#remnant news station

[rwbybutincorrect]

MY BELOVED??

[xiaowhore]

scribbled hearts.

premise. alhaitham learns to stop falling asleep in places that isn't his bed the hard way. (alternatively, in which the librarian doesn't follow the script to wake sleeping beauty.)

Kaveh finds Alhaitham furiously scrubbing his face in the bathroom.

At first, he's absolutely ecstatic. For all that Alhaitham refuses to practice skincare, he's never gotten a zit on his face. An earth-shattering revelation to Kaveh, who maintains a strict nightly skincare routine—he's never gone to sleep without a moisturizing facemask. It's not the most infuriating thing about his roommate, but it annoys him that a guy who only washes his face in the morning has clearer skin than he does.

Is this it? Is Alhaitham receiving retribution at last? Is he finally suffering the consequences of his carelessness?!

But when Kaveh cranes his neck to get a better look at Alhaitham's face, he doesn't see any of the sort.

“Dude...” Kaveh can't even laugh due to sheer incredulity, staring at Alhaitham with a pitying look. Alhaitham thinks it would be less irritating if he just laughed in his face. “Did a third-grader pick on you?”

Alhaitham grits his teeth, wiping the remnants of ink on his face. He's mostly gotten rid of the sparkly anime eyes you drew over his eyelids, but it still looks like a fading black eye. The blush lines on his cheeks are a work in progress, but they'll disappear with some effort.

“They have the maturity of one, at least.”

Alhaitham has met his fair share of librarians—there's the stern, no-nonsense kind he's gotten forehead flicks from every time he's caught dozing off on his thesis paper; the introverted bookish type who stutters as they nervously but firmly tell him off for hogging all the books a certain class needs for a report; the motherly sort who smuggles him coffee in his all-nighters when he looks like death itself...

And then there's you.

Cheekier than his brat of a roommate, you somehow manage to annoy him like nobody else can. He'd rather have you scold him for treating the library as a second bedroom than clip ribbons to his hair whenever you catch him sleeping. Hell, he'd take a skull-shattering forehead flick over doodles on his face any day. But even if he preaches his troubles to anyone willing to listen, they're never sympathetic.

Because for some reason, you're never like this to anyone else.

If anyone at campus were asked to describe you, they'll say you're a model student. Scholarly, courteous, standing tall with dignified grace; you're the perfect picture of a goody-two-shoes. Nothing like the childish brat who terrorizes his nap schedule on a daily basis.

People who have a vendetta against him is nothing new. What he doesn't understand, however, is what he did to be the object of your wrath.

“Maybe [Name] likes you. Kind of like how boys bully the girl they like,” is the ridiculous answer Kaveh gives him, dropping those words like they weigh nothing with a nonchalant shrug. Alhaitham would think it more likely for the reverse to be true; your insistence to dedicate your time into ruining his day is nothing short of admiration—surely a testament to just how much you hate him.

...Okay, so maybe Alhaitham could guess a few things for why. There's been a handful of times (read: it happens at least thrice a week) he kept you stationed at the library longer than you had to be because he fell asleep until closing hours, and he has a tendency to forget returning the materials he borrows for his thesis to the library...

So. Perhaps this was a consequence of his actions after all.

He argues that there are far more mature methods to resolve this issue, though.

Alhaitham stares at the crudely drawn portrait scrawled on his arm, deeply unimpressed. Although he's not one to boast about his looks, he's rather sure he isn't as much of an eyesore as you drew him to be, his nose an exaggerated point (a literal triangle) and his lips wide open as he drools, dangerously close to the rectangles he guesses are supposed to be books. Don't sleep on the reference books!! You'll get drool all over them >:(, reads the scribbled letters beside the portrait, an angry face scrawled haphazardly next to them.

(Still, by the corner of his eye, he spots a cup of his usual order of coffee, a neon pink sticky note pasted on the lid: Wake up and finish your report quickly, I have a show to catch at 8 :>

It would be easier to hate you if being bratty is all there is to your personality, really.)

You scribble all over your notes.

It's a fact Alhaitham has known about you since long ago. Everything else about you is neat and orderly, but every page of your notebook has some sort of doodle on the corners. They range from meticulous side-profiles of whoever sits beside you that day to meaningless hearts and smiley faces akin to what a five-year-old child might make.

If you've chosen to be more artistic for the doodles you draw all over him, perhaps Alhaitham might not mind as much. It's unfortunate you much rather prefer drawing exaggerated tear streaks on his face.

“I'm quite certain this is a form of harassment,” Alhaitham grumbles, rubbing his face with makeup remover. As pointless as it is to express his woes to the cause of said woes, he finds himself seated before the reception desk to keep you company anyway. “I don't understand why you're still doing this.”

“It's a punishment for falling asleep and keeping me holed up in here to guard the library until it closes,” you drone, fixing the library cards. “And yet you still refuse to stop. Is it really so hard to go to the dormitory instead?”

Alhaitham shrugs. A sigh inevitably escapes your lips.

Eventually, you run out of stupid things to draw on his skin whenever you catch him sleeping.

You start to write your shopping list on his arm instead.

“Why on earth would you need three cartons of eggs?” Alhaitham leans against the desk you're stationed at, reading the bulletpoints on his skin.

Eventually, Alhaitham gets used to scrubbing off your vandalism too. It's his personal brand of skincare.

“They're on sale today,” you reply, signing the papers requesting new stocks of books. “And I was planning on baking, so it's better I have plenty of ingredients for trial and error.”

“Sounds heavy,” he hums, eyes scanning the rest of your list. “Want me to come with?”

At that, your pen stops moving. “...Why?”

“I need to buy cereal.”

(No he doesn't. Kaveh went on a grocery run yesterday.)

“Sure, I guess...?” It's an unexpected development, but you wouldn't turn away an extra pair of hands. “Should we get going, then?”

“Yeah.”

You raise an eyebrow. “...But you didn't borrow a book today yet. Aren't you getting anything first?”

