#now the studs 😔

[laundrycephalopod]

@el-im I got my earring!!

[dinamaliha]

My friends, who did not evacuate to the south with me, refused to send me pictures of the complete destruction of our home in the north, fearing it would shock and sadden us over my father's suffering. They only sent this picture.,I remain convinced that I am in a nightmare from which I have yet to awaken. I wait to wake up in our demolished home, a place we obtained after much hardship and struggle. I long to call my martyred friend to stroll through the devastated streets of the camp, greeting the martyrs and the roads, smiling at the children who fell in battles far greater than their tender bodies could endure. I return to the emptiness of the house, but the magnitude of the details I witness each day exceeds the lifespan of a dream, indeed exceeding my own lifetime. Our home, my friend, the camp, and dozens of children have fallen, and with them, my smile. Now, my only dream is to survive with my family, reunite with my father, and start our lives anew, far from war, destruction, and death. This will be possible with your support and generosity, my friends.💔😔🫂

[grugruel]

I am-- in DESPERATE need of Prewar cooper Howard FILTHY smut. Taking his Co-star in his trailer on set on a hot summer's day and they're both sweaty and needy and he's got a FILTHY mouth on him. maybe she plays the damsel in distress and he can't get over how good she looks all tied up 🔥 she definitely enjoys teasing him but takes it too far,, poor cooper 😔😏

Yessss, currently feeling feral, so this was perfect. Did my best, hope you love it🫶

Quiet on set

Pairings: pre-war!Cooper Howard x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: wrapping yet another movie together, these co-stars take out their constant tension in Coopers trailer.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: (acted violence and death), pinv sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, edging, lap-riding, cowgirl, doggy, bratty reader, petnames (sweetheart, princess, girl, woman), praise, slight degradation, choking (blink and you'll miss it).

AN: Currently working through my requests, it might take some time for those of you that sent them in! But I appreciate you all, thank you!!

I could feel that heavy, star-studded aura bearing it's weight down on me, his eyes ransacking every part of my body as he awaited his cue. Through the blinding stage lights, just out off frame, he stood hungry, hands white-knuckling his belt and teeth sinkong into his bottom lip.

'Help! Somebody please save me!' I cried out, the rattling railroad tracks cool beneath my body. The air stuffy and clammy, the mid summer heat penetrating the studio walls. Truly making the desert set come alive.

Enter The Man from Deadhorse, walking into the picture with his signature gait, spurs jingling and eyes acting as he stared my captor down. Heat practically burning in his gaze when he delivered the infamouse line, "Feo, fuerty, y formal."

Although, a growing suspicion resided–perhaps it was not acting at all, but rather me, that had him ignite that way.

The bang of a revolver shot out, hitting the antagonist right between the eyes as a result of an experienced and deadly aim.

Dignified indeed.

I yelped, making my eyes big with shock. 'You came!' And then let a relived smile soften my expression.

The sound of a charging train began rolling, a billowing steam engine and a piping whistle thundering along a busy railroad. But it was no worry anymore, I was to be saved.

The sheriff's attention–his starved eyes, switched to me, and my bound form.

Swiftly, he moved over the dusty desert set in his blue and yellow getup. In a second of harrowing anticipation, placed in clever calculation to have the viewers at the edge of their seats, he loomed over me, that infamous gaze following every curve of my body. The rope circling me in such a way it accentuated my goods, and what the cameras did not see, was a ravenous smirk on the hero's lips–holding a silent promise ment only for me.

In a flashy movement, he cut the rope from my body and pulled me off of the tracks and into his embrace, the camera panning to us as the sound of the train just missing our bodies passed by the frame.

'Don't worry sweetheart, you're safe now.' He purred, voice drawling with that trademark smile accenting his lips, lips that only a second later collided with my own in a strong, righteous kiss-

'CUT!' A voice bellowed, and the set bustled to life with congratualations and handshakes as they were traded between the crew and cast, celebrating yet another wrap.

But his lips had stayed on mine for a second or two too long, and I had to pull away. Gasping for air, pretending that we simply hadn't heard the call over the ruckus.

'My trailer in 10 minutes, honey. Don't be late. . . I got a surprise for you.' He whispered in my ear, disguising our continued embrace as a friendly, celebrating hug. A hug with a condensed, slap off the ass–hard enough to sting, quiet enough to go undetected.

And with a wink, he was off. Chatting and laughing while coworkers patted his back with him returning the gesture. Meanwhile I myself became wrapped up in party-ready colleagues of my own. But the partying would have to wait, I had somewhere far more fulfilling to be.

I hadent been able to keep the 10 minute mark, the cast and crew had stuck around for longer than I'd thought. Which made sneaking to his trailer all the more difficult, but I managed. Eventually.

I opened the door to a dark, even hotter cabin, no movement or noise that I could detect. But the second I shut that door behind me, he revealed himself.

'There you are. . .' A low voice growled from the shadows. Then there was a sound of groaning threads, a woosh, and I was captured. A lasso had been thrown around my body, pinning my arms to my sides as I was blindly pulled into the depths of the darkness, and collided with something, strong, something hard. 'You kept me waitin' princess. Fame gone to your head already?' The words were breathed against my cheek, puffs of his sultry breath warming my already damp skin deliciously.

'I imagine I'll be on your level soon.' I hooked my index fingers through his belt loops, eyes adjusting to the dark as I pullied him closer with what little movement I was allowed. 'Now, I want my surprise.' I pouted, brushing my lips along his, the features of his face clearing up like the sea after a storm.

'This is it.' He flexed the rope between his fingers, feeling its coarse texture. Taking my bottom lip between his teeth and tugged.

'My surprise is a . . . rope?' I could't hide the sound of disappointment from my voice. 'Should I start playing the damsel now or? Oh. . . Please Sheriff, save me!' I mocked.

'Well yes, the rope is you're surprise.' He paused. 'Now, what makes you so sure I'll play the sheriff, huh?' He tightened the rope around me to emphasize. 'Perhaps I captured you.'

'Oh?' I was truly intrigued, but sighed an overly dramatic sigh, just cause I was hoping it'd get a rise out of him. 'C'mon now, cowboy. You can do better than that–thought I was your special girl.' I teased, eyeing his dark form through my lashes as I used his own words against him.

He nudged his nose against my cheek, his lips moving into a grin along my jaw. 'You are my special girl. . .' He confirmed, voice gravely as he pressed his hips against mine, letting me feel the hardness beneath his pants. '. . .and my special girl will be fucking pleadin' when this rope has served its purpose.' The lasso was thrown into serveral more circles around my upper body, wrapping me tighter as he imitated what he'd seen on set.

'That a threat?' I groaned, his stiffness rubbing against my mound. Creating friction so wonderful I found my hips automatically flexing against his. More. I needed more.

'A promise.' He fell back onto a couch. 'You'd better start ridin' before I put that big mouth of yours to better use.' He tugged on the lasso, helping me fall into position stradeling his lap.

I settled with a whimper, my core veiled by the thin fabric of my skirt as it made direct contact with his clothed member. But with the way I was bound, he'd restricted my arms further, they were unmovable infact. I couldn't support myself, couldn't unbutton his pants. 'Can't reach. . .' I whined, frustrated that I couldn't get his fucking dick out.

He hummed. 'Mmm, serves you right, dont it?' He pulled my skirt over my hips, and grasped the rope around my waist, making a point of not touching me as he pushed me downward and pulled forward, grinding my core against the coarse fabric of his pants. 'Now, ride.' He growled, the friction affecting him as much as me. For I had a simular reaction, if not worse.

The air was sucked right out of me, but I did as he ordered. Grinding my hips into his lap, over and over again, moaning curses left and right. But however much I tried I couldn't losen my restraints, couldn't get a grip on any part of him to work myself harder against him. I was stuck in a rut of superficial pleasure, with his occasional torturing tug. I just wanted to feel him, his touch, on me, in me. I didn't care, juat somewhere.

'Touch me.' I whispered, my head lulling against his shoulder as I desperatley tried increasing the friction.

He hummed, a breathy and guttural sound as he replied, 'Starvin' already?' He leaned closer, mouth hovering just above that sweet spot on my neck.

'Yes, yes.' I placed a kiss on his throat, grateful for what he was about to bestow me-

My button-down blouse was ripped open, buttons flying everywhere with a loud clatter as they hit the floor, the expensive prop ruined too quickly. 'Plead.' His rough knuckles brushed over the beginning of my breast, as they were now bare for him.

I gasped, 'What?' lust driven confusion clouding my mind. The stifling heat didn't help my mind to clear either.

'Plead, sweetheart.' He repeated, his murmur vibrating against my skin.

It was my turn to grin, my turn to drag my exposed teeth along his jugular, my lips closing around them as I kissed his jaw tenderly. 'I dont think so.' I purred, readying myself to stand up. 'Guess I'll have to find some other man the sate my needs.' I licked a stripe along his jaw before sitting back. 'My very, very. . . Slick needs.' And scootched back, leaving a wet inprint on the convex bulge of his jeans.

But before I could do anything too drastic, he grabbed my waist, he touched me, and pulled me back into a perch. A small victory for me, but the battle wast over yet. Now, our heads leveled with eachother. 'Don't you dare.' The jealousy was evident in his tone. 'Filthy little brat. . .' He hissed, 'I can play that game too, sweetheart.' He began unbuttoning his pants with the other hand, pulling his erect member out.

And drool dripped from my mouth as I got a good view of it, but he didn't lift me up and enter me, no. That would be too merciful. He simply pushed my undergarments to the side and pulled me closer, my slick cunt sliding over his length, wetting it as he let me feel the size of him, what I could get, but wasn't allowed. 'You aint to only woman in this cast.' His mouth trailed downward, lips following the valley between my breasts, the tip of his nose and chin collecting droplets of sweat along my skin.

His words stung, and even though I knew he only said them to rile me up, they worked. I didn't answer him, didn't deign to give him any words, but carefully began moving my hips instead, easing them into a slow rocking, and the few seconds I got were jaw dropping. I hoped he somehow just wouldn't notice, foolishly enough.

He hardened his grip, holding me steady, unmovable, as if he'd bound my lower body together aswell. 'Naughty fucking brat.' He leered.

Fuck, I just needed something, anything. The aching was building within me, unadultered want for pleasure. Pleasure which only he could give me.

