavior, cursing, reader is 0.01% away from breaking something, also hints reader is progressively getting sick, ooc maybe, not proofread

Song used: Telephone by Lady Gaga

Word Count: 2K

Notes: black gender neutral!reader (they/them pronouns) with lovesick! Wally. Here’s my go at the lovesick au heunehueeb— the color for the lyrics are killing me but it’s fine. Also decided to go for the second person to see how this works. Au belongs to @halohelene on tik tok, characters belong to @/partycoffin

Not that I don’t like you, I’m just at a party

You wished that you realized sooner.

The little signs that was being given off ever since that rainy day that occurred few weeks prior to what was happening now. You recalled how drenched everyone became since they were out in the rain. One of your neighbors, Wally Darling, specifically. Two days later is when it started showing physically since he was coming out to less and less. The everyone concluded that he was down with an sickness that Wally came down with.

Lounging around in your home without anything planned for the day as usual. Though part of you was reluctant to hear knocking on your door, or the phone's ringing. Waiting for someone to talk to you and drag you to bring them into their fun shenanigans they have planned for the day. You often shake away the thought, wanting the day to be by yourself as some way to recharge yourself due to your social battery being inherently low for the past couple of days.

You were broken out of your thoughts the moment the phone rang. You nearly shoot up right out of your seat before relaxing, realizing it might be one of the neighbors calling you. You suspect it would be Sally since she's been recently calling you a lot. For advice on the plays she has written and notes that she rambles to you about scenes. All the usual stuff that you and Sally would talk about for hours.

"Hello? (L/N) speaking." It was like an automated line that is always said whenever the phone was picked up by you.

No answer. You thought that it was some mistaken call that was directed to you. You were about to speak again before your voice was caught up in your throat.

"Hello neighbor.."

Wally's voice filled your ear. You haven't talked to him in a long while which surprised you in the slightest. Part of you was relieved that he was calling you.

"Hey Wally!" A smile spread across your face. "I haven't heard from you in a while. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm feeling great, neighbor." Through his monotonous voice there was some bit of comfort for him through those words. "I'm so glad you picked up. I've missed your voice."

Here was the start of what you thought was to be a short conversation. Chatting about what you were doing the past couple of days and rambling about your interests to him. He didn't have much to say but he made it known that was listening to every single thing you said. Wally would often times thrown in compliments which caught you off guard. Maybe this was the first sign you needed to know.

"Look, Wally I need to go." It was your third reminder to him since you realized how long you've been in the phone for.

"What about the story? Can you tell me more about it, please?"

"I'll tell you soon."

"But–"

You didn't hear the rest of what he had to say due to bringing the phone away from your ear while uttering a quick bye before hanging up. You let out a soft sigh, not realizing how late it's gotten. The sun was already at its prime of setting, revealing only streetlights as its main source to see the outside world clearly. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion as you wondered what time it was. And how long you've been on the phone for.

And I am sick and tired of my phone ringing

Getting prepared for your night time routine you realized you weren't as tired as you thought to be. You just been staring up at the ceiling for the past consecutive hours of the night. You decided against your thoughts of attempted sleeping, getting up from your warm covers and into the chill air of your room.

You chose to do you hair, wanting a new hairstyle for yourself. Turning on some music just loud enough for you to hear only you started with plaiting your hair. You were somewhat aware of how long it would take, but it didn't matter. Just as long as you didn't sit around doing nothing without any ounce of exhaustion is something you didn't want to do.

Through the music you mindlessly part and plait your hair into tiny strands to make braids. You didn't realize how many you've done before you heard a noise. Slowly down your pace you glance to the radio that was carelessly tossed onto you bed. You've heard this song more than enough times to count the beats to the song.

Something about it was throwing you off.

Listening closely to the noise you've made a slow realization of the phone ringing. It was faint since the phone was in a completely different room but it felt like it was directly next to you. Questions starting to flood your mind as you finally finish the hair strands in your hand, directing your eyes over to the closed door of your bedroom.

'How long has the phone been ringing?'

It could've been minutes since the phone has been ringing. Getting a random call in the middle of the night scared you somewhat even though the phone line was directly connected to your friendly neighbors. You turn your head back to the mirror that you were seated in front of. It was better not to answer the phone right now since it was probably a random call accidentally made to you. But was it? You didn't know at all. You just needed to finish what you started.

After the final braid was done, you cleaned yourself up and flopped down on your bed. Barely missing the radio that tilted to the side due to your weight on the bed. Exhaustion finally caught up with you and you fell asleep.

Sometimes I feel like I live in Grandcentral Station

For the next couple of days was a never ending cycle for you. It weirded you out at first without any question. But the more you repeated the same action, it would just happen not even minutes later once you were away from it. Waking up to a mundane routine is something you wished for.

Wake up, get yourself breakfast, phone rings for several minutes, do you daily activities friends, get dinner, and go to sleep.

Wake up, phone rings for several minutes, get yourself some breakfast, the phone rings for an hour, do your daily activities, get dinner and go to sleep.

The phone rings for several minutes, wake up, phone rings for two hours, get yourself breakfast, the phone goes off, stay indoors, the phone rings, dinner, the phone rings, and go to sleep.

The phone rings again. The ringing was driving you insane. It was going on any time you were inside your own home. Whenever you went to another's house, their phone was silent as ever. Something that you had wished for. But it wasn't the only thing that kept you up late at night. You've been having conversations with Wally prior to the endless phone calls. Part feeling bad that he was still stuck in his home instead of being outside and spending time with the neighbors. You hadn't realize that his condition was getting progressively worse the more you kept talking to him.

Wally wanted to hear your voice more. He needed to hear you talk about whatever came to mind or was brought up. The sound of your voice was a melodious tune to him. Wally couldn't help it at all.

You wished you connected it sooner than expected.

And yet here you were. You were sitting down at the dinner table that was in your own home, your food gone untouched. You could only stare blankly at the plate in front of you knowing well that it's gone cold. Your eyes slowly drifted over to the phone that was resting on the counter. You had moved it during one of your calls with Wally so you can multitask: talk to him while making yourself something to eat. Easier and more convient for you, wasn't it?

It's been ringing once again. Your mind automatically thought it was Wally calling you again. It couldn't be anyone else to call you this late at night.

How else would he know that you tend to stay up into the late hours of the night. Or how you would wake up without a thought, doing whatever gets you back into exhaustion so you have more energy for tomorrow. How else could he know these details about you that you never mentioned.

You pushed the chair back without cringing at the screeching floorboard you caused it to make. You storm into the kitchen, opening various of drawers and digging through the various amount of supplies that you had stashed away. You were doing it aggressively to the point were you could've accidentally taken out an entire drawer. Pulling and slamming over and over again before you found what you were looking for. You scooped up a pair of scissors into your hands with the satisfaction of finally finding your desired item.

Pushing yourself away from the messy drawers and cabinets, you rush back over to the phone. You nearly knock over the phone which would've been desirable but it wasn't what you were aiming for. Going to the other side, you trace the long thin cable that connected your phone to the house, which gave access to anyone calling you. Finding no care for the length, you swiftly snip the cord in half.

An unfamiliar silence filled the room. Lowering your hands, you let one end of the cord slip through you hands and onto the floor. Relief washes over your body was you stand up properly. Sliding the scissors gently onto the counter. Turning away from the phone with no care what you're going to do with it. As long as it was silent, you were happy.