Alhaitham looks around. “The book I wanted isn't here, so I suppose I still have to wait a few days for it.”

“What is it?” You click your pen, reaching for your notepad. (You already have one of those, Alhaitham seriously sees no point in you writing down your grocery list on his arm.) “I'll tell you when it gets returned.”

“...No, it's fine. Let's go, the eggs you wanted might be all gone if we take our time getting there.”

You jolt up in alarm, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You're right, we should hurry!”

For all it's worth, you're pretty gullible.

“You're still keeping that up?”

Alhaitham looks up from his laptop, fingers halting in their movement. “What do you mean?”

Kaveh scrunches his nose, pointing at the scribbles on his palm. “Your weird mating ritual. Can't you two communicate like normal people?”

Alhaitham glances at the mess you've made of his arm, full of little messages and doodles you wrote back and forth to each other during Biology period. Alhaitham had been, perhaps for the first time, not feeling drowsy. Regardless, you've taken to treating his skin as paper (“Save the trees,” you told him once, ignoring the disbelieving expression on his face), and Alhaitham has already accepted that you won't stop doing it as long as you still find it amusing.

“We do talk. Normally.”

“And if you do, why are you still doing... that.”

Alhaitham doesn't have anything to say to that. He did think it was inconvenient to wash all the messages off, and there are far more practical modes of communication.

But for some reason, he can't find it himself to say that he outright dislikes it.

And maybe he traces the shapes you draw on his skin, in the private confines of his room where no one can see him. Maybe he admires the smooth strokes of your penmanship, the adorable curls of your letters, the bubbly font that always makes him chuckle because it's just so like you.

There are hearts sometimes, or even flowers when you feel like drawing something more detailed. The ugly sketches of him sleeping are somewhat annoying, but he still finds himself endeared. Though some things are appallingly inaccurate—you've done his nose a horrible injustice more than once—he notices the correct placement of beauty marks on his face, the sharp edges of his eyes, the meticulous dimple that faintly appears when he smiles.

A thrill runs through him when he thinks of you paying attention to him, more than you've ever given anyone else.

And, well. Alhaitham's certain he's been doing plenty of that for you.

“Don't you think you're being unfair?”

You pause in your typing, averting your eyes from the computer monitor to glance at Alhaitham. “Unfair in what, exactly?”

He mindlessly spins a pen with his fingers, staring at the blank canvas that was your arm compared to the sketchbook you've made out of his. “You're the only one who writes on me.”

“What, you want to write your shopping list on me for a change?” you arch up an eyebrow, unperturbed. “I thought you said it was impractical.”

“I never said I wanted to write my shopping list.”

“What else would you write, then?”

Alhaitham reaches for your arm. “Give me your hand.”

You blink, not quite unwilling yet confused all the same. You offer your hand and he uncaps his pen, scribbling on your palm. You've never been on the receiving end of this little game, so you're not sure what to expect from him.

“There.” Satisfied, he lets go and stands up. “I'm going home for the day. Good luck with the rest of your shift.”

“See you tomorrow, I guess...?” you wave at him in farewell, but he's quick to spring on his feet and dart out the door. “What's his deal...”

You turn over your hand, seeing a string of numbers written in neat font.

“Oh.”

Alhaitham feels silly for anticipating a text like some lovestruck teenage girl who exchanged numbers with her crush.

The blinking cursor on his blank essay document almost looks mocking, and as time passes by, the only word he's managed to type out is “The.” Even so, his attention is completely locked on his phone, devoid of any notifications.

If it weren't for Kaveh being nosy the other day, he wouldn't have gotten the idea of giving you his number. He did think something had to change, but he didn't know how to get there. But now that he's gotten this far, he can expect a little bit, right?

At last, his phone chimes its long awaited notification. Alhaitham is quick to ditch his laptop and shuts it closed, reaching for his phone where it sits on his desk. He swears he's never typed his password so fast before in his life.

Unfortunately, the text he's been anticipating for a good portion of the day is nothing but a disappointment.

Unknown number: eggs milk whipping cream flour

Unknown number: baking powder cocoa powder vanilla extract sugar

What was he expecting anyway?

He sighs and leans back on his chair, solemly pushing his laptop open. He doubts this message requires a response back.

Another notification lights his phone.

This time, Alhaitham doesn't even have the energy to unlock his screen. He squints at the notification preview.

Unknown number: wanna come over when I finish baking the souffles?

He doesn't quite drop his phone in shock, but it's a near thing.

You: I'll go carry the groceries too.

Unknown number: thanks! 💖

[chilling-seavey]

Love Thy Neighbour (gr63) - Part One

↳ A/N Still waiting for Apple to invent the iTimeMachine so I can go back to the 80s when Andrew Ridgeley was in his prime. Anyway, please enjoy house husband George slaying the 1980s suburbia. Comments, reblogs, and predictions are always welcome!!

↳ Inspired By: 'Everything She Wants' by Wham! and 'Heartbeat' by Wham!

↳ Summary: It’s the end of summer 1984 and you and your perfect little family moves into a quaint suburban neighbourhood to escape the hustle and bustle of the Manhattan lifestyle. Your next door neighbours are a picture-perfect family of their own - or so it seems from the outside. But, as you spend more time with the handsome husband, the cracks in your own 'perfect' marriage start to come to light.

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Neighbour!Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 22.6k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, slow burn, cheating/adultery (i don't condone this but, boy, does it make for a juicy plot), use of explicit language, female masturbation, non-consenting voyeurism, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex (and extramarital creampie)

September 1984

The house was straight out of the recent issue of Better Home magazine and even as you stepped out of the passenger seat of the station wagon, you were in awe of the New England architecture. Crisp white siding and red painted shutters over spotless picture windows; it was hard to believe it was all yours. It was nowhere near the small ancient apartment that you were used to in the city - although you certainly wore that place thin until the seams were bursting. It was about time you made the move out of Manhattan and into the nearby suburbs. The American Dream was in the palm of your hand. 