'Fuck. Me.' It was an order, no sign of begging in my tone.

'Plead for me, woman.' He dragged the word out, chuckling. That ravenous grin on his lips he nipped at the soft flesh of my breast.

'Cocky bastard.' I scoffed, but yielded. 'Please. Fuck. Me.' But there was no weight behind them, the words fighting to stay in my mouth, coming out strained.

He cocked his head to the side, eyes searching my own as amusement filled them. 'C'mon now, you can do better than that.' He threw my words back at me.

But the desperation was seeping through my skin, into my quaking muscles and quivering bones. 'Please, please, please. . . Fuck me, Cooper. Oh, you big, famous movie star.' I whimpered. This time, meaning every word, although some in a more mocking fashion than others.

He faced me again, grinning as he shook his head in disbelief. 'Wicked fucking woman, I'll fuck some sense into you yet.'

'I dont think you have it in you, cowboy.' It took everything in me to keep my lips from curling into a smile-

Suddenly, I found my face pushed into the soft cushions of the couch. One hand pushed me down firmer by the neck, while the other lined himself up with my entrance. He stroked the tip through my folds, teasing me torturousley slow. The aching grew so strong I thought I'd break into a million pieces right then and there. 'Please. . .' I begged, the word half a whimper. '. . .please.' I had no self restraint left, no morals or standards to keep up. I just needed him, inside me. Now.

'About, damn time.' He pushed inside of me, wasting no time by setting grueling pace that had my body shaking. Muffled moans and whimpers escaped me, there was not a thought in my mind. No room for anything but him inside me. 'Yeah? You like that? Filthy girl. . .' He groaned, his hand colliding hard with my ass. The slap ringing out through the cabin, and it was glorious.

I nodded, or did the best I could while the force of his hold constricted my movements.

He hummed again, that low titillating hum. And leaned over me, bracing himself on the forearm that held my neck. His body laying flush over mine as his hips struck into mine, deeper, harder. His lips brushed against my ear, opening his mouth to whisper-

Raised voices, approaching, shouting outside the trailer. 'Better stay quiet now, sweetheart.' He breathed, and just then, out of spite, he struck into me harder, only to see if I could keep us secret. But I wanted to scream, needed to. So, I shoved my face into the cushion, muffling my crying out.

'Thats it. . . Good girl.' He praised, moaning the words against the shell of my ear. And as the voices approached, he slowed the thrusting, keeping the depth but dimming the strength. Softening the loud lewdness of our slapping bodies. His hand slid around my front, finding me clit with easy expertice. 'Good girl.' He breathed again, kissing my earlobe. As if it was my award for doing as I was told. 'Sticking my dick in you was all I had to do to fix that attitude of yours?' His fingers began rubbing circles over my clit, stimulating my already pulsating body further.

'Yes. . .' I whimpered, 'Yes, yes, yes.' And his hand moved to my throat, placing it between my jugular and jaw, tilting my face a sliver closer to his. 'Kiss me, please.' I pleaded, and he met my lips. His hungry, hungry lips surpassing the neediness my ownas be pushed his tongue into my mouth. He tasted heavenly.

The voices had passed since long, their drunk celebrating dissapearing beyond the lot. And his thrusts grew equally hungry once again, pushing into me, hitting my spot with reverance. The pressure was building, threatening to spill over the edge with every flick of his hips. 'Close. . .' I moaned into his mouth, my breath coating his lips.

'Yeah?' He moved his lips, kissing my cheek and down my throat.

'Yeah.' I shuddered, my whimpering indicating how close I was to release. The ramping, strained breaths between us almost sent me over the edge alone, white spots flecking my lids, lightning neighing in my nerves, the wall so close to collapsing-

And he pulled out, releasing my clit and pushed himself off of me.

No, no, no, Cooper please.' I whined, the pressure dissapearing, slowly seeping out into nothingness.

'There you go, sweetheart. Now you're pleadin' properly. . .' He basked in my despair, that smug grin of his adorning his face in all it's glory. He uncircled the rope, pulled me to his chestand twisted us, making us swap positions, with me once agains tradeling him as he laid on his back below me. 'Now ride me properly too.'

Oh I was, and I would get my revenge. I pulled my blouse and skirt off, I would have him pleading and squirming when I was done with him. 'That's more like it.' His eyes ravaged my body, staying longer on my nipples and hips, and cunt. 'Pretty little brat.' His tone so self-righteous it would've made me scoff, but I played along. Snaking my body against his, I wrapped my hands around his, finally able to touch him and pinned them both above his head. Then sat up and aligned myself with his length, slowly sinking down, greedily accepting every inch as he hissed. It dulled the pain he'd left me in, his member filling me up made me whole again.

But I wasn't done yet. Leaning in, I kissed him, distracted him, and carefully grabbed the discarded lasso. He would be pleading, he would.

And after a moment I sat back up, hands on his chest. Pushing him back down as he tried to follow me. Which is when he realised, that his arms wouldn't budge.

'Mmmh. . .' He chuckled, '. . .clever girl.'

I nodded, hands tracing down his sculpted abdomen. Transfering from his body to my own, I let them roam. Moving them along my hips, waist, stumache, breasts, throat. Just watching, enjoying every second of his growing displeasure, of his twitching and leaking inside me.

'Plead, cowboy.' I sqeezed my breasts, whimpering form the feeling. 'I'd much rather have you touching me.'

His lips drew into a thin line, hips bucking into me, slithering for any movement, any stimulation. 'It must be hurting.' I murmured, 'You can end it, just plead.'

His breaths were ragged, guttural and groaning. 'Cruel, cruel woman.'

'Now you're getting it.' I smirked. 'Plead. . .'

He scoffed, eyes hard as he opened his mouth, 'Please. . .' He mustered the word through clenched teeth.

Oh it felt amazing, the word as much as his member as I began moving along it, riding him. 'Fuck.' He grunted. 'When I get loose, girl-'

I laid my index finger against his lips, shushing him. Enjoying the sound of our wet squelching, his hard breaths and my own moans. I leaned down, my body rubbing against his while I kissed his chest and made my way along his collarbone.

'Why don't you give my lips some love too, girl.' He moaned, and I figured I could give him that at least. My lips met his jaw, bushed along his lips and then-

He grabbed me, locked his arms around my torso in a grip of steel, as he thrusted into me, rocking me violently into his arms.

'You really think I've never been tied up by a lover before?' He grunted, pushing his tongue into my mouth. And just like that, the pressure was rebuilt and released, washing over me in electric waves, shocking my body and nervous system.

'Easy girl, there you go.' He held me still, pecking me with kisses wherever he reached as he let my quivering body do what it needed, he himself coming moments later with a few last thrusts. And I collapsed on top of him, the strong rise and fall of his chest helping me calm my breathing.

'Wanna go again, movie star?' I asked.

'Which position, cowgirl?' He answered.

[baby-tini]

your mikey headcannons are so GOOD!!! i love how you write his character. how do you think all timeline mikey will react to a girly gf? someone who likes pink, stuff toys, and wearing skirts, etc (i'm a 22 year old woman who likes those so 😔)

Babes, I am (now) 20 y/o and I love plushies, I have a huge collection of beanie babies (not my pic, just what they look like) and I love pink and you could wear skirts at any age frfr and thank you sm

Toman\OG Timeline- He doesn't really mind any of it, too be honest with you. He thinks it's pretty cute actually. As long as it's too over the top, because he does have a reputation too up-hold, then ask for whatever. If you want a specific stuffed animal, just let him know and he'll have someone get it for you. He likes that you dress all girly, it's cute contrast to his constant gang attire. He also may or may not let you put cute pink bows in his hair... but only in private and you have too catch him in a good mood. He also won't let you do it ever again if he finds out that you've taken pictures. (He's not being serious, but you better not show anyone because he will kill them.)

Manila- He teases you about it, but he really doesn't care. He loves seeing you in your skirts.. as long as he's the only that sees it, or else you're not allowed too where them at all. He'll do this thing where, if you misbehave he'll take your little stuffed animals away, he's done it before. Now, he won't destroy them, unless you really piss him off, but he will take them away from you. For example, if you don't give him affection, he'll have his gun pointed at the little studded plushies head. He doesn't mind all the pink, but he will tell you it's an eye sore, when in actuality, he quite enjoys the pop of color in the apartment.

Kanto- Doesn't really care, as long as there's not stuffed toys everywhere, do whatever you please. He does get a little annoyed if your shared bedroom is covered in pink however, so don't.. go crazy with the decorations. He doesn't mind the skirts, but you are made too wear shorts under them if there's anyone besides Mikey around, it also has too be to your knees and he will give you length checks if you're going out, which is already pretty rare on it's own. In these length checks, you will be told too bend over, and if, he can see your shorts, that you have too wear under it or if the shorts are too short, you are made too change and don't throw a tantrum, as he calls them, 'cause then you're not allowed too go out at all.

Bonten- Loves the little skirts, he likes too bend you over his desk, as he sits in his chair, paperwork spread messily around his desk. He just likes too run his hands up the back of your thighs, playing with the lace. Just like with Kanto though, you're only allowed too wear the skirts with him, he does take it a little further though, as in, if there's anyone is around, you can't wear the skirts at all. Not even with shorts underneath, not at all. Either you wear long shorts or pants. Doesn't mind the plushies, he'll just watch you as you sit with or play with them, the only thing about it that would annoy him about them though, is if, you show the plushies more affection or you cuddle with them and not him. That'll piss him off and he'll take them away. He doesn't mind the pink, as long as it's kept to a minimum.

Street Racer- Thinks it's the cutest thing ever, seriously. He prefers when you wear skirts, simply because he likes too keep one of his hands on your thighs all the time. He'll run his thumb over the soft skin as he just has conversations with his friends. It's not really sexual for him, he just likes too be touching you all the time and he appreciates that skin-to-skin contact. Doesn't mind or care about you having plushies, he thinks it's sweet that as an adult, you still keep your childhood- or adulthood memories in the shape of little plushies. If he wakes up and sees your little plush ha sfallen on the floor, he'll pick it up and put it back in your arms, he'll even learn all the names and refer to them with prefered pro-nouns and if they have backstories.. he's all ears baby and he's so interested, asking questions and everything.

[blueywrites]

trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears. 

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else. 

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste. 

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders. 

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions. 

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face. 

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?” 

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that. 