The phone rings.

You nearly snap your neck to look at the phone once again. Tou were thinking you might be imagining it all over again. The phone vibrates as the ringing starts up again. You were sure that you cut the phone line. What other cord could be connected to the phone.

'What the fuck is going on? Why is it ringing? How is it still ringing!? Just fucking stop!'

One thing led to another and you found yourself on the floor sitting against the wall. Viewing the phone that was at a distance due to it being knocked over by you throwing it at a nearby wall. It didn't break fully which made you more frustrated, but you didn't have anymore energy to deal with it. You were tired. You wanted it to stop.

"Now neighbor.. is that a way to answer a friend?" Wally's faint voice was heard through the phone, but you made no effort to get closer to hear him better.

"You destroyed your phone," Wally continues to speak with a loving tone in his voice. He sounds genuine, but you knew that there was another emotion present. "How can I be able to hear your voice if I can't call you.. Don't you think it would be better to visit me?”

You remained silent. Something about the suggestion was almost to good to pass up. It has been days since you’ve seen him, and you didn’t want anything more than to make up the lost time with the shorter puppet. But then again, Wally was sick and you weren't going to risk getting others down if you ended up getting sick as well.

You could only stare at the phone but you could feel Wally’s eyes focused on you. Eager for an answer.

Tonight I’m not taking no calls, cause I’ll be dancing

This is so messy omFG

I was working on another one au thing I saw on tik tok but somehow this au dragged me back here. I’ve been so stressed because of my grades and exams but writing this made me feel better at least. But like- you finna go see him or nah 👀

#ghouul #welcome home #wally darling #welcome home clown illustrations #apple to my eye 🍎#welcome home arg #ghouul writings #wally darling x reader #wally darling x y/n #lovesick au #lovesick Wally darling #breaking phones isn’t fun wouldn’t recommend #songfic sorta #songfic #Wally darling x you #yandere wally darling

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avocado-writing · 8 months

Note

Yello! I want something fluffy but funny so I thought I’d request an aziraphale x crowley x reader where the reader is tech savvy, and by tech savvy I mean just basic knowledge of gadgets and such, but to crowley and aziraphale, tech savvy. Reader introduces them to a lot of gadgets and they’re both so amazed.

Bonus points for nina and maggie confused in the background because it’s literally just basic things but crowley and aziraphale act like it’s fucking magic (also ik crowley has a smartphone, but still!)

notes: I love this request so much. I really enjoyed writing it! (And don’t worry just because Crowley has a smartphone doesn’t mean he actually knows how to use it, take a look at almost any person above the age of 60)

pairing: aziraphale x gn!reader x crowley

rating: G

“Darling, the printer isn’t working.”

“Have you tried pressing ‘Control + P’, Aziraphale?”

“Yes. It’s not doing anything, devilish thing.”

You sigh, put your book down, and head over to your angel’s desk. He’s trying to print out a screenshot he’s taken of a picture you sent him the other day. It’s a cat meme. He’s rather taken with them, and likes to have copies to look at across the bookshop. You have explained he can just save the image itself but he doesn’t quite seem to understand that.

“Ah you see Aziraphale, the problem is that you haven’t actually turned it on.”

“Oh!” he exclaims as you reach over to the power switch. The printer lights up and begins to spit out a dozen copies of the image Aziraphale has now lined up in its queue. As you try to force it to stop, Crowley saunters up behind you.

“Can you help me get these to connect? They’re not—”

“Yes, one second,” you say, thumping the machine as it makes a sharp noise, and handing a pile of print-outs to Aziraphale. “Headphones again?”

Crowley nods, a little petulantly. You fish out the buds and put them in your ears, waiting until you see they’ve connected on the Bluetooth.

“Here,” you sigh. You wonder if any of this is actually worth it. Yes, it’s nice for the three of you to have a group chat, but having to constantly remind them that most of these devices have to be connected to electricity is grating on you a little.

“Oh, I’ve just got a message from Nina on my mobile telephone!” Aziraphale announces. You see him pause over the passcode screen and you brace for him to ask you what it is, again, but he remembers at the last second. “She asks if you can go over and help with the tills, she says they’re… well, I’m not going to repeat what she’s written here but in nicer terms they seem to have broken.”

“Aziraphale please stop telling her that I’m some sort of tech genius. I’m not. I just know how to press buttons correctly.”

“Come on, believe in yourself,” yells Crowley. You roll your eyes and take out one of his headphones.

“Crowley, I can hear you over your music! You don’t need to shout!”

He sniffs. “It’s a podcast actually.”

“I can tell her that but she might be disappointed,” Aziraphale says, looking at you with Those Eyes. He’ll win, he’ll always win, because you can’t say no to him. You groan.

“Alright. Tell her I’m on my way - but not to get her hopes up!”

Aziraphale beams at you. As you leave the shop, the printer tells him it’s run out of ink, so he goes about ordering an entirely new one off the internet.

taglist: @angiestopit @dazed-soul @smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @specter-soltare @candlewitch-cryptic @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @willbedecided @cool-iguana @bdffkierenwalker @ilyatan @civil-groupie @foolishprincipalitee

#aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader x aziraphale #crowley x reader #good omens x reader #ineffable husbands x reader #request

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lilhub · 24 days

Text

So. What's up with the duplicate statues in Eden?

If you've played Sky: Children of the Light and gone through The Ascent, you may have noticed these statues:

And you'll know that the Vault has the same exact statues:

Now the question we're asking here is why.

Of course, I have a theory in regards to it that ties into a couple of other theories, but it's gonna be long and probably a little complicated, so buckle up.

TL;DR will be at the bottom of the post for a simpler(and less all over the place) explanation!

Now, I'm going to start at the beginning with something that may seem completely unrelated:

Take a look at the top of this broken building in the Battlefield.

Does it look familiar? It should.

It looks like the vault masks.

That's odd though, isn't it? The Vault Elder is, well, the Vault Elder. They belong in the Vault.

To that I say: what if they weren't always there?

What if that building used to be their temple?

Almost every other Elder has their own building that serves as their temple and little else; why would the Vault Elder be any different? They're certainly just as important as every other Elder, so why would they be singled out?

Some more evidence for the broken building being an Elder's temple?

Look here, in The Seed's spirit memory:

The spirit was a medic that treated and aided soldiers on the battlefield, and this displays them in a Medic's tent. Where? In the broken building.

Other than it being the arguably safest structure aside from the Vault, there's...no real reason for it to be here of all places. They could have had it anywhere else; this is in the thick of the fighting, after all, the entire map is called the Battlefield for a reason. But there's a reason it was here.

Why?

Well, the Elder's temples are sacred. They're holy places, not to be trifled with, even in the midst of a war, they're like churches. And what was guaranteed if you took shelter in a church?

Sanctuary.

Unfortunately, this doesn't guarantee its outside will be particularly safe from conflict, especially toward the end of the war. Survival began to matter more than walls, I suspect, and it's clear from the Lookout Scout's memory sequence that even then, this place was broken down; potentially from Dark Dragons, potentially from the Ancestors. Unfortunately, we currently have no way of knowing for sure.

On the topic of placements and symbolism in the Battlefield map, though: there's also all of this imagery of the King leading up to the Wasteland Elder's temple.

Let me suggest to you the following as an answer to why:

Eden was not always the primary residence of the King.