Your husband, Andrew, set his hand on the small of your back and dangled the set of shiny keys over your shoulder with his other, “Want to test the locks?”

You smiled back at him and grabbed them out of his hand before hurrying along the front path to the modest porch and welcoming front door. He followed behind you closely, glancing over his shoulder on the way in expectation of a follower of his own, but the young boy was already busy rushing across the freshly mowed lawn. 

“Richard,” your husband called for him as you turned the key in the lock, the faint remnants of his English accent ghosting through his words, “Come see inside!”

Unbothered, your five-year-old son didn’t even look up as he dropped to his knees beside the garden bed, “No thanks!”

You glanced across the sprawling green grass yourself, “Don’t you want to see your room?”

The little boy’s head perked up in your direction at your very convincing offer and his big brown eyes shone in the sunlight. He shot up from the ground, “Okay!” 

He took the four front stone steps with ease and rushed right past you into the house, making a beeline right for the straight run staircase just inside. You called a reminder after him to hold the handrail but he was already at the top by the time the final word left your mouth. 

Still on the front porch, you and your husband shared calm little smiles over your shared adoration for your little boy, and then he was gesturing you inside first. You stepped over the threshold onto the hardwood floors and you took your time soaking in the modern floral wallpaper that trimmed the foyer and led into the formal living room through the archway to the right. It looked so empty without furniture but it also held so much promise and possibility within the brand new walls. 

Through the living room you could loop into the dining room that overlooked the spacious backyard framed in lush trees and a wooden fence separating the property from the neighbours on either side. The backyard view was perfect from the kitchen sink, giving you a perfect spot to keep an eye on your son playing while you could do the dishes or prep dinner. You had fallen in love with this house the moment you saw it in the real estate section of the newspaper - a new build in a quaint suburb of Connecticut - but at first glance you had figured it would only be a dream. It was hard to believe that your husband and your finances were on board. With a growing little boy, it was time to move out of that tiny one-and-a-half bedroom apartment in Manhattan. Now, with three full bedrooms upstairs, the future was far more open. 

You hadn’t realized you were daydreaming at the empty kitchen sink before your husband gave your shoulders a squeeze, bringing you back to your content reality, “The moving truck should be here soon. Should we start unpacking the car?”

Leaning back into him, you agreed with a smile, “Alright.”

He wrapped his arms around your middle and pressed a kiss to your cheek before he was pulling away just as quickly and disappearing into the foyer and towards the front door.

Andrew always lived a lively life and somehow you managed to keep up. He always wanted to be out doing things such as date nights on the town rather than picking up after-hour client dinners just to socialize and bring in more money for his company - and, ultimately, himself and your family. It was so nice when you were younger and you were in love and willing to follow him to the ends of the earth but the reality of parenthood made you more tired than you used to be. Suddenly, nights out felt tedious and the airtime was always filled with business talk or discussions of Richard’s school. It all felt a bit like a chore. But maybe that just came with growing up. You were loved, you were secure, and you had a beautiful roof over your head. You swore you had nothing to complain about. 

The moving truck pulled into your driveway not long after your trusty station wagon had only been unpacked about halfway. It was going to be a long day but you tied your hair back and made sure your son was kept busy when you could and Andrew and the movers took over most of the heavy lifting, leaving you to rearrange boxes and direct them inside the house. It was always your responsibility to take care of your son so it wasn’t unusual for you to keep busy with finding him a snack from your cooler once that was brought in from the car. The kitchen table followed not long after from the moving truck and the two of you sat at the table together with Jell-O cups. 

Richard would be starting kindergarten in only a week and part of you was worried about what on earth you were going to busy yourself with once he was gone. Being a stay at home mom, your sole job was caring for him and since there were no other kids on your agenda as of yet, you were painfully preparing to be completely alone from 9-3 every week day. You tried not to worry about it as you watched your five-year-old eat his cherry Jell-O and you reached out a hand to brush through his frazzled dark brown hair, trying to pet it down into some sort of order. Even the gel that you had slicked through it that morning seemed to not be doing its job anymore but that seemed to be common with a lively little boy. You truly loved him with everything in you and those big brown eyes could just melt your heart with one look. He was his father’s son through and through. 

Being an only child, Richard got bored pretty easily on moving day so it wasn’t long before you sent him outside to the front yard to play while the truck was finished unloading and you and Andrew tended to the organization inside. With the windows open, the late summer air breezed through the freshly painted house and one of the first things you set up was your record player in the living room so you could have some music while you worked. 

Soon, Richard came rushing back inside and across the carpeted living room floor in his outdoor running shoes, earning a lightly scolding “Ritchie” out of you. 

“Mommy, there’s kids next door. Can I play with them?” he asked, ignoring your quiet scold of his name as he clutched onto the hem of your sky blue shorts pleadingly, batting those sweet long lashes up at you. 

You pet your hand over his soft hair, “Sure, baby. Stay close though, okay?” 

“Okay!” 

He was already halfway out the front door again before the single word reply was even completely out of his mouth. With a few trinkets in your hand that you had been taking out a box of arrange in the curio cabinet, you drifted over to the large picture window overlooking the front lawn. Two kids around Richard’s age were playing on the quiet tree-lined street on big wheel tricycles and your son ran over to them to introduce himself. You smiled fondly at the sociable nature of your son that was quite unlike your own traits, watching the children play for a few more moments as Richard was given a turn on the bike, before you were moving back to your boxes. 

As the afternoon wore on and you grew tired, you had just enough energy to make dinner - something simple and quick - and soon you were stepping out onto the front porch to call your son back in to eat. He said goodbye to his two new friends and then hurried over to you just as you noticed two people crossing over your lawn towards you. 

“Hey there!” the woman called politely. 

Richard stood in front of you nosily, watching them, and he wrapped an arm around your leg. Your next door neighbours approached you across your lawn, a man and woman maybe only a few years your senior, and the man held a white bakeware dish covered in tinfoil in his hands.

“Hi.” you greeted them with a smile. 