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying. 

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.” 

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?” 

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?” 

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'” 

“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic. 

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?”

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.” 

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.” 

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.” 

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past. 

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort. 

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him. 

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap. 

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?” 

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

 “I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition. 

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.” 

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?” 

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint. 

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.” 

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn. 

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?” 

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea. 

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.” 

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance. 

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?” 

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him. 

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.” 

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.” 

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.” 

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly. 

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?” 

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.” 

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—” 

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence. 

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away. 

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword. 

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.” 

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’ 

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention. 

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar. 

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck. 

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes. 

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

 Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!” 

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.” 

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.” 

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.” 

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?” 

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you. 

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag. 

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street. 

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?” 

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.” 

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.” 

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.” 

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.” 

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.” 

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.  

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie. 

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish. 

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

 It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence. 

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly. 

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?” 

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder. 

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all. 

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar. 

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?” 

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?” 

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” 

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head. 

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?” 

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?” 

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier. 

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way. 

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” 

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.” 

“Only if she wants to—” 

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.” 

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go. 

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient. 

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing. 

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.” 

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop. 

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?” 

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is. 

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment. 

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?” 

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you. 

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom. 

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.” 

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.” 

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing. 

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.” 

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?” 

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles. 

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

I have a couple of question-headcanons-idea thingies about Yves appearance if u don’t mind. So would Yves wear more gold or silver jewelry? Like I can’t decide whether he would have cool undertones or warm undertones. Cool undertones because of his sometimes very icy nature, steely stare and almost vampiric aspects of his nature. But also could be warm because of the motherly warmth and comfort he gives off, he reminds me of a hearth.

Also we gotta talk about how tall this man probably is like legit. Like you always describe him as tall and slender but it didn’t hit me until today that this man is probably a beanstalk. So like he was a model at one point which lets me know that he’s at the very least 6-6’3 naturally, now imagine the heels along with it, I dunno I personally think with heels he may be taller than Monty which adds to the intimidation factor.

Omg and his HAIRRR!! I always wondered what his natural hair texture is like whenever he doesn’t do blowouts. Like does he have naturally straight, wavy or even curly hair, I personally think he would have straight or slightly wavy naturally but I dunno, what r ur thoughts (if you have any, it’s okay to keep these things vague if u want)

(One day I will draw him Omg as u can see I have completely hyper fixated on him if I was reader I would be in his walls fr 😔)

Ou shid i am the opposite of minding, PLEASE DO SEND MOARR it also feeds my brain rot

anyways,

Yves only wears jewelry if it completes his look or it can aid him in manipulating people somehow.

When it comes to his outfits, he would wear silver if his clothes that day have cool undertones, and gold if it's warm and deep-toned. Yves could be your thermometer, if he knew that you're most likely to overheat that day, he would stick to cool neutrals. If it's chilly, he would don warm colors. Likewise with his choices in jewelry. Numerous other factors will determine his fashion, but the strongest influence is the weather and how he could use it to his advantage, making him much more appealing to you.

Yves's fingers are generally free of rings unless you and he were married. Then the wedding band will only leave his finger during certain situations such as performing surgery on you or cooking your meals. When he was younger, one of his favorite rings to wear was the brass knuckle. It would be a determining factor whether he beats his opponent into a bloody pulp, or he becomes one. As he grew older, he swapped that out with a quieter, secret compartment ring. A dash of whatever poison he decided to fill up that day does wonders without the mess and effort of throwing repeated punches. Perhaps you're particularly rowdy that day and wouldn't listen to reason, a little sedative would do the trick.

He does wear earrings though, mostly Diamond studded earrings because large or hanging ones would be more likely to snag on his hair and something else. He learned the existence of earlobe reattachment surgery through the hard way when he forgot to remove his hoops before a fight. But it doesn't mean he would never rock bolder styles, just rarely. During periods when he would wear his hair up, you would most likely see him wear pendant earrings that elongate the appearance of his elegant neck. Yves's extensive collection of jewelry he collected over the decade means you never see him wear the same set twice.

His height was kept vague because it would give me a lot of freedom to play with how he holds you. But just remember that he could carry you with one arm under your rear, on his hip, like a child. And to get to your eye level, he has to kneel. The height of his heels definitely depends on his goal and your personality, perhaps you're intimidated by his height. So he wears kitten pumps around you. However, to everyone else? Stilettos with red bottoms all the way.

Yves can wear flats or shoes, but why should he have to? He has worn heels for so long that it's actually much more comfortable to move in those torture devices. If you handed him a 20-inch lobster heel, Yves would walk or even run around in it as if he were wearing a pair of comfortable sneakers. His footwear must have at least a minimum of 2 inches on its heels.

If you pay close attention when he's barefoot, he's walking on his toes; he would be completely silent when moving around. But he's barely seen without some sort of footwear, even his home slippers have some height to it. This is mostly to alert you of his presence, so you won't have a heart attack whenever he greets you with a kiss on the back of your head.

His hair is implied to be naturally straight; he needed to sleep in silk curlers to look effortlessly gorgeous the next day. For the longest time, he hated his hair for not maintaining shape whenever he tried heat curling it. He wore extensions and wigs, and Yves tried shaving it all off to 'reset' his hair- that was one of the rougher patches in life he went through, he has experienced it all. Yves spent a good fortune on hairspray back then, he probably contributed greatly to the puncturing of the ozone layer. He wanted volume, he wanted structure, but he either didn't have the knowledge or the means to achieve that. Eventually, though, he learned through trial and error, through endless magazines and even research projects on how to care for his hair to look like his ideal. It's much thicker, healthier, and shinier than that of his past.

You wouldn't need to be in his walls, it's dusty there and you would get electrocuted with all the wiring in it. Yves wants you to come out so you would be in his lap, while he types away on his laptop. It's much more comfortable there, he wouldn't mind staying in the same position for hours and hours on end.

Just as long as you're fed, cleaned, using the toilet enough, and sleeping well. Yves will let you hyper-fixate on him as much as he hyperfixates on you.

But he knew that you wouldn't be able to even come close to his level of obsession towards you. And that's fine with him.

[chronically-ghosted]

title: you may be dead, but i’m still pretty

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: ~5700

summary: it’s Max’s birthday so you agree to indulge him with one of his biggest and most well-hidden fantasies: Buffy Summers. (AKA the one where you dress up as a slutty cheerleader with a stake and completely own his ass)

warnings/tags: i feel like i should send sarah michelle gellar an apology letter for this, BSDM dynamics, tying up, edging, orgasm denial, blow jobs, brief use of plugs, oral (f and m receiving), piv sex, SMUT, no use of y/n, no reader descriptions other than hair long enough to put into pigtails, max dressed as the dollar store general version of Spike (and satisfies the little goth freak inside of me), dare i tag this as btvs or should i more accurately tag it as Boofay the Vampire Layer, as you can see i had way too much fun with this

a/n: from @heareball ‘s request from my 100 followers celebration: 24. A whispered, “Fuck, can we do that again?” against the other’s lips.” with our boy Max Phillips? smutty? (your original ask got deleted! i'm so sorry 😔)

🤍Masterlist

The doorknob to the front door of the luxurious apartment rattled as someone on the other side struggled with the keys in the lock. With a squeak, the door opened and a woman stumbled through. With seemingly no one else home, you frown, confused by the darkness and the seemingly empty apartment. 

“Mom? Dawn? I’m home from cheer practice. Isn’t it supposed to be pizza night?”

No one answered you, the shadows empty and looming. Slightly more worried now, you slip your backpack off one shoulder, your hand sliding into one of the pockets. 

“Ha, ha, very funny, guys, but it’s not my birthday. You can come out now. But feel free to leave out the presents and cake.”

You sneak around to the living room, your hand wrapped firmly around your trusty weapon in your backpack, your pigtails twitching back and forth as you peer into the gloom. Nothing moves, but the shadows feel closer, heavier, darker. You pause, wait, listening, anticipating –

Something moves in the far corner of the room and then strong arms snatch you up around your elbows. You squeak, surprised and a little pissed he managed to sneak up on you, as a long, warm tongue licks up the side of your neck, fangs pinching at your earlobe.

“Slayer,” the shadow hisses, “finally, she came out to play." Oh, no, you trained for this. For six whole weeks at the Y just for this one goddamn move. 

You plant your feet just like you were taught, twisting your body in his arms to readjust his weight and you spin, throwing him over your shoulder and onto his back on the ground. Hardly giving him time to shake off the shock, you snatch up your backpack and pounce on his chest. 

Wide eyes stare up at you from beneath thick black eyeliner. Dark hair slicked back, with at least one fake silver stud in his ear, the vampire watches you with surprise and obvious arousal. Hands with black nail polish hover above your thighs, itching to sink down into your plush flesh. If he thought that was a surprise, just wait until –

You pull a stake out from your backpack and hold it above his chest. 

Behind your ass, his cock jumps awake. You suppress a giggle and force your mouth into a teasing smirk. You press the tip right into his chest and the styrofoam cracks. The vampire breathes sharply through his nose when he realizes you’re not wearing a bra beneath your “Middleton High” cheerleader’s uniform. 

“What do you have to say for yourself? For a creature of the night, you’re kinda lame.” 

Grinning, his hands drop against your thighs, thumb slipping under the edge of the white stocking under your knee, the black shirt around his chest tight and far too complimentary of his biceps. 

“And you’re just a cheerleader. Tell me, are these stockings standard regulation?” 

You shift your weight, pressing into him with your hips and the fake stake, your other hand on his chest, exactly where you put it when you ride him. His mouth drops open slightly when he feels your wet underwear through his shirt, his eyes fluttering.

“I only hunt naughty vampires,” you coo. “Are you going to behave?” 

Brown eyes slipping into a heated blackness as he squirms beneath you, two fangs descend from his upper row of teeth, his tongue licking them teasingly. God, he knows exactly what the sight of him like that does to you. 

“Depends on what you make me do.” 

You smirk and roll your hips once – he groans. “I’m going to make you be very, very naughty.” 

You slide back, out of the reach of his outstretched hands, still pointing that stake at him, and beckon him towards you. He eagerly pushes himself up, revealing that tight torso to the moonlight. You catch a glimpse of his tight black jeans for the first time all night and your mouth waters. You can definitely see the hot outline of his cock, bulging against the seam of his pants. Why didn’t you do this earlier? 