Before you grab your torches and pitchforks, hear me out. The Eden Castle was not always there, and this is explicitly shown in the Aurora concert during Warrior, but also the fourth quest in Season of Passage:

No castle.

Now, what does this mean for the King? Well, logically they should have them residing in the otherwise safest place in the Kingdom—like, perhaps, a Vault.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Let's go back to the statues.

Many theorize that they're graves, due to the fact that there's one in each temple and when you sit, you're taken to the respective cutscenes that feature the Elders in their limbos. I disagree.

I think they were communication lines. Every Elder will need to contact one another at some point, and other than the Windpaths, there's really no shortcuts through the realms; thus, the statues function as telephones in a home network, if you will. If one person picks up the line while others are having a conversation, they can listen in as well.

Who needs to have a way to contact every single Elder?

The King.

A ruler needs to be able to conveniently contact the others that help them run a kingdom, especially at a moment's notice, and phones don't exactly exist in the Kingdom. Thusly following the path of logic here, wherever the King is, there should be each statue for each corresponding Elder.

Once the castle became the primary residence of the King, now that the Vault Elder was no longer close by, there was a statue added to the arrangement; this also explains why it's just sat in the middle of them instead of up with the rest.

There is one other thing, though.

What's up with the Wasteland Elder?

After all, if the Vault was the primary residence of the King, and the statues support that, then why and how does the Wasteland Elder come to inhabit that building?

I have a few thoughts on that too.

Let's take a look at the Wasteland Elder, for starters.

They look like a soldier. Which is no surprise, really, seeing as they were in charge of what is now the Wasteland, and the war that seems to have primarily taken place there.

I have another thought though.

The King needs a guard, or more accurately, the Prince does. Sure, there is plenty of power when you are the King, but before that they was a Prince, and there are always precautions that should be taken with the future ruler of your Kingdom.

From what little we see of their character, the Wasteland Elder is protective. Defensive. Willing to do anything to safeguard what lay beyond that gate. They had to learn from somewhere. That instinct has to come from somewhere, because they clearly have worked themselves to the point of absolute exhaustion in their efforts to safeguard that gate.

To this, I ask you: what better protection is there for a Prince than a Star?

Of course, once the Prince becomes a King, and Eden is more than adequate as a safe spot for them, this Star needs to be put somewhere else.

And the Wasteland still needs a protector. After all, the Dark Dragons at this point must be becoming a problem, and Darkstone production is likely growing larger and larger by the day; the people need someone to keep them safe and reassure them that all will be okay.

Who better than a Star that already knows everything about protection and defense? Who has the necessary experience? Who has likely had to manage other guards that helped protect the Prince?

TL;DR: Before the fall of the kingdom, while the King was still a Prince, before the Castle was built the Prince resided in the Vault. And before the conflict in the Wasteland, the Vault Elder's temple was the broken building we now see in the Battlefield. This explains both the King imagery leading up to (what is now)the Wasteland Temple(which also doubles as the entrance to the Vault) and the symbol atop the broken building that resembles the Vault masks.

During the period of time before the Prince became the King, the Wasteland Elder was assigned as their protector, explaining their intense need to defend the Vault 'til their last breath. Afterward, once the Prince becomes King, they are reassigned as the Guardian of the Wasteland, charged with overseeing its people and the Darkstone production taking place there.

Because of the fact that the King resided in the Vault and the Eden Castle, there are versions of each Elder's statue in both places due to them potentially being communication lines instead of graves. Or, at least, they used to be communication lines and were turned into graves for the Fallen Stars after the Fall of the Kingdom. This also explains why each statue takes us to that specific Elder's limbo space; they still, technically, function for their intended purpose.

Of course, this is all just one huge theory made up of a bunch of smaller theories and doesn't have the greatest evidence but. Alas! I am prone to overthinking details in the Funny Light Game.

#sky children of the light #sky cotl theory #sky theory #skyblr #is this my brain doing the pepe silva meme? SOLID MAYBE #but alas I cannot help it. I see Odd Things and desperately search for Explanations #of course this very well could be the devs reusing assets for. whatever reason. I have no clue why #but for now it wORKS #sky children of the light theory

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rileyslibrary · 1 year

Text

Living With Ghosts: 4. Pretty Broken

His body stands straight, but his mind betrays him. He still wears his gun around his left shoulder. It looks too heavy for him now, just like his conscience.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,150

Notes:

Warnings: Mentions of blood and war

As much as I like Ghost’s demeanor throughout the game, I cannot help but wonder what he would be like suffering the aftereffects of war.

Entire work on AO3

Table of Contents

———————————————————————

It’s been days since you last talked to him.

His inattentiveness, however, was not the outcome of your petty little brawl—not the direct consequence, at least. If you had to venture a guess, it’s because he was busy with other matters at the moment—far more important ones.

The Russian Mafia appears to have increased its presence in the region over the past week, raising suspicions of a potential terrorist attack. As a result, the CIA has requested high readiness from the Special Forces operators deployed in the area.

That’s where he is, you fool. It doesn’t matter how abandoned, lonely, or insecure you feel, for he had a job to do. He was right there, at the front line, risking his life for the nation’s—and probably the world’s—safety. You were the last thing on his mind right now; if you ever were anything to him but a mild inconvenience.

Let’s not forget that you also had a part to play in this operation; to actively scan land, air, and sea for irregular traffic and report to the CIA.

Well, not actively, per se—the safe house has a well-equipped wine cellar for that specific purpose.

“Surveillance Control Center,” they call it—SCC for short.

What was once used to store ruby-red Chianti Classico Riserva bottles can now be confused with the cockpit of a spaceship. The CIA engineers have outdone themselves with this one—you give them that.

The SCC is part of a computer network connecting every CIA safe house in the Mediterranean. It incorporates CCTV monitors, cameras, radars, and motion sensors designed to detect unusual movements in the region. Live-streaming feeds are processed using highly sophisticated software, which, upon catching unusual traffic, alerts the SCC’s terminal. The wine cellar also houses an arsenal of weapons and ammunition, just in case the shit hits the fan.

Your job, for now, is to oversee the SCC’s flawless operation and inform Laswell of any findings.

Boring; that’s what your job was. Boring.

“Christmas is coming,” Laswell’s voice sounded over the telephone, “You guys should do something to celebrate.”

“Do what, exactly, Kate? Go from house to house and sing carols on behalf of the CIA?” You reply, leaning forward as if you were trying to physically get your point across.

“If you’d stop being a sarcastic shit, then perhaps you could think a little better.” Her irritation rasped in her voice. “Do something together; think of it as a team-building event.”

He said he’d fix that attitude of yours; when was that team-building event going to take place?

She was right, though—as much as you’d hate to admit it. Christmas does bring people together.

You begin to reminisce about the good times back home when your family used to celebrate every year. You used to cook together, sing along to festive songs, watch Mr. Bean on television, and exchange gifts.

You remember your mother, who refrained from buying ornaments from the shops. She used to bake them instead—yes, bake them. She used to roll out the dough, give shape to it with cookie cutters and bake the ornaments so you would all decorate the Christmas tree with them. The entire house smelled divine with these four little ingredients she used in her recipe—cinnamon, salt, flour, and water.

Ingredients you already had in your pantry.

“Laswell, when’s my shift ending?” you asked in anticipation.

“It ended thirty-seven minutes ago. Tired of me?”

“I thought of something.” You announce, sitting on the edge of your seat.