They were clearly a well kept pair as if they had been cut from a magazine themselves with the husband in tidy blue jeans and a tucked in button up and the wife with her blonde hair tied back in an impressive updo. She had on dress slacks and a blazer with posh shoulder pads, earning a lighthearted envious glance out of you at her style as you accepted her handshake and she spoke again, “I’m Jennifer and this is my husband, George. We just live next door and saw you moving in so we wanted to introduce ourselves.”

“How lovely.” you smiled, moving on to shake her husband’s hand, trying not to be intimidated by the electric blue eyes staring back at you as you introduced yourself and your son.

Your five-year-old peered up at them behind waves of dark hair that tumbled over his big brown eyes despite the way you swooped it out of his face yet again. 

“Are those your little ones?” you asked, gesturing over to the street where the two kids were still playing. 

Jennifer glanced over to the children before looking back at you, “Yeah. Those are ours. James and Nancy.” 

“It was really nice of them to let Ritchie play today.” you started. 

The adult conversation got boring quickly for the five-year-old so he slid out from under your maternal touch and slipped inside without a word or goodbye. 

“He’s an only child,” you explained, “so he sometimes gets a little lonely…especially in a new neighbourhood and all.”

“Oh, of course.” Jennifer tisked.

“Is he starting school this year?” George asked.

It was the first time you heard him speak apart from a brief greeting drowned out by his wife but it didn’t phase you. The hint of a British accent across his words didn't either, all too used to the same from your own husband. How likely that the suburbs of America brought two Brits as next-door neighbours. Comedically written in the stars, or something of the sort.

“Yeah, he’ll be starting kindergarten next week.” you exhaled, “Big steps.”

“So is James.” George said, “I’m sure they’ll be in the same class. Would be good for them to have a little friend before being thrown into a classroom.”

“Oh, that’d be great.” you sighed thankfully, setting a hand to your chest, “Even that alone brings so much ease to the conscience. I’ve been worried about how he’d transition to this whole new place.”

George smiled knowingly, “And especially when your first is going off to school for the first time.” 

“Definitely.” 

Footsteps across the foyer floor behind you pulled your attention away from your new neighbours to your husband stepping out onto the porch with you to see what was taking so long - undoubtedly you were tattled on by your five-year-old. You welcomed his arm around your waist as you introduced your new neighbours to him and him to them and they shared brief pleasantries. 

“We won’t keep you.” Jennifer took a step back, “I know it’s probably close to dinner time.”

George took one step up onto the stone stairs of your porch to offer out the bakeware, “We just wanted to bring you a little something to say welcome to the neighbourhood.”

“That’s so thoughtful. Thank you so much!” you took it from him.

“Such a nice change to have nice neighbours after the nightmare of living in Manhattan.” Andrew joked. 

“Oh, totally. We don’t mess with the city-dwellers.” George waved his hand casually, rising light laughter among your little group. He took a step back towards his wife who was already clearly trying to urge him back towards their house, but he reiterated honestly, “Anything you need, we’re right next door. Don’t be strangers.”

“Thanks a lot!” Andrew raised his hand up in a brief wave and you wished them a good night as they herded their two kids back towards their house and you were gently steered back inside by your husband. 

The apple crisp was placed on the kitchen counter and you served some for dessert to your little family. It wasn’t chocolate, candy, or ice cream so Richard wasn’t too impressed, but as adults, you and Andrew both swore it was the best dessert you had in a while - even surpassing your own. You made a mental note to find a way to thank the neighbours next time you saw them.

Having just moved in, your available time was few and far between throughout that weekend and into the beginning of the following week. Your plethora of boxes that needed unpacking as well as your young son who needed to be prepared and set for his first day of school kept you busy and it didn’t help that after the weekend, Andrew was back to work full time, needing to leave earlier to commute into the city and ultimately getting home later for that same reason. You were just appreciating the last few days you had with your son before he was going to be in school for the next two decades. The looming loneliness almost had you craving another baby but the time just never felt right. 

Wednesday was Richard’s first day of school and he was that perfect expected mix of nervous and excited. He was already eating his cereal at the kitchen table with his eyes glued to the TV in the adjacent family room when Andrew returned from his early morning run to get ready for work before the sun had even passed the horizon. With a five-year-old, every morning was an early morning but a commuting husband only stressed that fact further. 

In his white t-shirt and short white Fila shorts, Andrew was quite the looker as he joined you and your son in the kitchen for good morning kisses before he had to run upstairs to shower and get ready for the day. The white clothing stood out against his tanned skin and dark features right down to the white socks and running shoes. He was still that tall, dark, and handsome stranger you fell in love with those few short years ago and the way your eyes trailed after his legs in those itty bitty shorts only had the desire to fill the second bedroom upstairs heating across your cheeks. But you quickly turned back to your work at the counter prepping Richard’s lunch for school. 

Andrew was gone in under an hour and your driveway was left empty as he took the family car for his commute to the train station where he would then take transit into the city. Since the car would be gone every day, Richard was set to take the school bus to school which was a whole new experience for both the five-year-old and yourself. You held his hand as you closed your front door behind you and started on your short walk down the front path of your house and along the curb of the street to the bus stop. Richard’s blue backpack looked almost huge on his back and he carried his metal Flintstones lunch box in the hand that wasn’t claimed by yours. 

At the nearest intersection in your quiet suburbia, a few parents and kids were already standing there and waiting for the bus. Richard tugged at your hand and when you looked down at him, he took his hand out of yours to point to the small forming crowd, “I see James, Mommy!”

“You can go run and say hello. I won’t go anywhere.” you promised. 

He rushed across the street to the sidewalk and met up with his neighbourly friend he had met on moving day. Sure enough, James’ father was also waiting for the bus to arrive like some of the other parents with his daughter sitting in his arms, and as you approached, you shared quiet ‘good morning’s. 

“First day jitters?” you asked lightheartedly. 

“Yeah,” George sighed with a melancholy smile, “Although more so me, apparently.”

“Preaching to the choir.” you agreed. 