You swallow and catch his gaze again. He’s smirking, glancing down to where you were so shamelessly staring. Flushed slightly, you push him down the hall as if walking a purp back to the holding cell. He even stumbles with his hands up in surrender. You take him by the shoulder and shove him into the bedroom. 

“You’re kind of strong for someone of your size,” he says as he tumbles into the room. 

“Cheerleading is harder than it looks.” His tongue runs the length of his bottom lip as he watches you in a comically small skirt slink towards him. “Kneel for me.” 

He drops to his knees without hesitation, his broad shoulders tight with anticipation. You tuck the tip of the stake under his chin, tilting his head up to look you in the eye.

“Being a hot cheerleader takes a lot out of me.” You prop the sole of your sneaker up against his shoulder, giving him a perfect view of your black lace underwear. His eyes flicker between your crotch and your face. “Take off my shoes for me.” 

His breathing hitches as he delicately takes the back of your ankle, the heat from his fingers warm even through the stocking, as he uses his deft fingers on the other hand to pluck your laces free. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am is my mother.” You cock your head. “Try again.”

“Yes, Slayer.” He nuzzles your shin as he slowly slips the sneaker off your foot, still delicately holding your ankle as if it is precious glass. Looking up at you for permission to continue, his eyelashes thick and heavy, he slowly lowers your foot to the ground, but his hand stays at your heel. Before you can stop him, his hand skitters up and squeezes the back of your thigh, so you press your other knee against his throat and he chokes.

“That’s one,” you warn. He nods, swallowing, and you shift to put your other sneaker against his shoulder. 

“One what, Slayer?” His hands are barely trembling as he unties your laces, tosses your sneaker to the ground. You know he can smell your wetness leaking out onto your panties. His already dark eyes flash with unrestrained want, trying to see where your slick stains your crotch. 

“One time you don’t get to come.” 

His eyes leap from under your skirt up to your face, his mouth slack and desire hot across his face and you nearly give up the game right then – tackle him to the ground and shove your tongue down his throat. But, no, this is what he asked for so you’re going to give it to him. You breathe, trying to steady your own unbalanced nerves, and he sets a warm palm on your knee. 

It’s your boyfriend in his eyes, not some horny creature of the night, asking are you okay? Do you want to keep going? Despite giving him everything he wants, he would drop this scene in an instant if you were uncomfortable in any way. 

You quell the adoration expanding in your chest with an inhale, drop the stake, and you set your shoulders back. You twist your ankle around the back of his neck and flex.

“Come here.” Desire overwhelms his face again, jaw tightening, eyes widening to black as he shuffles forward, careful to keep your leg balanced over his shoulder. 

“Can I touch you, Slayer?” He breathes, voice low and wrecked, hands twitching. Your knee bends over his shoulder, your heel pressing into his back. 

You nod, chest stuttering, his warm breath against your hot inner thigh sending arousal licking up your spine. You nod again and his hand cups the back of your thigh, the curve of your ass, his fingers cradling your opposite knee to steady you. He squeezes just below your ass and you groan. 

“I want my panties drenched. You figure out how to do that.” 

A heavy noise from his chest, and he ducks his head beneath your pleated skirt. His fingers pull aside the crotch of your panties and that first lick has you both groaning. He cups your ass again, pushing you into his face and sending your leg further over his shoulder. You might have stumbled, your knee already weak, had it not been for his hands gripping you, clutching you to his mouth.

He tilts your hips up, holds your pelvis like a bowl, and eats. 

He sucks one lip into his mouth, and then the other, tonguing your flesh as if it needed to be wetter. He dips his chin, licking from your clenching hole up to your clit, groaning praises around the drops of slick that cling to his lips. Tongue firm and steady, he fucks you with it, the curve of his nose pressing against your clit. Heat blooms, pulsates with every plunge of his tongue, your cunt fluttering around him, and it rockets up your spine, yanking your head back. 

“Oh, Jesus – fuck,” your nails dig into his shoulder, his name just in the back of your throat, and the vibration in his chest that you feel against your wet thigh has your knee buckling. With a growl that reverberates up into your cervix, he clutches you tighter, tongue painting you with your own slick even faster. He tucks your clit up into his mouth and sucks – hard.

Your orgasm that detonates in your core is unexpected, strong, and completely knocks you off balance. Entirely dependent on him to keep you upright, you hold him against you, his satisfied licks carrying you through it, teasing aftershocks, and he drinks the splash that bursts out of you with reckless abandon. 

Oh, that bastard is gonna get it . . .

Knees trembling, you pull back, nails wrapped around his hair to drag his head away from your cunt. He growls, displeased, but you manage to wedge your knee against his chest, pushing him farther back with your shin, then your foot. 

He looks manic. Slicked hair completely undone, mouth, nose, cheeks shiny with your release, his eyes were blacker than ever. He licks the corner of his lips, focus still entirely attached to your leaking pussy, and his fangs dig into his bottom lip, seemingly without his control.

“Is that wet enough for you?” 

You use the sternest voice you can muster, almost annoyed at how easily he can pull you apart: “Take your shirt off.” 

He does so without question, without hesitation, eyes catching every heavy breath, every pulse of your heart – he sees the wetness on the edge of one of your stockings and you watch as his cock twitches. 

“What next, Slayer?” It’s intimate, the way he says it, the way it purrs in his mouth. You kind of wish he had gone with the British accent he had been considering, but listening to him beg you just as he is, has your pulse rocketing again. 

In the dim light, he’s all dark shadows and cut muscle. Shirtless, breathing heavy, black jeans slung low on his hips, he could not look farther from the man you know, the man you love, but he’s still there. Still drives you fucking crazy.

In two steps, you capture his mouth with yours, your fingers twisting into his short hair at the cup of his skull as you pull him down into you. His groan is different, relieved, instead of possessive, coming from his ribs instead of his groin. Mouth open, he widens the gap between your lips with the press of his tongue and you taste your own salty, sweet release as his mouth overtakes yours. He kisses your bottom lip, nips at your top lip, and his hands squeeze your ass. 

Your name nearly slips out as he dips his head back, eyelids heavy, but he corrects himself. 

“S-slayer, please, can I fuck you now?”

You shake your head, your confidence growing again, and push him until he hits the edge of the bed and drops on top of it. 

“Oh, no, I’m not nearly done with you. Hold out your wrists.” 

His arms shake slightly as he holds them out to you, his eyes full of desperation and want. You tsk, frowning. 

“It seems I’ve forgotten my super powerful vampire restraints.” You tap the corner of your mouth. He wriggles. “I guess we’ll have to use something else.” 

His jaw drops as you turn around and bend forward, that pathetic excuse for a skirt barely covering the curve of your ass, giving him full view of your dripping wet pussy, as you slide your soaked panties over your hips and down to the floor. Over your shoulder, he looks totally dumbstruck, chest flushed, unable to tear his eyes away as you step out of your panties. His eyeliner is slightly smudged and your cunt clenches. 

He swallows, mouth wet, as you saunter over and poke him in the knee with your toe. 

“All the way back. To the headboard.” 

He scrambles back, still holding his wrists together even though you hadn’t actually tied him up with anything yet. He was always so good at taking directions like this.

You put your panties in your mouth, freeing your hands as you slink up the bed, over his heaving chest. As though tied by string, he follows as you take your panties out of your mouth, loop them around his wrists and firmly secure them to the headboard. It’s laughable, the idea that your wet underwear would actually keep him from moving, his actual vampire strength more than enough to shred them in an instant (as he has done on many occasion), but he settles against the pillows, a red blush emerging behind the brush of hair under his belly button, leading down and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. 

He won’t last long, already like this.

You slide back, your exposed cunt barely touching his skin as you shuffle down, thighs spread over his. For all his bluster and showmanship, he really is so fucking pretty when you get down to it. You drag your three fingers down from his collarbone, digging in with your nails around his nipple and eliciting a short breath, continuing lazily down his stomach, to that maddening patch of hair. You think you can smell sex on him so you dip forward and inhale. 

He loudly whines, eyes squeezing shut, stomach twitching against your hot breath. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby – S-s-slayer – please, please o-open my jeans.” 

You tongue him once, he shudders, and you pop the button on his jeans. The sound of the zipper is loud, daunting, ratchets up the pulse in your chest, in your cunt. You’re going to soak him through his jeans at this rate, and he’d thank you for it. 

“Please take me out. I want you to touch me.”

You tilt your head, watching as he squirms beneath you, his knuckles white from how hard he clenches his fists. You’ll kiss him later and thank him for trusting you with something like this, but for now, you’re going to keep teasing him.

He whimpers as you lean away from him, back towards his feet. You watch him go a bit red as you smirk over your shoulder at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you need something?” 

He doesn’t know how to ask for it, and knowing if he does, it’ll cost him. His gaze flickers to your chest. 

You shrug. “I guess you’ve been good enough for this, little vampire.” 

With practiced ease, you slip the cheerleader uniform top over your head, your tits bouncing as they’re released from the tight confines. You watch him bite his bottom lip, eager and desperate to put his lips around your nipple, but that will come later. 

“Better?”

He shifts, hips thrusting against his zipper for some relief, and nods. You lean back again, smirking, and untie his big heavy black boots. You’re dying to ask him where the hell he got this costume, but you have to stifle your own curiosity for his sake. Making sure your ass is in full view, you yank off his boot, and then the other. They thump loudly to the floor and you lick the soft place under his ankle, pulling a groan from his throat.

Now only in your skirt and stockings, you crawl back up his long legs and situate yourself in the cradle of his pelvis. He swallows, his mouth flushed with sweat, his arms tight and flexing around his head. You’d thought up a dozen scenarios when you got to this point, things you wanted to try out, toys to play with hidden in your backpack, but just having him beneath you, you knew exactly what you wanted. 

“Where are my friends?” You growl at him. “My mother, my sister – what have you done with them?” He blinks up at you in confusion for a moment, before pulling his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue.

“I’ll never tell you, Slayer,” he snarls with a flash of fangs. You wonder if he’ll pull full Vamp Face tonight after all the teasing. Your cunt clenches at the thought.

You tsk. “That’s two.” 

You shuffle down his slim hips, fingers wrapping around the waistband of his skinny jeans, and tug as you go. He eagerly lifts his hips as you pull, harder than normal. How he fucking poured himself into these things, you’ll never know. 