“Wha-”

“I have to go. Over and out.” You report as you close the comms and head upstairs to the infamous pantry.

Cinnamon, salt, flour, and water.

You were determined to make it work, right here, in this safe house—with or without Ghost.

You hurried outside, scanning the area for the tree branches he trimmed a few weeks ago. If you tie them together, you could create something resembling a Christmas tree.

When was the last time he felt the Christmas spirit? Does he have a Christmas tree at his house? A family to sing together next to the fireplace? A warm, festive meal?

You moved frantically—part Christmas elf rolling out dough and baking ornaments, part Frankenstein trying to assemble a Christmas tree monstrosity.

Time flew by; hours passed like minutes as you worked hard, your creativity unleashed, putting forth your best effort to create something out of nothing.

To create festive decor out of raw ingredients.

To construct a tree out of stray branches.

To form a connection out of two peoples’ broken pieces.

“What’s that smell?”

You were so focused that you didn’t notice him standing behind you.

You turn around to see a wreck, the fragments of a man who has probably seen terrible things and done far worse.

“I—is everything all right?” You hesitate.

“Out of trouble, for now.” He replies.

His body stands straight, but his mind betrays him. He still wears his gun around his left shoulder. It looks too heavy for him now, just like his conscience.

“Yes, I know. I spoke with Laswell. I mean, are you all right?”

“Been better.”

His uniform is dusty, and his boots are covered in mud. There is a slight rip on his balaclava, teasing you with a subtle view of his jawline, like a Geisha exposing her nape.

“It’s over, for now.” you try to comfort him.

There’s blood on his left sleeve—a lot of blood. He just became aware of it as well.

“Not mine.” He announces and hides it behind his back. “What’s that smell?” He repeats, trying to avoid the conversation.

“Cinnamon.”

“Ya bakin’?” He seems shocked.

“Sort of; They’re ornaments for the Christmas tree,” you say, pointing in the direction of your most recent creation.

“A Christmas tree.” He stutters, glazed eyes darting left and right, assessing the new environment.

You want to tell him that there are no booby traps here, nothing dangerous to be careful of. You want to console him that there is no need to be alerted for an ambush here, for this is a safe space. No more killing, no more death, for now. Just you two, a hideous Christmas tree, and badly shaped cinnamon-baked ornaments.

“Do you like them?” You ask reluctantly, trying to divert his attention from this week’s horrors. “I couldn’t find any cookie cutters, so I shaped them with a knife instead. I tried to make them look pretty, but some came out broken.”

“Aren’t we all?” he mumbles as he walks towards the Christmas tree.

“Aren’t we all exactly what, lieutenant—pretty or broken?” you ask, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Pretty broken, kid,” he whispers as he picks up a shattered ornament. “Pretty damn broken.”

———————————————————————

Next ->

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #simon riley #cod mw2 #cod ghost

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nexility-sims · 4 months

Text

𝐍𝐎. 𝟗 (𝟐/𝟐) ❛ 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚 ❜ | NAKAWE PALACE, DEC. 1990

❧ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 / 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

❛ Leonor had been a silent observer of her parents’ marriage for as long as she could remember. Endlessly, like an infinite spool, it unraveled. That was how she understood it: her mother spun, but she never reached an end. Leonor hadn't wanted to cast her father as a villain, but she knew his fingers were the ones tugging and yanking and pulling the thread. Those parental arguments were integral to the soundscape of her childhood. She could close her eyes and hear their voices still locked in a discordant, overlapping loop—muffled, underwater. Of course, sometimes they did argue in the open. They all behaved in a choreographed fashion when that happened. The children shrunk and quieted; the parents grew loud and frenetic. The setting didn’t matter. Her parents could fight over breakfast, in the gardens, in cars and planes, on the telephone, as they arrived at events or departed them. They bickered in public on rare occasions. On the most infamous of such occasions, they shouted, shoved, slapped.

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

❧ can you believe it ????? that's a wrap on episode one !!!!! come sunday, we're moving on to episode two .... of twenty, lmao. sure this is very unfortunate and sad but i think it's also very fun and cool that leonor broke up with her boyfriend in this room then had a romantic evening with her other boyfriend in this room many years later

The causes for arguments varied, but Leonor suspected an underlying flaw: they were meant to be apart but couldn’t escape each other. Her mother had ritualized throwing away her ring. She would rip it from her finger and send it clattering. A new fight began, invariably, because she made a show of it. Still, it would come back. ‘ It’s a piece of you, ’ Rodrigo would say, somehow earnest in his self-satisfaction. ‘ It has a piece of your spirit. It will return to you like your animal. ’ Safya had not been a true believer all of the time, but that resonated with her as it did with Leonor, ever an eavesdropper. Marriage was sacred and, anyway, they shared blood. Safya’s spirit was in the ring she wore, and it would—like any animistic entity, a dog or a monkey or a vulture—find her wherever she went. And, even if the ring lost its power, their children never would.

Her father accepted desultory exiles away from the estate when the ring went away and yet, within a fortnight, with the children who bore their blood as witnesses, it returned. They reconciled. Her mother had her own saying during those reunions: ' I loved you once. I'll love you again. I'll always love you. '

On the night Safya died, Rodrigo called his daughter on a police telephone. He wept as he spoke. Leonor would have demanded to come to the marina, but he asked it of her first. It was his devastation that greeted her upon arrival. Standing in the doorway of the car, he shielded her from the flashbulbs. They walked with arms interlocked toward the silent crowd at the harbor’s edge. At the time, Leonor had been in a daze as she heard his voice in her ear. It occurred to her later that he had been murmuring, broken and desperate, ‘ I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Nora. I’m sorry. I’m sorry— ’

TRANSCRIPT:

[L] There you are.

[A] I came as fast as I could.

[L] I want to talk, but I’m not sure what to say. [A] Nerves? We don’t have to talk.

[L] No, we do. Before the funeral. [A] Sure.

[L] I’m grateful for you. Really, I am. You’ve been so kind.

[A] You don’t have to thank me. I love you. [L] Don’t tell me that. [A] What? It’s true. I— [L] Can I continue?

[L] Last night, this morning, whenever it was, I was thinking about my parents—about what I would have changed in mama’s life.

[L] Please don’t.

[L] Thinking about them made me think about us. I decided that I don’t want there to be an “us” anymore. [A] I don’t understand. What does that mean?

[L] We have to break up. I need to be alone. [A] What? Why? [L] Please don’t make me repeat it. [A] Leonor, this doesn’t make any— [L] {tearfully} Please.

[A] Okay. [L] You’ll go? [A] I won’t argue with you. Certainly not today.

[A] And, I won’t attend. If you want to talk later— [L] I don’t think I will, but thank you. [A] I’ll pray for you. For her.