There was a pause as you both stared fondly at your boys talking excitedly together with their seemingly huge backpacks and perfectly styled first-day-of-school hair. You sensed yourself being stared at so you looked back to him only to find the culprit being his young daughter perched in his arms. 

“Good morning to you too.” you said sweetly to her. She smiled shyly and leaned her head against George’s as if to hide from you as a stranger. 

He rubbed her back and coaxed her, “Say ‘good morning’, Nance.”

She shook her head and tightened her little arms around his shoulders. 

“Oh, I wanted to thank you and your wife for the delicious apple crisp.” you said, steering the subject away from the unwanted attention to the shy little girl. George glanced at you as you continued, “Andrew and I agreed that it was the best we’ve ever had.”

“That’s great to hear! I’m glad you enjoyed it. I just found the recipe in the recent issue of Home Cooking magazine and thought I’d give it a try.”

Your eyes widened, “You made it?”

George chuckled, “Yeah. I made it. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well…no…I guess not.” you stammered, trying to collect your words before you embarrassed yourself, “I’ve just never seen my husband pick up a measuring cup yet alone a whole recipe in all six years we’ve been together. I’m impressed.”

He simply shrugged modestly and gave his daughter a little bounce to try and bring a smile to her face, “Baking is just something I like to do in my spare time when I’m not running after these two crazies.” 

“I’ll get that bakeware back to you this week. Don’t want to keep you from your passion projects.”

“No rush!” George promised, “I have plenty.”

“Mommy!” Richard ran right into your legs, burying his face against your thigh, and you only had to glance up to find the cause of his panic was the yellow school bus turning the corner. 

“Aw, Ritchie.” you smiled fondly and crouched down in front of him to take his soft face in your hands, “You and James are gonna have so much fun today! And when you get home, I will meet you right here in this very same spot and we’re going to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner…your favourite.”

He threw his arms around your neck and you held him close as the bus stopped by the curb and opened the doors for the kids. The older few got on with no issues but a few of the younger ones were facing the similar sense of anxiety as Richard was. Even James was lingering close to George despite the way he tried to play it off. 

“Okay, my handsome boy.” you gently guided your son away from you and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “The faster you go, the faster you come home!”

He nodded sadly. 

George added with a pat to his son’s head, “You two stick together today, alright?”

The boys nodded.

You told your son you loved him and left him with one more kiss before he and his new friend were getting on the school bus together with the rest of the kids. You and George waited there until the bus was long gone around the corner and the other parents started to disperse. Since you were next door neighbours, the two of you walked back towards home together with the added company of George’s daughter still in his arms. 

“What are your plans for today?” he asked you casually as you navigated the tree lined street. 

“Still unpacking a little.” you confessed. “I feel like it’s been going on forever.” 

“I don’t miss that.” he chuckled faintly, “When Jenn and I moved here when we were expecting James it felt like we were never going to get out of the hoard of boxes.” 

“Truly. But I just put on my records and get busy.” you shrugged, tucking your hands in the pockets of your blue jeans. 

“Are you much of a music listener?” George asked. 

“Oh, yes. I’ve been playing Bryan Adam’s album on basically repeat since it came out last year.”

“Cuts Like A Knife?”

You looked over at him with a grin, “Yeah! You know it?”

“Of course. I’m quite into music myself.”

“So is Andy.” you looked back to the street beneath your feet with each slow step side by side, “We met in a music club one night back in ‘78 and you could say he literally swept me off my feet. He plays some guitar but I can’t play an instrument to save my life. We’re hoping Ritchie gets his talent.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of George’s lips but he nodded modestly, “That’s great. Jenn and I have the same mindset for our two - although I don’t know if she has any musical talent because she claims she never has the time.”

“Maybe I should use that excuse.” you chuckled, “I might deafen you if I ever pick up Andy’s guitar - or if he ever lets me. So if you hear anything that sounds like a dying cat from the next house over, that’s just me and my wonderful musical renditions.”

Stopping by the curb between your two houses, George shared in your smile and your gaze lingered on the way his light eyes shone in the morning sun. He hiked his daughter a bit higher on his hip and readjusted his hands under her bum as he replied smoothly, “I doubt you’re that bad.”

You waved your hand passively as if to brush off his niceties, “You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, all you’ll be hearing is my record player. Please tell me if it gets too loud and disruptive. I can get carried away sometimes.”

“I won’t, but it’s a kind offer.” he smiled with a cock of his head. “Seems you like good music anyway so who am I to complain?” 

You set your hands on your hips with an up-turn of your nose in his direction, a mirrored amused smile on your lips at his playfulness, “Well then, I take my role as neighbourhood DJ very seriously. Any requests, you know where I live.”

“I might take you up on that; watch out.” 

Your conversation naturally faded out under the waving shade of the lush trees that stretched over your suburban street like a canopy and Nancy tapped George’s cheek shyly to get his attention. He looked at her expectantly and she leaned in to whisper to him under the presence of a stranger - you. The quietness of his youngest had George smiling fondly and he rubbed her back with a soft “okay” before looking to you, 

“We have to head back - important date with cartoons and snacks are awaiting us.”

“Of course.” you took a step back towards your lawn, “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too. And I’m sure we’ll see each other again in the same spot at 3pm sharp.” 

You nodded, “That we will.”

Then, he headed across the lawn towards his house that was nestled closely beside yours and with the satisfaction of a nice conversation with your new neighbour fresh in your heart, you made your way into your own house to start your first day all alone. 

It wasn’t until the next day that you were able to bring over the bakeware to your neighbours’ since you wanted to make a point to wash it first. Richard was off at school again and after lunch you walked across your shared lawn to the house beside yours, sparkling white dish in your hands. You ascended the few stone steps to the front door and knocked against the glass, hidden from the inside by sheer curtains. After only a few moments, someone appeared behind the door and then it was opened to reveal George. 

He smiled warmly at you, “Hey, neighbour.”