Like a true badass, he’s not wearing any underwear, the teeth of his zipper leaving red marks on his groin, and his cock, so hard for so long, springs out. He is unfortunately very good at getting you to babble mindlessly during sex, his strict questions baring no room for argument.

Whose cunt is this? Yours. Always yours.

Who fucks you the best? You, you, you.

How do you like my cock, splitting you open? I love it. God, I fucking love it. It’s such a pretty cock.

You babble, but never lie. Flushed, thick, long, he does and always has had a gorgeous cock, as far as cocks go. Or maybe it’s just how it makes you feel, tapping against your g-spot, that makes your mouth water with adoration. 

“I have ways of making you talk,” you say gruffly, palming the leaking precum around his head and using it to pump him once. His eyes roll back in his head, his biceps flexing with restraint. But, admirably, he holds out.

“I-I’m not afraid of you, S-slayer,” he mutters breathlessly. That sort of arrogance, cock-assuredness, it made you wet the first time you met him, and it still does. You grind against his thigh, but it’s not enough. You lift your palm from him and spit into the cup of your hand. His eyes track the string of spit as it falls from your lips, as you turn your cupped hand over and take him by the base of his cock. You drag your hand up, feeling every ridge, every throb of his vein, as you twist your wrist, thumbing the head of his cock. Precum leaks more and his cock flushes darker. 

“You still don’t want to talk?”

He shakes his head, eyes tightly shut as if using every mental facility available to keep from cumming. 

“You know what I can do to you if you don’t talk.” He nods. “And you know what’s going to happen if you come before I tell you to. Right?”

You pump him a tick faster and his hips buck. 

“Fuck. Yes, yes, I know.” 

You arch an eyebrow at him, his jaw tight and clenched, the pink from his groin spreading up his chest. You think he might be sweating slightly, his skin fire hot. 

“Then you only have yourself to blame for this.” 

You bend forward and take him entirely into your mouth, his sensitive head pricking the back of your throat.

“Ohhh, fucking hell–,” 

His cock rigid against your tongue, you lap at him, deeply inhaling the musky scent of those curls. His stomach tenses and his hips jerk but he doesn’t move. He knows bucking them into your mouth will making him come like lightning, despite the torture of keeping still. He drops his head back against the pillow and releases a full body groan. 

“I’m gonna fucking die.”

You chuckle, humming around him, before sucking him up and down, up and down – he pants loudly above you – and then you pull off him entirely. 

“You aren’t going to die,” you murmur coolly, using your middle finger and thumb to jerk his head slightly. His thighs shake. “You might, though, when I suck your soul out through this cock.”

You slurp him down again, mouth salty with precum, and suck and twirl and lick and –

“Okay, stop, stop, I’m gonna c-come – I’ll tell you where your friends are.”

Beyond pleased with yourself, you let him drop out of your mouth and look up. You’re struck by what you see.

Chest red and heaving, sweat darkening the hair at his temples, arms shaking and fingers clenched around the headboard, he’s coming undone. He’s falling apart. His teeth clenched so hard, the tension contorts his beautiful face and he breathes harshly through his nose. You know if it really was too much, he’d say the safe word and you’d back off in an instant. But this is also the sort of play your boyfriend goes absolutely bonkers for. 

He swallows. “I-in the bathroom,” he chokes out, his voice cracked and dry, “they’re in the bathroom.” 

You bite his hip bone, flesh twitching beneath your teeth. 

“Good boy.” 

Easing your weight off him, you slide off the mattress and leave him sweating and flustered. You flip on the light switch, the dark room suddenly flooding with an almost painful white light. Blinking back tears as your eyes adjust, you catch yourself in the mirror.

He is the one tied up, edged to the fringe of pain, but you still look debauched. Hair a mess from where he sunk his hands into you as he kissed you, pleated skirt up by your waist, teasing a hint of your cunt, and your tits flushed and pink, the power of a vampire slayer looks good on you. You smirk at yourself, knowing that just this look on you has him at the razor margin of coming in his pants, and then your gaze drops to the counter.

On little pieces of paper in front there are names like “Xander”, “Cordelia”, “Willow”. Clearly planned and thought out, the names sit in front of different sex toys. Vibrators, beads, plugs – you name it. You grin because your boyfriend was often a pop-culture dork and you can only imagine his childish glee as he set this up. Ridiculous. Idiot. 

You pick up a black plug, short and squat, with the name “Spike”. Sometimes he was about as subtle as a train wreck. Taking up the conveniently placed bottle of lube, you go back to the bedroom, to your little plaything. 

His cock isn’t bright red, not as strict, whatever he focused on to keep from coming clearly worked. He licks his lips as he sees you come out, hands behind your back. 

“Did you find them?”

“Yes, I did. Very good vampire.” Kneeling at the edge of the bed, you bunch up the covers and hide the toy and lube underneath, knowing exactly when you want to show them to him. His eyes widen, hands fisting your sticky panties. 

“Can’t we play?” 

“So eager,” you coo as you crawl up to him again. You bite his earlobe, hands palming his wide chest. “We’re almost there, but not yet.”

His hips shift, searching for the heat of yours as you settle on his stomach. Your cunt’s slick smears on his hot skin and his nose flares.

“What do I have to do?”

Heartbeat hard against your wrists, your ribs, your thighs, you swallow his gaze as you reach behind you and squeeze the base of his cock. He gasps, the touch unexpected, and in three strokes, he’s hard, straining, between your ass cheeks. You rub your ass against him once and you can see his resolve start to crumble. He’s been on the edge for too long, buckling against the climbing weight of his own orgasm. He whines, his eyes tightly shut, the eyeliner running down his temple. You wait, thinking this is where he will call it quits, use the safeword and tear out of his restraints. But he doesn’t. He twitches and heaves and shudders, precum running in between your fingers. 

Your little goth badass is struggling to keep it together. 

You bend forward and kiss him lightly on his cheek, his skin warm and wet. 

“You have to make me come,” you whisper. Without looking at him, you reach to the end of the bed, and pull out the plug you’ve chosen.

He literally whimpers when he sees what’s in your hand. His open mouth is wet, stringy with spit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck – S-slayer, p-please –,”

“Not for you, silly,” you hum. Holding onto the plug, you slather a truly horrendous amount of lube over it. It drips wet and warm onto his chest, his skin tightening. His fangs hover above his bottom lip. He wants to devour you. 

You stroke him twice more, inch back, and arch your back, his cock brushing your stomach. On an exhale, you insert the plug into yourself and finally let out the moan that’s been building in your chest all night. Watching your face go slack, he snarls.

“I wanted to do that.” 

You breathe out, feeling full and swollen, slick leaking down your thigh. You crack open an eye and smirk as he seethes. He straddles the edge, cracking under your fingertips, and he still thinks he owns your asshole. 

“Don’t be naughty or I’ll make it three.” 

With a quick lick up his cock, you settle forward and take his red tip into your cunt. He flushes, sweat breaking out on his skin, as you sink, lower, and lower, swallowing him more and more, as your body literally molds to take more and more of him. By the time you straddle him completely, his cock thick and throbbing inside of you, the moan you made is only matched by his, low, deep, aching. The headboard hisses as his fists clench around the slates. 

“Baby – please, you have to – move – baby–,”

“You don’t get to come, even if I do, understand?”

He shudders, his hips jerking up in small strokes, his eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I k-know.” 

“Good boy.”

And you rise up on your knees and drop all the way back down, searching for a pace that is as fast as it is punishing. Squeezing his hips with your thighs, you ride him, that syrupy heat turning from a simmer to a roar, pleasure throbbing like a fresh bruise. The tendons in his neck flex and strong as he fights to wrangle in that spark, that wildfire, he looks up at you, eyes swimming with need, with adoration, with rage. He wants to fuck you, wants his hands on you, wants to pluck you apart with his fingers, his tongue – but mostly he wants to come with you.

Sweat slips down the back of your neck, over your shoulder, nestling under your breast. More dripped down your spine, his thighs soaked from your slick. His restraint only drags you higher, faster, sharper. His own frustration is palpable and your complete control over him tightens your cunt. You bounce rougher and he grunts, barely audible words escaping his clenched teeth i’m gonna fuck you gonna ruin that cunt gonna split you open baby baby baby his forearms so tight, you could see his veins up through his arms. 

The image of a ruined Max Phillips quivering and sweating beneath you, obeying you, submitting to you, allowing you to reduce him to this – the plug going deeper and deeper, feeling overwhelmed, overspilling – it breaks you open. White lightning pierces you and tears slip out of your eyes, head thrown back, a moan tearing up your throat so loud you wonder if his neighbors will complain. 

You gush over his hips, his jeans, his throbbing cock, every muscle in your lower body tense and tight, milking his cock. Over the ringing in your ears, you hear him make a guttural groan in the back of his throat. Your thighs tremble.

“You can come, baby, come inside me.”

Three things happen within seconds of each other. 

Max tears his way out of your black panties, tears the cheap skirt from your hips, literally tearing the fabric in half, and he flips you onto your back. With a snarl, he shoves your knees up to your chest and thrust deeper inside you than you could ever reach on top. It nearly knocks the wind out of you.

You scrabble at his chest, little nails digging into his damp skin, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop. He’s kept himself back long enough for this. Only this. 

He fists the stocking around your calf as he plunges deeper and deeper into your pussy. He pushes against a patch inside of you only he can seem to reach and you tighten beneath him, mouth dropping open.

“That’s it. That’s where you need it,” he smirks, the groan that follows nicking his ribs. “You’re such a filthy little Slayer. Need to get properly fucked by your dirty vampire’s big cock, don’t you?”

You nod, each brush of his cock against that spot has your thighs shaking and knees weak. He gives a particularly rough thrust and tears leak out of the corner of your eyes. 

“Oh god – yes – I need – right fucking there – I need it.” 

“Need what?” He isn’t going to let you get away with it after that much edging. 

You try to focus on his face through bleary eyes, through the rapid pounding your cunt is taking, the whole bed creaking, so cock-drunk you think you might drool, and you claw at his ribs. 

“Need your cock, Max. And your hand.”