{Footsteps receding}

{Leonor sobs}

#ts4 story #sims story #sims 4 story #ts4 royalty #sims 4 royalty #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 royal family #royal sims #simblr #ts4 legacy #1992.story.post #1992.a1 #1992.ep01

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teethkid67 · 6 months

Text

you begin your sunday on the couch, dress shoes still on, with a headache and a handful of stale gummy worms from the party last night. schlatt begins his with a cigar, and quackity starts with his arm as an ashtray. fundy is outside picking shotgun shells and fireball bottles out of the grass before you've even had time to say good morning.

it is not a good morning. dark like chew tobacco and slow as tar you realize no-one is coming to save you anymore. quackity won't look you in the eye, but he bites his cheek to keep his grin down as his gaze roams the walls like he can't wait to tear the place apart.

schlatt is the first to take something off the wall: an old, ugly painting wilbur picked up at a homegoods a million years ago. something he surely never gave much of a shit about, but you still flinch when schlatt lifts it from the nail and instructs you to get a garbage bag. but you fetch one and hold it open for him and then, when you put up no fight, and fundy is still outside, and quackity is still all shark smile, he tells you to start cleaning.

that is what it takes for them to begin picking your house to the bones. its methodically at first, dumping old takeaway boxes and draining vodka bottles, then harsh and uncaring like a flood or a struggle, toppling lamps and breaking mirrors. you dutifully pick up solo cups and half-empty pretzel bags and just as dutifully ignore anything that's not evidence of a party. eventually this catches up with you when schlatt tells you to kick it into fuckin' gear, kid, and jerks his chin at the fucking telephone of all things, this place isn't gonna clean itself.

a few minutes later quackity hands you an armful of everything that used to be pinned to your white fridge, looking a little sheepish but frankly not all that guilty. an old worksheet of fundy's is whats at the top of the stack, sunbleached from the window above the sink and with a broken chunk of now-gummy magnet stuck to the page.

WRITE about a time you had to make a difficult decision, it reads in big letters. explain what the decision was and what choice you made. At the top is a big, circled 100.

report cards and sticky notes and novelty magnets are joined by your vomit in the big bin at the curb. with your hands on your knees you take inventory. theres a box of shampoo and soap bars taken from the bathroom, and a bag of bedsheets and pillowcases. theres schlatt's car in your driveway and it makes your heart jackrabbit. wilbur doesn't drive. even if he did, his car wouldn't be out front.

you go back inside and take on the rest of the house with a newfound sense of numbness—emptying your stomach had probably helped. fundy has appeared again, and you help him bag up the books that schlatt had swiped off the mantle to make room for his shotgun. no matter what you do, he won't say a word to you.

eventually you are both led by an eager quackity to the backyard shed, where he hands you a hatchet and fundy a hacksaw and tells you to take down the fence.

schlatt says no more fence, he says, why would we need a fucking fence? so we gotta take the stupid thing down.

you swallow your pride with globs of spit and swing for the support beams so fundy, who quickly abandoned the hacksaw, can tear out the boards with his bare hands. he's mad, if the look on his face and the way he pries at the panels are any indication. at who is anyones guess. you're starting to think it might not be schlatt. quackity arms himself with a chainsaw and has a great, violent time laughing and breaking the wood into manageable sizes for your fireplace.

schlatt comes to lean against the railing on your raised porch and watches the three of you work, smoking what you think is his third cigar of the day. in his other hand is tommy's favorite glass, about a third full with whiskey and ice.

he and quackity shout over the roar of the chainsaw about next steps; living room paint color, new sheets for the bed, what to make for dinner. your arms shake and the afternoon sky darkens with clouds. when the temperature drops and the sky begins to spit down rain, schlatt and quackity duck inside with a shout to finish up out there.

by the time the fence is gone, the sun has set behind the woods, you're soaked to your skin, and your fingers are blue with cold and red with blood blisters. you collapse on the couch–the same one you've slept on for almost as long as you can remember–and shut your eyes against a living room you no longer recognize. fundy disappears into his bedroom and comes back in a set of dry clothes. quackity frowns and tells you to get up, you'll ruin the upholstery, then offers you a slice of mostly-cold pizza.

you slide to sit on the floor instead and pick the onions and bell peppers off the piece of pizza. your stomach turns. thuds and bangs echo through the house, and then its a terrible jerky screech as schlatt and quackity drag wilbur's old executive desk down the hall and through the front door. the corners dig lines into the linoleum and papers and knickknacks are strewn through the whole house.

there's tax records in there, you say, watching a wheat penny skid beneath the couch. they're in the second drawer on the left. and probably the deed, too.

schlatt makes a dismissive noise. don't need 'em. he doesn't say anything else, so you don't either.

as they're turning it through the front door, you watch schlatt grab a silver ring from a rolled-open drawer. he turns it over in his hand before passing it to quackity, who slips it on his finger and examines it under the light. don't get any ideas, honey, schlatt grumbles, and quackity squawks something about schlatt running out on him as they push the desk the rest of the way through the door. they both cackle as it tumbles down the front porch stairs.

you lean forward to pick up an old microwave manual and a receipt for a goodwill donation. for a moment, you can almost pretend you're just spring cleaning while wilbur files your stupid taxes; tommy shredding shit you don't need anymore and threatening to shove your fingers into the blades; fundy sorting grocery receipts. then schlatt slams the front door shut, and the house shakes, and they laugh the whole way down the hall to wilbur's room, quackity still watching the ring sparkle as he turns his hand this way and that. their conversation grows muffled behind the locked bedroom door.

you stare down the hall from your place on the floor. the rain rattles against the house. there're splinters in your hands. you feel like you missed your opportunity to cry about it all, so you finish your pizza instead, even the crusts. then you pull yourself to you feet, socks squelching in your dress shoes, and grab another trash bag and your hoodie from the coat closet.

slowly, you creep through the front door and down the steps, past schlatt's pontiac, and begin hunting through the bags and piles of your whole life for anything you can save.

#block party #things i make #dsmp #dream smp #tubbo #dream smp fanfiction #i dont write that often anymore and this is only a second draft bjt honestly thats more than i used to do anyway so. im pleased enough #happy november 16th heres a piece about manberg beginnings in block party #second person pov #my writing

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nelkcats · 1 year

Text

Hood Assistant

Prompt Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Next Ao3

Part 4

-----

Hate is born from fear, and rebellion from curiosity, so what is love born from?

--------------------

Jonathan Crane wasn't always a clinically insane villain, or that's what he tells himself inside his cell; he was a brilliant scientist, and everything was going perfectly until the conflict of morality entered his practices.

It was just a couple of people, there are millions of them. Crane saw no problem in subjecting his own co-workers to his new invention "fear gas" and it was a success! for a few minutes at least; and then he was accused of so many absurd things that he can't be bothered to try to remember.

The worst part was not that, but the thousands of eyes that always watched him from the window, reddish eyes judging the center of his soul, those damn feathered creatures that mocked him, since he was a child he could remember the flying rats circling around him, he hated them!

Always there, always watching, judging, judging, judging, yelling loudly, laughing at him, Crane had had enough; even when "Scarecrow" was born he tried to drive them away, that was the whole purpose of the damn body protection, the research suit of him, but even during his last fight with batman they were there. The "Robins" themselves caused him dislike because they alluded to those flying monsters.

Finally he could get rid of them, he had decided to share his research to the world by testing it on humans in the past, when he still cared about general opinion; That was apparently disapproved, however if he got rid of the airborne pests it should be better right?

"I am a genius!" Crane exclaimed between laughs as he walked through the desolate streets of Crime Alley, his escape was not difficult at all, there were as many corrupt guards in Arkham as there were in the police, only one of his men got the job and before anyone knew it he was free.

He had made up his mind, if he could combine his research and get rid of those flying beasts it would all be worth it, literally two birds with one stone! a little infection in the legs of one of them and not even Batman could stop him.

"I have to get close to those things, though," Scarecrow muttered in disgust, watching the crows watching him from the telephone wires, "I suppose sacrifices must be made for human progress."