You couldn’t hide your slight startle from seeing him, trying to play it cool with a friendly smile and the bakeware held out towards him, “Hi. I brought back your dish. Washed up and everything.”

“Oh, thanks so much.” he took it from you, “You didn’t have to wash it. I’m sure you already have enough on your plate.”

“No trouble. It was the least I could do.” you assured him.

“Did you want to come in?” he asked, “If you don’t have more boxes to unpack.”

You chuckled softly, “I could actually use a break from that overwhelming presence of cardboard.” 

“Yeah?” he stepped aside with a warm smile and a cock of his head, “Come on in.” 

The wood paneled foyer welcomed you in and you stepped over the threshold with a quiet thank you, your flat shoes landing dully against the linoleum tile floors. George shut the door behind you and led you straight through the modest house towards the kitchen, passed the foyer console table that was lined with photographs of his children around a centred wedding photo of him and Jennifer. Your eyes skimmed them on the way past as you followed him into the kitchen. 

“I couldn’t help but expect your wife to answer.” you confessed once you passed by the stairs and entered into the kitchen at the back of the house, the fluorescent lighted ceiling tiles really brightening the space with that 1984 modern touch, “Are you taking the day off?”

“Nope. Everyday is a work day for me. I’m a stay at home dad…Jenn brings home the bacon.” George explained as he opened one of the wood cabinets and crouched down to stack the clean bakeware with the rest under the counter. He then walked around the small island to the corner of the kitchen where the kettle was resting on the stove, “Would you like tea or anything?”

“Tea would be lovely.” 

He filled the kettle at the kitchen sink before setting it on the stove again and turning on the heat to boil the water. You stood just out of the way, head whirling with the concept that he was the one who stayed home while his wife worked. You couldn’t help but be nosy. 

“So what does Jennifer do for work?” 

George opened the fridge to take out the carton of milk, “She’s an executive assistant to some big shot CEO in the city. He’s pretty demanding so she’s always somewhere or another.”

“That’s impressive.” 

“Yeah, I’m proud of her.” George pulled a tight lipped smile as he fetched two mugs from one of the cupboards and set them on the counter as the kettle boiled. “We knew when we got married that we wanted at least one of us to be home with the kids as they grew up and her job was already pretty set in stone and secure so we agreed that I’d take the at-home responsibilities.”

“Hence the apple crisp skills.”

“Exactly.” George leaned back against the counter opposite you and he crossed his arms over his chest casually, “Although with two little ones, I’m surprised I have time for much of that. It’s so hectic sometimes. I guess that’s the one good thing about James going off to school now; one less kiddo to chase after during the day.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sure.” you agreed politely before glancing around the unfamiliar house, “Where’s your other?”

“Napping. We went to the park earlier then had lunch and she was knackered. I’m sure she won’t bother us.”

“Never a bother.” you tisked, “I love kids.”

“But you only have one?” George asked before quickly following it up with a, “Sorry if that’s an invasive statement.”

“No, no. You’re fine.” you shrugged, “Where we lived before was a tiny apartment in Manhattan that Andrew had bought when he was a bachelor after moving from London. Ritchie was literally sleeping in the den with the desk and filing cabinet and things. There was literally no room for another kid.”

“And the time was right to move into a proper house?”

“Yeah. We didn’t feel totally settled in the city and with a young kid I felt like he needed a yard to run around in.”

“I understand that. That’s why we moved out here after we were married. The appeal is just so much nicer than Manhattan when thinking of settling down.” 

There was something about George that felt so trustworthy and kind and you found yourself easily relaxing in his company enough to confess, “We didn’t have the luxury of planning. Our relationship was a little…out of order.” 

The whistle on the kettle blew and George turned to take it off the stove and shut off the heat while also continuing your conversation, “Out of order? What do you mean?”

“Well…we got married because I was pregnant.” 

George’s lips formed a silent ‘o’ in realization and he glanced over at you for a brief moment as he filled the mugs, not quite knowing what to say.

“Married at 20 isn’t totally ideal.” you chuckled, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the tile floor. “But we were in love so it was okay. And Richard is the best kid we could have asked for.”

“All worked out then.” George said with a kind smile in your direction. 

You nodded faintly, “Yeah.”

“Milk? Sugar?” he asked with a gesture to the filled and steeping mugs. 

“Milk would be great, thanks.” 

George prepped the tea and even grabbed a few cookies from the cookie jar to place on a plate for your early afternoon snack and then you followed him back down the hallway and towards the formal living room adjacent to the foyer, passing the photographs once again. The built-in bookcases along the far wall housed more pictures and trinkets from over the years and your eyes lingered on them as you sat on the blue upholstered couch and George arranged your drinks on coasters on the cherry coffee table. With you on one end of the couch, he sat on the other end with a respectable distance between you. 

“I was just admiring your photographs.” you confessed when you finally tore your gaze away from the collection across the shelves and you leaned forward to grab your tea with a quiet thanks to him. 

“Yeah.” he smiled fondly as he glanced over the frames he was all too familiar with, “I like having them around.” 

“The wedding one in the foyer was really sweet.” 

George sipped his tea with that gentle upturn of his lips and an acknowledging, “Mhm.”

“How long have you two been married?”

George leaned back on the couch and looked to the ceiling in thought, his mug held at a rest on top of his blue jean clad thigh, “We were married in ‘77 I think…the years seem to get a little foggy. And Jenn doesn’t like to make a big deal about anniversaries so it’s not like we diligently keep track.”

“Oh. Why doesn’t she like to make a big deal?”

He shrugged, “Dunno, really. I think she’s so busy all the time that having one less thing to worry about is easier. The first few years were celebrated and even planned the odd stay-cation but after the five year mark and having kids…it’s just easier to not really bother as much.”

“I guess so. I think Andy and I are the same way…although we never really had the money for stay-cations or elaborate gifts anyway. He’ll just buy me flowers.” 

“Flowers are good.” George smiled over at you. 

“Yeah.” you exhaled.