He knows exactly what you mean, what you want. His grip switches, arm balanced out by your head, and the other hand sliding up between your damp tits and his fingers tighten around your throat. His eyes tracking his thumb, he brushes the spot where he bit you last week. He could have healed you in an instant, hates seeing any lingering hurt on you, but you begged him to leave the mark, leave the scar. You thought you really might love him that day.

He thrusts hard and deep and his fingers tighten. Your vision blurs, blackness creeping in, your body going numb to the pounding, your grasp around his wrists going limp. 

And then, the world rushes back, pours into you, bright, loud, hot, and pleasure explodes out through your body and you come, harder than you’ve ever done in recent memory. It doesn’t even feel like an orgasm – it’s your soul being returned from some other astral plane into a hot, steaming soup. 

Above you, the force of his own orgasm knocks Max onto his elbows, hunched over you and filling you with so much delayed cum it leaks out of you and down the curve of the plug. You feel numb, tingle all over, as feeling slowly returns to your extremities, your skin warm and throbbing. Max’s own body beats in sync with his thudding heartbeat. Sweat pours off you both as if a dripping towel had been wrung out above you. 

As awareness slowly returns, you realize he’s basically crushing you with his full weight, but you wouldn’t dare ask him to move. If he is in the same state you are, he can’t feel his legs. 

Panting through the same shared breaths, Max lifts his head from the curve of your neck and soothes his pulsating skin by gently touching his forehead to yours. Shaking, he presses an embarrassingly chase kiss to your lips. 

“Fuck, can we do that again?” 

You chuckle mindlessly. “Which part? The heart-stopping orgasm or a shameful reenactment of a 90s classic tv show?”

Max groans as he flops onto the bed next to you. “The first one. Both. I don’t know. Don’t ask me hard questions right now.” 

You chuckle, breathing heavy, as you eye the shredded remnants of your cheerleader skirt and panties. 

“You’re lucky I bought this costume outright. Don’t know how I was going to explain what the fuck happened to it.” 

“Hey, you show up in these again,” he flicks the ruined lumps of your pigtails, “I’ll fuck you however wherever you want.”

“Do I even want to know where you got your get up?” You nod to his general appearance, ruined makeup and black nails. He glances down and realizes he’s still wearing those black skinny jeans. 

“Shit, no fucking wonder I can’t feel my legs. Damn things are cutting off my circulation.”

You giggle as he struggles to strip himself bare, kicking the jeans down his legs and off the bed. Carefully, you take out the plug, dropping it to the floor, wince at the emptiness knowing it would need to be cleaned later. And maybe later, Max would use his tongue to soothe the muscle.

But he’s too out of it to notice now. He flops back down, arms outstretched, and not needing an invitation, you curl up against his chest. His arms fold around you, his lips automatically coming to rest against your hairline, as your breathing settles. 

“So, good birthday present?” You grin up at him.

He rubs his eyes as he groans, smearing his eyeliner even more. “Fuck, baby, the fucking best. Like, you don’t even have to get me a Christmas present.”

You trace his chest, his ribs with a finger, a small smile curling your lips. “Hmm, you say that now . . .”

He laughs, no more than a huff, and kisses your forehead. “It’ll be hard to top that, sweetheart.” 

With that smirk spreading across your face, you sit up on an elbow, turning to look down at him. He’s just fucking glowing. 

“I don’t know . . . I was thinking something more dirty. Something that will ensure we definitely go to hell.”

He tips his finger up and down your shoulder, eyes already going dark, cock twitching against his stomach. “What did you have in mind?”

“Have you ever been choked out by a rosary?”

-----

Like what you read? I’m at 100 followers on this blog! come party with me!

[11queensupreme11]

Omg so like you wouldn’t not believe the horror of a date I had. It fr sent me Mia for a sec😔But then I had the silliest meetcute with this guy so I think luck is on my side 🤭

But anyways I like love making my poookie girl flops traumatised and cope in the saddest ways possible.

So like I drew Percy if she did Leave the Ror universe for good( like she’s gone gone and they can’t bring her back ) . I kinda imagine this being her look during TOA

She’s cut her hair off ( hair contains memories and pookie wants to forget the crazy stuff ) but even if so a part of her still kinda clings to it..

And sure maybe the random odd streaks of colorful hair are odd but they’re very cute ! Pink, gold and green, and that’s just her usual gray streak isn’t it ? Yes maybe it has an almost blue tint to it now but it’s probably just the lighting ! And no that very dark strand that almost sticks out is nothing ! Just good old natural hair

From her always wearing a pearls, her tattoos for two certain folks or the fact she clings to a mysterious Wedding ring she will never truly talk about its origins too…

And well if she’s suddenly grown fond of clothes with floral patterns and or the fact that she has been suddenly peirced her ear in black studs…

Well she’s just good old Percy isn’t she ?

It’s not that odd that she’s off visiting gods from other pantheons…

She even dotes a bit on Apollo but it’s just her feeling bad for him being turned into a mortal for something he wasn’t to blame for right ? And yeah she’s having tea with Loki but that’s just a new friend…

And her visits to hades were she always seems a bit sad are never that deep…

Just good old Percy and a couple of odd quirks from all the stuff that’s happened to her so far nothing else 😇

okay but now imagine those pjo! gods realizing that she's only nice to them cuz she's lowkey seeing them as replacements for the ror! yans 😭

[navybrat817]

Seb in Vanity Fair with the shorts and a Walkman? Yeah, that's just Stud listening to your voice.

Whether it's just reminders, topic-reading (because it's MUCH more fun to learn when it's your voice like an audiobook) or even your pretty little moans, he's just walking around listening to the cassette/phone first thing in the morning like it's a motivational podcast 🤷🏻‍♀️

(Also, that Raymond thot I dumped on you about a week ago? Yeah, sorry, I was just—LSKLDKDLSL I just HAD to tell someone the moment he breathed on my screen 😔)

Ahh! I love this so much. Stud would FOR SURE have recordings of Smartie's voice.

I can easily see you recording a whole list of reasons why you love him. Memories that the two of you have created together. Or different tapes for different days. "Listen to the tape when you need a pick me up." And now I'm getting all emotional thinking of Smartie taking the time to make all these tapes or recordings for him. He would cherish every single one of them. 😭

Please, I may need to write him listening to at least one recording.

And NEVER apologize for Raymond thots. Look at him.

You are free to (s)cream about him in my inbox whenever you want.

Love and thanks! ❤️

[ghostherlig]

boy has it been a bit since ive done one of these but i started this on spring break and got back around to it now that im stuck at Not My House- anyway, enjoy!! <3

this time, johnshi^2 edition 😌 (under the cut bc this, like all of these, got real long 😭)

john is a Stress Baker and will bake into the night if he's stressed out enough (usually cookies to store in the freezer for the rest of the month)

johnny is a Stress Cooker and will cook the most complicated dishes to make himself feel better (ignore his problems)

kenshi mostly cooks for himself and is used to making single-servings of things, so when he makes food it's usually only for him

taka only knows a few recipes, but he has Perfected them. Perfected. They Are Perfect. He makes Takoyaki, Five Flavor Soup, and a few other things that the other three fucking love-

john has a black light tattoo of a smiley face on his ass cheek

johnny has no tattoos

we've all seen kenshi's tattoos, pretty pretty man <3

taka has a few smaller tattoos in fewer seen places, the most common sighted being a small raven on his ankle

johnny owns an industrial freezer and fills it with all sorts of food storage and left-over ingredients that were made in large batches

taka put a false bottom in the industrial freezer to hide his special ingredients for his dishes

johnny teaches physics during summer or winter courses between filming for his movies

kenshi is a big family man and has two older sisters and a younger brother- he has mommy issues 😔

john is also a big family guy, he loves his daughter and his dead wife despite how shitty his childhood was

johnny and taka... arent as big on family-

taka has a bridge piercing that he has a plug in now that he's older, but he still puts in jewelry for at home dates where he doesn't have to wear his sunglasses

john has his ears pierced, but he never wears his jewelry- his collection is a lot of studs, but he has a pair of hoops that he was given by his mom and a pair of jade earrings that taka gave him

johnny had a belly button piercing, but doesnt wear his jewelry anymore 😔

kenshi had several ear piercings but only really wears studs or hoops in his main two lobe piercings

taka wants to get his eyebrow pierced, but just hasnt gone and done it yet

taka uses a hairpin to keep his hair up and despises hair ties despite the fact that johnny always carries them around for him- he has and will continue to grab the pen out of johnny's hands to put his hair up rather than take the offered hair tie.

kenshi usually prefers to navigate without sento at home and in public, and he helps taka get used to using a sight cane and more accessibility devices since taka usually navigates with sento since to him it's easier

when they're all busy working, johnny sets up Very Official Google Meet Meetings and uses his work calendar to hide the fact that he's calling his partners during business hours- the other three do the same thing so they can get at least fifteen minutes together outside of lunch breaks to talk

kenshi NAPS. like, daily naps. he needs his at least fifteen minute lreferably an hour nap per day or else he's a lot more irritable- taka, john, and johnny always look for him around noon, forgetting he's Napping and they usually catch him asleep in his room, on the couch, and often in his office on base-

john will sometimes take midday naps too, usually on weekends, and kenshi will join him on his giant lazy boy recliner and burrow into his side to take a nap

john and johnny are Human Heaters, they never get cold, whereas kenshi and taka Cannot Thermoregulate To Save Their Lives and are constantly cold and usually wear a lot of layers

kenshi and taka also HATE being too hot, both would rather be cold and they despise cali summers since it can get up to the hundreds on really bad days

they all work until they collapse. it's awful. usually johnny and john are better about it, they put work down after 6pm and Dont Look At Work Things until 5am the next day- but taka and kenshi?? they're used to always being on call for things, mundane or not, and that means john and johnny are CONSTANTLY slapping the phones out of their hands when they see an official OIA number

johnny gets bad abt working late when shit gets busy on and off set, esp if he's working on a script or there are all kinds of clerical and scheduling issues and errors- he's had to be dragged away from his desk and/or laptop bc he just wouldnt stop fixing little things- he's pulled all nighters on accident bc he was so focused 😭

john is the most outwardly affectionate- constantly saying it, constant touches, hugs, kisses, little love taps, ass slaps- anyway he can convey his love he's doing it- he's esp bad abt slapping johnny and kenshi's asses since he did it to taka once and taka Stands On Business (slapped his ass so hard the next day john was waddling around the house for thirty minutes)

surprisingly, kenshi is the second most affectionate, though it's more in words and quality time and little gifts- almost daily he leaves all three of them a little note or gift or will cut them fruit- and if he cant he's leaving them or greeting them with a kiss on the cheek or a little peck- he also affirms his love very... aggressively?? john, johnny, and taka all get in moods that scream "would you love me if i was a worm?" and kenshi will always sit there and go "of course i would. i would build you a terrarium and start composting so you would have the best dirt in the world."