From the top of a telephone tower, a light-eyed crow watched the villain curiously, flapping its wings and following him through the streets. It was normal since he wasn't an adult yet so most things made him curious, a few days ago he had followed a bright red helmet and he fed him, he assumed it would be the same situation.

"Sacrifice, sacrifice," the crow exclaimed, echoing Crane's words, albeit in a slightly broken way.

"That's right, sacrifices" although he was reluctant to agree, Scarecrow nodded "now where was my safe house? I had one around here"

With easy steps, not caring too much about the fact that he was a fugitive at the time, Crane headed toward a mostly abandoned apartment complex, he recalled setting up a safe house on the spot.

"Here it is!"

—-------

"Ugh, Cujo turn off the alarm," Danny muttered, tiredly rolling over on his bed, and trying to put a pillow over his ears.

Failing to accomplish his task, he gave up and removed the pillow, getting up and trying to open his eyes to focus on his surroundings. Even though it was mostly dark in his room, ghost powers were quite useful when it came to night vision.

"Johnny what the hell are you doing here?" The half questioned seeing not only Cujo sleeping next to him but also a blond ghost glowing like a radioactive pit in the middle of his room. He wondered if he was watching him sleep but ended up dismissing the thought, Johnny would get bored doing that.

"I came to notify you and this is how you pay me?" the ghost asked, offended, he'd hung up on his late night call with Kitty and all.

"Notify me what?" The doubtful boy questioned as he petted the ghost dog, which instead of waking up just rolled to the side reluctantly "and how did Cujo not wake up with all that noise? Did you set an alarm?"

"No, it's all over the city" Johnny sighed, although he didn't need sleep he liked to "Something about a place called Arc Ham, an escape, I didn't quite understand what they were talking about"

"Uh, I don't know what they mean either" the halfa frowned and checked his phone, it was 4:42 in the morning and he had an unread message.

Early Meeting - Jason

Johnny moved closer to read because privacy in the apartment was apparently optional, or so Danny thought wearily.

"Oh, he wants to see you early? More time for you to fantasize about your life together and your future cat" the blond scoffed.

"Shut up Johnny, I still have to ask Hood about his relationship, I'm not breaking up a couple" Danny said resignedly, he really needed to confirm that.

Deciding that it wasn't really possible for him to go back to sleep he stretched and yawned, maybe it would be a good start to his day early.

"Let's go have breakfast, it's going to be 5 o'clock anyway and I don't think we'll sleep with all that noise" he commented leaving his room and going to the living room of the apartment, to be part of an abandoned building in one of the worst places from the city it was quite spacious; Of course, both Technus and Danny made some improvements, avoiding touching the strange room in the back.

"Sure Hun, I could use some ecto" the ghost followed him, letting the pup sleep for a bit longer.

When they turned on the kitchen lights, something began to knock on the door. It seemed that they were trying to open it, the ghost and the halfa looked at each other doubtfully.

"Sacrifice, sacrifice!" The voice of a crow was heard outside.

—----------

"What do you mean Scarecrow escaped from Arkham, Replacement?" Jason questioned with annoyance as he walked through his apartment, a couple of hours ago he had finished his rounds on Crime Alley and it turns out that he couldn't sleep because he had a crazy person on his streets.

"Yes, he is in your territory so we decided not to interfere until we told you first" Tim said, his relationship with his older brother was strained at best.

"Don't you dare invade, I'll take care of him." Jason frowned, he didn't need the whole gang in his house.

"It'd be safer if we could go now, Little Wing-" Dick tried to reason.

"No, I'll take care of him" Jason stated again.

"Fine, but let us know if you need backup" Dick sighed, there was no reasoning with his little brother when he was like that, he was too stubborn.

"It's too early anyway, he's probably hiding, Crane is dramatic enough to wait until dark." Jason sighed reluctantly, waving goodbye and disconnecting the communications.

"It's better if I gather the gang earlier, don't you think, beautiful?" He questioned bending down and stroking Dog's head affectionately, although at first he was going to leave the pitbull at a shelter, he had grown fond of her.

Deciding that this was the best course of action he sent a message to all the "Hoodlins" or whatever they decided to call themselves that week for an earlier meeting. It was better to coordinate a delivery of gas masks in the community, for any mishap. Just in case Crane decided to go even crazier than usual.

"At least they didn't ask about the helmet" he hummed uncertainly, technically there was nothing wrong, but after a confrontation with a gang and some baseball bats it ended up being dented, his communications were pretty affected.

He could quickly repair it in the Batcave but he refused to set foot in the place before the weekly meeting Alfred forced them to attend. He decided to check it out in the afternoon, he was pretending to be just "Jason" and could claim that the Hood was looking for Crane, which wasn't a lie.

In the worst case he would call Babs to alert the bats if he ran into Scarecrow while he was camouflaging himself as a "civilian", he hated being rescued but it was unlikely to happen.

He couldn't be that unlucky, right?

—-------

"Uh, I wonder if it's the owners calling," Danny muttered under his breath as the door kept swinging.

Deciding to ignore the strange phenomenon for now (what could happen to them? They were already dead) he passed a container of ecto to Johnny while he poured himself a coffee, with radioactive green foam of course.

"Didn't food used to come alive when you did that?" questioned the ghost looking at the coffee uncertainly, he had fought alive hot dogs before and didn't find it a fun experience.

"Not in such small quantities, my parents had a full fridge; it's like comparing putting a drop of acid in water with putting a drop of water in acid" the halfa commented nonchalantly, all of his ectoplasm was arranged to isolate itself from food and being properly protected, the radiation was basically nil.

"Right." Johnny internally wondered if no one had called child protection or OSHA, but looking at the boy who was literally a foot from the grave he figured it was too late.

The ghost decided that it was better to change the subject before going into an existential crisis about his friend/ex/roommate with little sense of survival and unsafe home, Danny was not a Fenton anymore after all. Luckily he remembered an important question that Kitty had asked him earlier.

"Hey Danny, if you didn't have money to pay for an apartment when you got here, how did you get this place?" Johnny questioned curiously as the thought came to his mind again, he remembered the halfa complaining about it, and Kitty was curious too.

Danny didn't answer and just looked away, which made the blonde suspicious.

"Danny?" he asked again

"Maybe there was an empty apartment in good condition and I just...occupied it" the halfa replied, drinking his coffee and trying to get out of the conversation.

"DID YOU STEAL AN APARTMENT?" The ghost exclaimed in surprise.

"Well, it's not stealing if no one is claiming it" the boy defended himself.

"Weren't you supposed to be the hero?" Johnny questioned in dismay.

"No, I'm retired," Danny shrugged.

Johnny looked at the boy again, trying to connect the current image with the teenage hero he remembered, guessing he had simply slipped more to the gray side of things.

Was it his fault? He questioned himself for a few seconds before remembering all the boy's influences in his life and denying, no, Danny definitely had worse examples.

"Actually there is a room that we decided not to check for that reason, it felt weird" commented the halfa looking at the end of the corridor "Technus said it was creepy and I left it alone"

"Aren't you curious what can scare even a ghost?" The blond asked, now he wanted to explore the room.

"No Johnny, leave the place alone" Danny dismissed the comment.

"Oh come on, you can't just say there's a secret and unexplored room and forbid it" the ghost frowned, maybe he was getting carried away by the same influence of rebellion that had led him to die but he didn't care.