“I’m more of the romantic one in my marriage but Jenn isn’t into the whole bit of gifts and time and whatnot so I’ve had to learn to cut back or she gets so overwhelmed.”

You frowned and met his gaze, “That makes me sad.”

He shrugged with a melancholy smile, “Eh, it’s okay. We had our share of mushy love in high school anyway. Maybe we’re just too old for all that now.” 

“High school sweethearts?” you pried. 

“Mhm.” George’s eyes sparkled. “Met her in our first year of high school when my family had just moved here from London. We were the graduating class of ‘73.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to do the mental math for a moment before finally asking, “So how old are you then?”

George cocked his head to the side with an amused expression, “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t want to answer that.” you laughed, tucking your hair behind your ear as you looked down to your steaming mug of tea held in your lap. 

He spared you with his answer, “I’m 29.”

“Okay, not far off from us. We’re both 26.” you added. 

“Still young.” George bantered lightly, “Did you want more kids? Now that you have a bigger house and all.”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted a whole bunch…Andrew not so much though. He took some time to warm up to Ritchie when I told him I was pregnant the first time so I’m not sure how he’d feel about the pitch of a second.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask. Marriage is all about give and take, right?”

George’s statement inflicted a bit of ache in your chest as it forced you to reflect back on your six years with Andrew and the desires and plans of your own that you had pushed down to help him thrive in his own life and career. You sipped your tea quietly without a reply, taking a second to daydream about the filled house you had always wanted ever since you were a little girl. A house full of kids and a little job for yourself on the side and a husband who treated you like a queen. You were treated well by him - that was never a question - but everything always felt as if it was falling short to your expectations. 

“Sorry.” George’s voice tore you from your thoughts, “I don’t mean to force my way into your marriage as some sort of psychologist.” 

“No, no. That’s okay. It just has me thinking.” you looked over at him again with a melancholy smile, “We were just so young and I didn’t really have a chance to know myself or what I wanted before we got married. Andy’s such a good guy but sometimes there’s some sort of disconnect in what we both strive for.”

“That’s fair. But even time doesn’t guarantee that perfect connection. Like how Jenn and I differ with what we want in terms of romance and showing our love. I love the words, the gifts, the intimacy…whereas she just likes when I do her laundry or make her lunch.”

“Got those reverse gender roles, huh?”  

George cracked a half smile, “That’s actually very true. I finish tidying this entire house by the time she gets home from work, the kids are already bathed and in bed, and she’s ‘too tired’ to spend any time with me. Honestly, I don’t even know how we ended up with two kids.”

You both shared faint laughter behind casual sips of your tea. 

“That’s not much different on our side of the fence.” you agreed. “Must be that working world that just absolutely obliterates someone’s intimacy desires. Is it that tiring?”

“Commuting an hour and a half into the city there and back every day doesn’t help.”

You tisked, “Of course not.”

“It’s easy to feel lonely. I didn’t understand it when I was growing up…seeing my mom being a homemaker and all…but when you’re in it…”

It was the first time someone truly acknowledged how you felt - and a man at that. Even your husband didn’t quite get it, but why would he? But suddenly this stranger was speaking the words that you were too ashamed to even think about and you felt like a weight of a cloud was pulled from your shoulders. 

“Yeah.” you breathed, sharing the air across the couch with your unwavering gazes, “That’s exactly it.”

“And then your kids grow up…”

“And then what do you have?” you concluded his sentence, “What is your purpose after that?”

George tisked lightly and scooted slightly closer so he could set his hand on your knee, “You have purpose, okay? You’re not just a mother and not just a homemaker and not just a wife. You’re a woman too.”

You bit lightly at your bottom lip, staring into his gorgeous blue eyes that suddenly seemed to push a warmth through your chest and up to your cheeks. 

“You have purpose and you have value.” he told you like he was telling you the most honest truth. 

“Thank you.” you mouthed back, worried that if you spoke out loud, your voice might break. 

He gave your knee a gentle reassuring squeeze, “Of course.”

You both stayed there, frozen, for a moment, just staring at each other. You felt some sort of warmth all around you from more than just the half empty mug of tea still clutched in your hands, realizing how close you were now. Tearing your gaze away from his light eyes, you naturally glanced at his lips and watched as they perked up at the corner in a gentle smile, moulding the shape of his soft lips and his precisely shaped cupid's bow that you couldn’t help but stare at.

The moment you got the urge to lean in, you turned your head away from him and cleared your throat as you set your mug on the coffee table. His hand was removed from your leg. 

“I should go…” you mumbled. 

George stood when you did, “Okay.”

“Thank you…for the tea and the company.” you said to the ground as if scared to look at him in fear of feeling those strange warm flutters again. 

“Of course. I’m always here…whenever you want to talk or anything.” he promised before leaning down to pick up the plate of untouched cookies, “Biscuit for the long journey home?”

You smiled at his playfulness and when you grabbed one from the plate, you finally looked him in the eye again, “Thank you.” 

“Let me walk you out.” 

He held his arm out for you to urge you to lead the way and you slid between him and the coffee table to make your way to the front door, trying not to focus on the scent of his cologne as you drifted by him so closely. You needed to get out of there. 

You barely remembered saying goodbye or the ghostly touch to your arm he offered in passing before you were out in the fresh air of your neighbourhood and you were trying not to stumble down his front path. The cookie was still held in your hand and your startled eyes darted back over your shoulder to his shut front door before you broke out into a brisk walk across the lawn and onto your own property. 

In the peace of your house, you shut your own front door once back inside and you leaned against it heavily, your chest rising and falling in your half panicked breaths. Nothing had happened but it felt like it had and the strange feeling of guilt bubbled up in your stomach. You had never before had thoughts of another man apart from Andrew but you pinned it to George’s manners and how he only said what you wanted to hear. There was nothing to feel guilty about because absolutely nothing happened. Just because you thought something didn’t mean you did anything wrong. 

The cookie was still in your hand and you pushed yourself away from the door to take it straight into the kitchen and you tossed it in the garbage bin, closing the lid loudly. 