johnny is the third most affectionate- it takes him a bit to get comfy just giving hugs or draping himself over someones back, but he does say how much he loves them all the time- constant 'i love you's while he's doing other things, when he comes home, when he leaves, etc. any time he thinks it, he says it

taka is the least affectionate and least affirming, but it's all in his actions. taka will berate john and johnny and kenshi for working themselves sick while he digs in the industrial freezer to make them five flavor soup and some tea- he'll call them stupid or dumb affectionately while pressing a kiss to their temple- he gets nuzzle-y and sometimes just needs to tuck himself over them or hold them to feel normal again- he says 'i love you' the least, but he acts out his 'i love you's the most. he also hilariously sometimes replies to 'i love you' with 'okay.' or '..thanks.' bc he struggles to say it outright, but most oftentimes he hums and presses a little kiss wherever he can- usually the cheek, temple, or if they're already leaving he'll grab their hand and press a kiss to their knuckles

[toxicanonymity]

Question: would you do more breeding reader/Joel miller

I'm glad you liked that one! I never know exactly what I'm going to end up writing, but tbh I don't really see myself revisiting that in a domestic situation any time soon, sorry 😔 HOWEVER. . . (Might wanna bail now if you're not into the rest of my stuff)

One day, @dark-scape and i were discussing the morality of e9 (team Joel), and she suggested that instead of using Ellie, they should be taking pregnant volunteers for experimentation (stem cells or cord blood or whatever) to develop a vaccine. Being depraved, my first thought was that Joel should serve as a stud to actively impregnate volunteers (conveniently also incentivizing participation). So, later on, if I were to do another reader that's happy to be bred, I think it would more likely be along the lines of something like this. I know that doesn't hit the same lol.

Fic: The Old Fashioned Way

Thank you for reading! 🖤

[ieatkeyboard]

BELPHEGOR CHARACTER DESIGN JUDGING

@ewesless Look. SPOILER!!! He killed us so. I think I can bully his outfits. PLEASE REMEMBER EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO THEIR OWN OPINION AND I'M NOT HATING ON THE CREATOR, THESE ARE JUST THINGS I DONT LIKE.

Now what on earth possessed you do to that? Diarrhea yellow pants, brown boots, a blue sweater WITH STRIPES. And ofc his pillow. He looks so uncomfy bro. I know Belphie can sleep no matter what or where he is but that looks god awful.

LETS DO THIS SHIT

Comfy cozy. I have pants EXACTLY like that, I wear them everywhere, they're great. I kept the color scheme kinda plain. I feel like if you're gonna make him carry a pillow, HE NEEDS TO BE COMFY. NO LONG ASS LACE-UP BOOTS. NO WEIRD TIGHT BUT NOT TIGHT PANTS. SOME PAJAMA PANTS, A PLAIN ASS WHITE SHIRT UNDERNEATH, HIS LITTLE SWEATER, HIS LITTLE BLACK SHOES AND HE'S CHILLIN.

NEXT

A few years ago I actually wanted (AND DID. I DID.) to dress like this so I feel like it would be wrong not to do something about this. He has the triangle belt. And as much as I love him matching with Beel, I took away Beel's so I can't leave his 😔 The random horseshoe on his sweater/poncho? What on earth. If it's real that just feels unnecessary. You're gonna be adjusting that shoulder ALL DAY. Also I love how Belphie has cow spots. It's not related to the outfit itself, I just think it's cute to point out

WEEEEEEE

I wanted to make him look cooler >:[ That's literally it- I added the chain to his boots to represent bring slow or stuck in one place cause Belphie's "lazy". I replaced the horseshoe on his sweater with some stars cause he likes stars :> And I wanted it to feel more personal to him. I made his little strap purple and added a chain cause I felt like I wanted MORE. I also added a little radiant on the end of his tail with the purple and white in his hair cause his hair isn't black and I know it doesn't really matter but it matters in my heart. I really like this, it feels very celestial HAHA GET IT..ahem sorry-

NEXT

I love his little bunny outfit so much OMG- He's so cute but I like to play around with these so- LETS DO IT

WOOOOOOO

I didn't do much to this cause I already really like it- I made the studs on his heels purple, put a light gray outline around the black on his bow cause it hurts my eyeballs 👍 Made his gloves a little lighter, off made his ears one solid color and I added little piercings to his cause he's angsty.

I love Belphie SOOOO MUUUCH he's a cutie and he gave me some of my first gender envy experiences so getting to dress him up was fun!

[h0bg0blin-meat]

Someone asks: why do you Love Krishna?

And Arjuni replied:

What is there to not love about Madhav? That dusky skin, his peacock studded diadem, those gentle hands, those eyes which harbor the whole universe in them, that beautiful smile, those mischievous grins, how he plays the flute and mesmerizes everyone with it...Krishna, Kanhaiya, Shyaam, Kanha, Maakhanchor, Muralimanohar, Devakinandan, Dwarakadhish, Vishnu and what not. But for me, he will always be my Madhav....even though I know he will never love an unlady-like woman like me, I love him with all my soul.

Cringe asf Ik 😭😭😭😭😭😔😔😔😔

Is this like the Arjuni version of Krishna's love-confession to Daruka? 😭😭

Now I want both of them to like overhear each other's confessions while Daruka's just sittin there like "Good gosh get a fucking room, you two!"

[feral-mouse]

So I have had this idea in my head for months now. I don't exactly remember what spurred it on but one day I was like "Yo what if Jacob had a stand? 👀" And thus Radiohead was created

I'm gonna be putting more pictures on what his stand looks like and does below, with more in depth information on how it works if anyone's interested

Jacob belongs to @carnivorekitty uwu

First I wanna start off with some smaller things before I get into the main parts lol. Honestly, I wasn't sure what Jacob would name his stand. The only reason why I chose Radiohead as its name was because of this post, and I don't think Jacob would want to name his stand Creep so sdpfjsdp. Also I know the color scheme is kinda weird, I had no idea what colors to choose and I always imagined his stand was blue so like if anyone has a better color scheme for his stand, go fucking wild 👍

So the main gimmick with Radiohead is that its joints shoot off and can be used as projectile weapons. Other than packing a mean punch (its knuckles also have studs so you don't want that hitting your face lol), its mainly good for the fishing wire that connects each of its body parts together. This wire is deadly. It is extremely sharp and can almost cut through anything. Jacob has the ability to control where his stand's joints go, so in theory, he could tie someone up with his wire and chop them up. While he has a close-ranged stand, meaning it can't leave more than 10 meters away from him, it does have long-ranged abilities due to its reach with the fishing wires. It will be more difficult to control the further away it is from him, since he'll have to take perspective into account, and if it gets too far away from him, he just won't be able to see where he wants the joints to go. (I do also wanna mention I never decided how long the wires could reach. They stop at some point but I don't know when 😔)

His stand is also pretty good at fighting in the water uwu. Its legs can switch between a leg mode and a tail mode by connecting its legs with magnets that will hold them together. This gives its more mobility in the water with its multiple fins and webbed hands and feet.

The downside to his stand is that since each of its body parts is connected to a long string of wire, this means that the inside of his stand is hollow, making it susceptible to blunt force attacks. The best strategy I could think of is that Jacob should try to use his wires against enemies that can punch, whereas he should not separate at all when facing against enemies that can deal slashing damage.

I was trying to think of how injuries would transfer to Jacob if his stand got hurt. I decided that dealing blunt blows can result in broken bones, and if his wires ever got cut, he's losing a limb 😔

[seth-burroughs]

The Rain Code x Warriors au no one asked for nor will receive an explanation for

What's up I'm still doing bad and feel my last year's mystery stress sickness is coming back and none of my drafts are anywhere remotely close to getting finished anytime soon because of that how are you are you interested in cat

(picked the TPB timeline because it makes the most sense and has the most fitting characters, but I might cheat or bend it a little, we'll see)

Yuma Kokohead -> Rusty/Firestar

Main boy :) because of course he is. Yuma's now an orange cat. Firestar was the name of Number One, and Rusty (canonically Fire's old house cat name, I'm not calling them kittypets I'm sorry) was the name of the trainee he very politely borrowed his identity for.

Makoto Kagutsuchi -> Scourge

In wc canon, Scourge is also Firestar's half-brother (but they don't ever knooow) and they both kill each other + he's canonically stated to be VERY short like one of the smallest cats in the series. After the cloning, Makoscourge painted his fur completely black except for a one white paw (for the aesthetics. or maybe I'll just give Fire a white paw as well, kinda like Yuma's and Makoto's lil ahoges), started wearing the "OwO" mask, the dog tooth studded shrimp color collar, the fucking blood dyed amv bangs, the dog tooth reinforced claws........ The former CEO took him to hot topic for the first time in his life and he was fucking MESMERIZED none of them knew what they have brought upon themselves by this single act. He is a very silly man, lost in the whimsy. When his mask gets pulled off in the Mystery Labirynth, his face is just not dyed at all and it's just ginger with green eyes just like Rusty's/Firestar's/Yuma's/whatever.

Shinigami -> Spottedleaf

In canon, Spottedleaf does infamously end up haunting Firestar's dreams as a ghost to send him cryptic visions and furiously make out with him in front of his pregnant wife, he did have a crush on her before she died and I'm pretty sure she was retconned into reciprocating it was real bad and then they double killed her so Fire won't have to choose between her and his wife in heaven it was REAL bad uhh. I still like her though. I can get you out of the narrative girl just take my hand.... She can be the weirdgirl incarnate she was always meant to be. I wanted to say something else but then I realized holy shit I'm just tweaking her into Bonefall rewrite Spottedleaf am I... What can I say it IS peak Spottedleaf.