"I'm literally Schrödinger's cat, I don't want to be the cat that dies of curiosity too, the next thing we know I'll grow cat ears" the halfa denied, what works, works.

"Coward" the blond frowned annoyed.

"Fine, you can search the room but it will be at your own risk, okay? You have to face the consequences if something happens" Danny resigned himself to letting Johnny discover whatever was in there, he didn't care so much but maybe it would be nice to know .

"Cool!" The ghost lit up like a Christmas tree and floated to the mysterious door, opening it.

The room was quite strange, it looked like a study full of chemicals and various things, there were multiple glass bottles bubbling and had formulas on the walls; the final result, if the annotations could be trusted, it looked like some kind of spray, the ghost approached the container with curiosity. It was obvious that the place hadn't been used in a while, but someone had left a job unfinished.

"Uh, it looks like some kind of gas, I think this was a mad scientist's house" Johnny commented uncertainly as he sprayed some gas, it didn't seem to do anything, but to be fair he didn't really need to breathe, and there was no way it would affect his skin if it wasn't meant for ectoplasm.

"A gas?" Danny peeked down the hall, seeing the chem lab Johnny was in, he supposed it was ironic moving from a house with a lab in the basement to an apartment with a lab down the hall.

"Yeah, there's a trap door here, so there must be more, maybe even a basement" the ghost commented curiously, it was obvious what he planned to explore next "the gas doesn't do anything though"

"It's probably meant for humans, you don't breathe so it doesn't affect you" the halfa theorized more than determined to get away from the lab if Johnny was spraying dangerous substances all over the place.

"I guess" The ghost agreed, he was about to open the hatch when he heard the front door give way; he left the laboratory alarmed and closed the door, he could see the place when someone was not invading his temporary haunt.

"Sacrifice, sacrifice!" was heard again.

—-------

"Damn, the door is locked" after twenty minutes of pushing the apartment door Scarecrow was starting to get annoyed, he knew the place was old but this was just ridiculous.

To top it off, the number of crows that were watching him had increased, what was the point of the disguise if they were going to follow him like lost ducklings?

"Get out, get out, get out" he tried to push them away, it probably looked ridiculous, considering that the little annoyances flapped their wings and came closer, he could see in their eyes how they were judging him again, it was frustrating.

"Get out, get out, get out" the crows repeated together.

Crane's anger was building, were the damn birds kicking him out? He couldn't believe the nerve of the things, he really needed to get rid of them as soon as possible. If only the bloody door would give way.

"Shut up!" He exclaimed in annoyance, although he knew that wouldn't work.

"Shut up, shut up" repeated the crows with joy, they really were very intelligent.

Deciding to ignore the creatures he turned his attention to the door again; after all his attempts the damn thing had opened and he could access his safe house.

"Finally!" Scarecrow smiled, he just needed a few minutes in his lab and everything would be solved.

—----------

Shadow wasn't very forthcoming, unlike most concept-born ghosts who expressed their opinions freely, they preferred hiding; They could understand that most of their acquaintances had thought they were just part of Johnny and honestly they didn't care. Because as stupid as it sounds bad luck marveled at love, and he learned the most important thing: to spend your existence learning by your Soulmate's side, protecting and caring for them was worth it.

And maybe it was true, that nothing and no one was immune to falling in love, platonic or romantic; and as is well known, everyone does stupid things for love.

So, you can understand why as soon as Shadow felt danger near their haunt, they decided to check the surroundings; Johnny would probably wake up soon but it was more important to ensure the safety of his light. Their obsession might not be protection like the halfa's, but they were going to vanish before leaving the blond unprotected against an unknown threat.

They found it curious to see a man in a strange costume on the streets. At first they thought it was a ghost but they couldn't feel any ectoplasm inside him. Curiously, they hid within the nearby shadows. It was probably for that reason that the strange term attracted many crows, it was said that they were the symbol of bad luck and they honestly liked them.

"Sacrifice, sacrifice" sang one of the younger crows approaching, Shadow couldn't help but get out of the shadows and approach the little thing, instead of moving away the crow flew towards them and snuggled into their arms, or what was supposed to be their arms.

The disguised stranger continued to walk away, the crows that had surrounded them at the beginning seemed to take more interest in the disguise and decided to follow him. That was probably better, the human was talking to himself, which could teach the birds more, after all Shadow preferred not to talk at all.

Seeing that there was no more danger, they decided to go back to their haunt companions, the weird guy followed by crows didn't seem like a threat so they could go back to Johnny and make sure the surroundings were safe again. With the goal in mind they walked away with the raven in their arms.

—------------

"Shadow?" questioned Johnny curiously seeing his partner at the door, his thoughts about the strange lab almost forgotten, "what do you have there?"

"Sacrifice! Sacrifice!" exclaimed the crow in the ghost's arms, flying around the apartment.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no more pets in this apartment" Danny immediately shook his head upon seeing the little bird singing "much less sadistic pets"

"The only pet we have here is Cujo" Johnny claimed, offended.

Danny decided not to mention that taking care of both Johnny and Shadow was equivalent to taking care of two more pets, because they required almost the same as Cujo: food and attention. Well, more Johnny, Shadow was pretty quiet and didn't demand anything.

"Uhu, we're not adopting a crow." Danny rolled his eyes at the pleading eyes of both ghosts.

“Crow! Crow!” Exclaimed the excited crow.

"But he's so smart, and he's a quick learner" the blonde said "Let's not adopt him, just let him stay around often, please?"

"Please, please!" It seemed that the crow itself was begging, so the halfa sighed.

"Fine, we'll let him go, but he can climb out the window if he chooses and we'll feed him." Danny said, it was obvious he was going to have another pet to take care of.

"Excellent!" Johnny looked at Shadow expectantly, Shadow simply nodded, clapping their hands and hugged the blond before merging back to their original place "Shadow agrees too"

“Gree, Gree" the crow was learning too many words and sounds.

"You're a very smart crow aren't you?" Danny called the bird that had landed on his head "I'll call you Poe."

"Poe! Poe!" The crow moved over his head and flew to his shoulder.

"Fine, but I have to go to work in a few minutes anyway, Johnny don't wake Cujo up, and if anything happens call me okay?" The halfa couldn't help but go to get ready for work, probably a little better than he should.

"The Twinkcito is lost" Johnny laughed as he sat down next to the crow that was now perched on the sofa "I'm sure he dressed up too much to go see Jay"

"Twi!Twi!cito!" Poe tried to get the word out.

"Yes, Twinkcito head over heels in love," Johnny encouraged him.

"Love love!" Poe exclaimed proudly.

When Danny ran out of the apartment, after spending too much time considering what he should wear, Johnny decided not to comment on how his little visitor had followed him.

—-----------

"Sorry, am I too late?" Danny hurried to meet Jason at the right place, he had come running because it took him too long to decide what to wear, which was a little ridiculous when he ended up wearing the same jacket Johnny gave him in reverse.

"No, you're just in time, I was going to make the announcement" Jason smiled a little relieved, he had been scared that some of his men were missing "Okay, listen up"

He raised his voice to get the attention of most of the people gathered, although it didn't have as much effect as the moment a crow landed on his head, Jason looked at him strangely, but decided to ignore it as Danny waved the crow off.

"Scarecrow escaped last night" Jason continued, grunts were heard from the crowd "yeah, I'm not excited either, but we'll spend today handing out gas masks around Crime Alley, okay?"

After a general agreement he turned to Danny who was looking at the crow in a panic "Are you okay?"

"Ah, yes, perfectly, yes" the halfa replied a little upset.

"Twinkcito! Twinkcito!" Poe exclaimed happily.

"Johnny" Danny growled as he heard the crow.

"I suppose it's yours?" Jason chuckled but tried to cover it up by coughing, which didn't have much of an effect when Danny saw his betrayal.

"It's not mine, my roommate brought it and he's been following us but I thought he'd leave as soon as I got out of the apartment" the boy sighed.

"I guess he's taken a liking to you, what do you think about joining us today buddy?" Jason questioned patting the crow's head, though he wondered if he should look up more about that Johnny.

"Love! Love!" The crow exclaimed excited.

They both stared at the crow's words for a few seconds, Danny was the first to look away embarrassed, he was going to find out how to kill Johnny twice. One word shouldn't cause you to instinctively look at someone damn it.

"Right." Jason cleared his throat and led Danny over to the gas masks he had collected for these occasions, most of the goons were grabbing their own bag but since he was technically still a suspect, and fairly new, he had decided to join the boy for the task.

The morning passed quickly as Danny followed Jason carrying a bag of the masks that they were handing out together through Crime Alley. In general it seemed that Jay was focusing on the children, it was common for them to change places so he was worried that his companions would not reach them in time. The crow had moved away a while ago.

Danny greeted the kids who had arrived last time and they asked when he would be back at the soup kitchen.

"Well, I don't eat much, but if it's for work, probably next week" the halfa admitted.

Both Jason and the children looked at him uncertainly. Jason wondered if he should raise his pay since he hadn't given him any money yet, so maybe he didn't have food; or whether he should prepare refreshments for him. The children were more direct.

"Don't you eat much? Don't you have food at home?" A surprised girl questioned.

"Yes, I have food, although today I only had coffee for breakfast" Danny shrugged "my friend makes sure I eat something during the day, I usually forget about it"

Jason frowned at the answer, so the problem wasn't money.

"You're going to have breakfast with me on the days we work together" the vigilante pointed out, probably more demanding than he intended.

"Huh? Okay" Danny blushed, thinking that Jay had indirectly asked him out "Won't Hood have a problem with that?"

"Why would he?" Jason looked at Danny doubtfully. "I'm pretty sure he'll feed you as soon as I mention it to him."

The children looked at each other and after a quick conversation where Danny assured that he was not starving, they said goodbye. Each one with a mask in hand and a new tidbit about "Jay, the new guy and Hood"

After a while of distributing the masks Danny decided to ask.

"Jay, what's a Scarecrow?"

"Right, you're new to Gotham" Jason reminded "he's a recurring villain, he likes to scare people with fear gas"

"Oh" Danny remembered the lab at home "green gas?"

"Not necessarily, I really don't know what color it will be as he updates the formula." Jason was pretty sure Crane preferred purple for some reason.

"And by any chance he wears a Scarecrow mask and dresses weird?" Danny questioned looking across the street in a bit of a panic.

"Yeah, how did you know?" Jason asked curiously.

"Sacrifice! Sacrifice!" The crow flapping in front of them in a panic, Jason noticed that Danny was reaching into the bag.

It was at that moment that a building exploded behind him and Jason could hear Crane's characteristic laugh from across the street. He was relieved that he hadn't noticed them until Scarecrow fixed his gaze on the crow near them.

"Finally, I will get rid of those monsters and fear will rule all of Gotham!" Crane exclaimed with glee, laughing as the gas began to spread out down the street.

Jason cursed his luck, the only day the mad scientist had preferred to attack in the middle of the damn afternoon and he didn't have his weapons or his helmet with him "Danny you have to get out of here"

"No" Danny continued searching, but at the end of the bag he could only find a mask "you have to get out of here and gather the others"

Jason fixed his gaze on the approaching gas, Crane closing in on them too fast, driven to get rid of the crow next to them.

"Danny, the masks" Jason was cursing, he had to be stuck as a civilian.

"There's only one left" the halfa murmured worriedly.

Before Jason could say anything else, the gas was beginning to spread until almost reaching his face, he turned to Danny in a panic when he felt a weight on his nose.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You've never faced fear gas before, you have no resistance!" Jason exclaimed in concern, trying to remove Danny's hands from his face where he had put the only gas mask on.

No matter how hard he tried to struggle, the boy had more strength than he appeared. Jason didn't have time for pretty boys with a hero complex, it was too dangerous.

"Love! Love!" The crow exclaimed in panic, rising to where the gas was not reaching.

"Yeah, I'm probably being an idiot, I know." Danny was aware of that, he didn't know how his own unique physiology would react to the gas, but he could handle Frighty's dimension, and if anything happened he would at least know that Jay would be safe. His core couldn't bear to leave someone in danger, much less someone he likes.

"Now is not the time to be a hero!" Jason complained angrily when the boy adjusted the mask on his face, he could see Danny being surrounded by the damn gas.

"I'm not a hero Jay" Danny denied, it had been a long time since he was one, he swallowed looking around, not knowing what to expect "But I know some people are worth going crazy for"

Was he being a hopeless romantic? Yeah; logically he knew he could have gotten rid of the effects another time where he was paying more attention, there were many solutions: not breathing, surrendering to his ghost form, becoming intangible, but as he had mentioned earlier, he was a fool; he could feel his head start to cloud over, he had gasped in reflex panic, he was scared of not finding a mask for Jay and he forgot about himself, it was too late.

"Damn," Jason growled as he pressed the button that called Oracle, he held Danny close to his body as he saw him start to tremble "fuck, fuck."

"Jason? What's wrong?" Barbara's voice sounded shaken, it was early for anyone in the family to call, and Jason calling was rare.

"Crane, I'm engaged, tell the bats to hurry up or I swear I'll shoot him in the head" he said annoyed "he's not paying attention to me but I'm in front of him, I'll hide in a nearby alley, tell them to hurry up fucking immediately"

Oracle hastened to call the bats tracking his current location as Jason walked off into one of the nearby alleys, leading a trembling Danny along with him.

"You're an idiot" he murmured sadly, hugging the boy; he held him when the boy couldn't stand up and began to mutter in panic.

He knew there wasn't much he could do, he had a gun hidden in his thigh but if he killed Crane he would have another argument with B, and he was honestly not in the mood, he didn't want to leave Danny alone either.

"They better hurry up, damn it" even though he knew there was no point getting upset, he couldn't help it, he was aware that it would take a while for the bats to even process an antidote for Scarecrow's new formula.

"No wait, don't leave me alone" Danny stirred where he was still nestled in his arms, Jason stroked his back lovingly.

"Shh, its okay, you're not alone, I'm here" the vigilante knew it was useless, most of the victims of the fear gas were not aware of their surroundings, but he needed to do something to console the stupid man who decided to jump into an unknown danger for him, who did not think twice before deciding that he was worth it.

"You make it very difficult to suspect you, you know?" Jason sighed "I think I grew fond of you too, Doll."

And really, this guy was unfair, how could Jason resist falling for this asshole?

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Aaand tag time, sorry for all the wait, honestly it was a bit of a difficult week but I wasn't going to let the week go by without an update so here we are, I hope you liked it (Hi Nixxie), I don't know how I keep accidentally making my chapters bigger but hey, I was really excited to write this scene and here we are, I hope this story doesn't go too fast for you, tell me your theories about the lab or anything else haha

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