Yomi Hellsmile -> Tigerstar

Also extremely obvious. He is evil and has immaculate sexual tension between the protag whoops sorry I forgot literally only me and like 2 other people here ship Yuma and Yomi uhh anyway. While it does fit I'm a little dissapointed that Yomi/Tigerstar is gonna be losing so much of his cringe charm..... Like, say goodbye to deeply unserious insecure prettyboy toothpick Yaoi with silly little insults such as "umbrella sewing machine man operating hand hook car table" and how do I even describe all of this in less than 3 paragraphs. Say hello to broad-shouldered muscular extremely intimidating 100% serious and competent fascist built like a fucking brick shithouse with very broad-shoulders that doesn't need a henchman boytoy to handle all his numerous murders, have I mentioned his massive fucking broad shoulders, Firestar sure did do that a lot. It's like, where's the fun..... Whatever.... I guess...........😔😔😔

Martina Electro -> Leopardstar

Now for an assigned role I'm way more cool with >:)))) for an outrageously long while I had trouble with whether Martina should be Sasha or Goldenflower, fool I was, until I remembered Leopardstar fucking exists. She is literally perfect like I cannot state this enough. AND canonically she was later retconned to have feelings for Tigerstar but I hate to acknowledge it how dare you massacre Lep like that. She can still be his gf alongside vice director though, she's just engaging in acts of deceit whilst putting opioids in his food and trying her darndest to convince herself she's actually 100% in control of the situation before she's dragged to the cube dimension and has a brief "are we the baddies" moment. I don't think she still resigns from being a peacekeeper though Leopardstar 100% would take that fucking promotion the moment she's offered it and a year later when she' done feeling guilty regresses back into being a violent asshole she has learned NOTHING❤️

Fake/Hitman Zilch -> Darkstripe

So many dissapointments happening here sigh..... This one was obvious and honestly the only valid option for FZilch aside from maybe Nightwhisper or Blackfoot? Anyway, the downsides: one, Darkstripe will never be as cool as fake Zilch he thrives on being a cringe mistreated lickspittle. Two, he's definitely not one of Tigerstar's "closest advisors (🏳️‍🌈)" whilst Dark is pretty obsessed Tiger does not give a shit and considers him a looooooser boooo lameee fuck you *canonically swats him away with his tail that one scene*. But, I mean, at least the toxic yaoi became an entire new category of toxic.

Swank Catsonell -> Brokenstar

Pure vibes. It just fits. He employs small children and makes them fight to the death in his office for glory

Seth Burroughs -> Longtail

In canon, another one of Tigerstar's lackeys that didn't know about his crimes and when he found out he immediately left. I thought he was not evil enough to be Seth at first, but it kinda fits and he does make up for it in his cringe value and being noted to be a coward, though that may have been just Fire's opinion. Also, with all the bunny Seth Burrows jokes, I'd like to mention Longtail got his eyes clawed by a rabbit so hard he went blind so do with that what you will

Guillaume Hall -> Russetfur

Aaaand this is where I started having trouble with the remaining peacekeepers. Eventually I settled on Russetfur & Blackfoot/Blackstar for Guillaume and Dominic, because I like this danger duo I and some of the fandom completely made up about them. It's okay, the authors don't know you like we do...... While Blackstar did have a higher rank and Russet was his deputy, I do think she still had at least an equal amount of power as him, they're buddies pair bonded for life Blackstar is nodding respectfully to whatever incomprehensible wisdom she's sharing

Dominic Fulltank -> Blackfoot/star

In canon, started out as a murderous henchman of two major equally murderous evil dictators, before they both died and he finally got that boss promotion he always wanted, then he got ruined by the, you guessed it, retcons, but I don't like to be reminded of his atrocity of a novella. I always imagined Blackstar as like, unbelievably jacked holy shit the muscles on that cat, (and honestly most of the fandom does too so. lmao) and he does indeed canonically unflinchingly do the dirty work of all his bosses such as killing and maiming and destroying an

You get the point. He serious'd. Darkstripe wishes he could be him. And I'm pretty sure that was even canonically implied in the sixth book lmaooooooooo. Loser <3

Dr. Huesca -> um. Goosefeather?

The looks definitely fit, Dr. Huesca indeed bears striking resemblance to that tortured feline. However, while sometimes an asshole, Goose is definitely not evil... But he could be. He deserves to be. As a treat. Also: old man pride

Kurumi Wendy -> Cinderpaw/pelt

Easy, get Cinder'd idiot. They even have a pretty similiar energy too, I feel. This is where I got a bit tired, uhh...It's 11pm. Anyway I love Cinder and I love Kurumi say anything bad about them and I'll start scream crying on the floor

Halara Nightmare -> Yellowfang

Halara gets the old beam. They're now in their fucking 60s or something perhaps 70s. Yellowfang, on the other hand, gets the non-binary spec beam. She already gave off massive butch vibes in canon already, whatever. I don't think I can uhh in short terms explain Yellowfang's whole deal rn but the gist of it she's a very snarky grandma figure to Fire that gradually warmed up to him while she was- my cat vomited. While he was assigned to take care of her while she was taken prisoner into ThunderClan camp. Her personality's pretty funky. And she does seem cool enough in order to deserve to be Halara Nightmare.

Desuhiko Thunderbolt -> Graystripe

I think I'm taking a break and coming back to this tomorrow actually after all. Hello this is tomorrow Jasper. In canon, Graystripe is Fire's silly goofy boybestie when they're young, then he starts secretly dating Silverstream - hold on i can't fuvking take tjis im making myself hot cocoa again bye. Ok it's done let's see if that makes me feel something. As I was saying he's dating this cat and she's from a rival Clan so that's illegal forbidden love and then she dies during childbirth and he leaves his own Clan for a while to raise their babies there but then he gets exiled and goes back to his own and then his kids almost get publically executed for being half-clan so he and his buddies rescue them. And then he gets abducted by humans and meets this new gal called Millie and they start dating and then she gives birth to his new babies and then a tree falls on one of them. I'm pretty sure Fire was also pretty gay for that guy. Uh, anyway. I think he fits the bill because of his goofy charm but also it's pretty disturbing to imagine any iteration of Desuhiko actually getting bitches

Fubuki Clockford -> um. uh. Silverstream?

Silverstream, in canon, is the only daughter of Crookedstar, the leader of RiverClan, and is (implied to not having a problem with) getting various privileges because of this. Fits with Fubuki's rich timelord parents, plus light blue aesthetic, and a few other things which are hard to articulate. Only thing is that she's generally way more headstrong and impulsive than Fubuki showed to be, could "bend her father to her will with little effort", and disrespects the law if it's stupid to her which, queen shit. I think she'll play a lot of little pranks with her time powers, and devote her free time/time with YumaRusty when he's accused of terrorism crimes (but that's just unrestrained summer fun anyway) to absolutely decimate any peacekeepers they come across with some looney tunes shit

Vivia Twilight -> I'll be honest I have no fucking idea

Zero fucking idea. Literally NOBODY in this arc fits for the 5D chess of a character Vivia is. I'm not even sure if in any of the books. Help me. But also I don't really care because I don't even like Vivia at all anyway he freaks me out get him away from me.

Yakou Furio -> Bluestar?

Protag mentor figure except Bluestar is actually doing a good job at that until she loses her marbles after her mid-arc torment gauntlet and has a corruption arc until she drowns and gets healed of all her issues momentarily before fucking dying. She has a dead husband, dead mom, dead sister, dead baby, dead deputy, dead deputy #2, dead bestie, holy shit that's a lot of motives for suicidemurdering Huesgoose. Btw Goose was her weird voice of god hearing uncle in canon (and he was also dead) but I'm probably taking it out unless. Anyway she's kinda too good for Yakou but. They're also both blue like that is a blue cat

And for some side characters, keyword some:

Aiko -> Littlepaw/cloud

Aetheria's now not an all girls school anymore sorry I cannot do this guys. Littlecloud was Cinder's/Kurumi's good buddy and I like their friendship. Unfortunately, you know what that means.

Karen -> Swiftpaw

Originally was supposed to have Aiko's place before I remembered Little exists. In canon his most notable moment was dying brutally, which I mean also fits the Karen quota. Plus, while not an asshole per se he does have a more fiery/overall angry personality and he did try to impulsively take on a pack of dogs to prove himself and fucking died, if under enough pressure I'm pretty sure he could smash Aiko's/Littlepaw's head in with a brick too👍👍

Yoshiko, Waruna, Kurane -> Brackenpaw/fur, Thornpaw/claw, Brightpaw/heart?

Siblings in canon and two of them are guys so no murderous yuri I guess :(( But I mean I don't have to follow canon to a T anyway lmao so we'll see. In canon, basically the other three remaining apprentices along with Swiftpaw and the ashfern siblings, plus they do function as a trio via just being sibs. Plus some notes from the books: Cinder is the fourth sibling. Brightpaw follows Swiftpaw in his quest to slay the doggy and while he dies she survives but gets her eyeball and half of her entire face's fur torn off.

Real Zilch -> Redtail

He's very dead. Very, very dead. His most iconic moment was dying abruptly and tragically via murder rip in rest

Kei Colan -> Snowkit

He is a child. That's a little boy

Snowkit, signing furiously: MY MAMA GOT FRAMED AND IS GOING TO BE PUBLICALLY EXECUTED BY THE PEACEKEEPERS IF NOTHING IS DONE PLEASE HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEE. HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Yellowfang, signing back in swagful motions: and how much cash does your mama have on her currently

Jiei Colan -> Speckletail

Snowkit's very old mama. Looks like she could kill you but genuinely does not have a body count. Yet.

Ramen Stand Owner -> Ravenpaw

Ravenpaw in canon hit the bricks and ran away from the Clans due to being in danger there, and lived out the rest of his days on a farm with his cowboy boyfriend Barley mostly free of drama. I'd say that fits lmao. We can make his old name Rusty, not a problem.

Margulaw -> Pinestar

90 year old voice "yeah so uhh my fucking son grew up to be a dictator now. When he was a newborn ghosts were yelling at me to kill him because he'll grow up to be a bad man otherwise and of course like any sane kanaiwardian father I said "fuck that" and had to leave ma' family behind run away from the company so the demons would shut up. And y'know little buddy... Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I just can't help but. Y'know. Anyway. Sigh."

Do you get my vision did that sound comprehensible

[murdrdocs]

i just got my nose pierced and VERY excitedly texted my friends in our gc only to be left on seen and now i wanna kms what do i DO 😔😔

u talk to us about it 😁 i’m assuming u just have a stud rn until it heals but YAYYY