Andrew got home around 6:45, just when you were putting dinner on the table. Richard hopped out of his chair to greet him with an excited hug and your husband crouched down to meet him with a wide grin and open arms. He asked his son how school was and half listened to his youthful explanation of his day as he greeted you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth and drifted past you to his seat at your dining room table. 

You ate together as a family like you almost always did and then when Andrew retired to the family room to wind down and watch some TV, you took Richard upstairs to get ready for bed. The little boy was bathed and dressed and afterwards he rushed downstairs to say goodnight to his father before you were tucking him into his single bed in his blue wallpapered room. You always loved watching your son fall asleep; there was something so peaceful about it and gave you a moment to admire his soft features without him running away with youthful exuberance. With a kiss to his head, you left him to sleep and shit his door behind you before making your way back downstairs. 

MTV was playing on the chunky TV across the family room and Andrew glanced up at you from the couch when you entered. He held his arm up and you gladly took the spot beside him and cuddled up close. He rested his head against yours with a soft sigh as he focused back on the music video he was watching with the host of MTV counting up that week's hits from the charts. 

“Imagine if I was #1.” he spoke quietly, almost dreamily. “Making it big in some internationally known band rather than rotting in some office in Manhattan. We’d have the money to afford an even bigger house.” 

You hummed plainly in acknowledgement and slid your arm around his middle as if in some desire to melt completely into him. 

Your lack of response had him looking over at you, “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” you mumbled.  

You weren’t looking at him but you could feel how he stayed staring at you for a few more seconds before he turned back to the TV too, not wanting to press you further. But then you shifted at his side so you could tuck your legs under yourself on the couch and face him properly. 

“Andy.”

“What’s up, sugar?” he rested his head back against his couch so he could look at you again. 

The random pop music video played on in the background. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” you confessed, trailing the hem of his collared work shirt with your finger. 

“Alright.” he leaned forward to mute the TV and the smiling dancers danced to nothing on the screen, giving you his full attention. 

When he was settled back in his spot on the couch, his big brown eyes on you and his hand on your thigh right where George’s had been earlier that day, you just blurted it out, “I want to have another baby.”

Said big brown eyes blinked at you once, twice, then his eyebrows furrowed for a half second before he spoke, “Oh.”

“We have a bigger house now and that empty room upstairs has been just calling to me or something. And I’ve always wanted many kids and Ritchie is the best we could ask for…where’s the harm in having a second of him?”

Andrew sighed and gave your thigh a squeeze just like George had, “I dunno, sugar.”

“Why not?” you frowned and leaned in closer to him, almost pleadingly. 

“Well, work is busy so I won’t be home much and we just are getting settled in this new place-”

“We’ll still have nine months to prepare!” you reminded him quickly. 

Andrew laughed lightly towards the carpet, “Yes, I know, but now Ritchie’s away at school and he’s already big and-”

“Which means I won’t have my hands as full taking care of a baby and a kid at home.”

“I don’t think we need another. I am perfectly happy with our little family as is. Aren’t you?”

You nibbled at your bottom lip as you stared at him while he looked at you expectantly and everything in your heart wanted to tell him no but your quiet voice abandoned you with a soft, “Yeah, I guess.”

Andrew lifted his hand from your lap to tuck your hair behind your ear before pulling you close by his arm around your shoulders, “Maybe you’re just saying this because you’re not used to being alone since Ritchie started school.”

“Maybe.” you muttered. 

“I am very happy with the life we have. I don’t need anything more.” he tried to be sweet about it but your heart ached and even as he kissed the corner of your mouth, you had to force the smile to come to your lips. 

Andrew rested his head against yours as he unmuted the TV and the top hit pop song filled your family room and the big house that felt empty in your heart. Your eyes drifted away from the screen to peer through the adjacent window that looked out towards the neighbour’s property and although only looking at red brick and white siding, you silently and guiltily wished you had what they had.

Since Richard had no siblings, you knew that it would be important for him to socialize outside of school with kids his own age at various activities. He had expressed interest in baseball not long before so you jumped on the opportunity to sign him up for the local little league team just before the fall season was set to start. You, yourself, were excited for a bit of a distraction after the ultimate letdown that was your conversation with your husband a few evenings prior although Andrew went about his days like nothing was wrong. 

On Tuesday evening, you were getting Richard into his baseball uniform for his first practice, making sure that the shirt and pants fit him properly on his young body that seemed to be growing faster than you could buy clothes for it. He stood proudly in his mirror in his room as you adjusted his navy blue baseball cap over his dark hair and swooped his messy bangs out of his face. Grinning up at you in approval, he didn’t even have to say a word for you to read exactly what was on his mind. 

“You look so grown up, Ritchie!” you gushed, crouching down to his height for one last shirt adjustment, “You excited?”

“Yeah! I’m gonna get a home run!” he announced. 

“I bet you are!” you held up your hand and he smacked his little palm against yours for a high five. “Come now, let’s show Daddy and then get your shoes on.” 

Richard rushed right out of his bedroom and hurried down the stairs in his socked feet, “Daddy, I’m ready!” 

Andrew was already waiting by the front door and seeing his son coming down the stairs brought a beaming grin to his face, “Looking so spiffy, little slugger.” 

You passed over the baseball shoes to your husband, “Can you put his shoes on for him while I get the snacks?”

“Of course.” Andrew took the pair from you and crouched down in front of the little boy who obediently rested his hands on his father’s shoulders and stuck one foot out for a shoe. 

You returned to the kitchen that still had the dinner dishes in the sink in need of washing but time was already cutting it close and you were already in a bit of a rush to get to the field in time. The cooler was packed and sitting beside the fridge and you checked that the watermelon slices and Hi-C juice boxes were tucked away with some bags of ice before locking the lid and carrying it back down the hallway to your family. Andrew took the cooler from you to carry it to the car himself and you ushered your excited five-year-old out of the door after him so you could close up the house. 

As you walked down the front path to the driveway, you couldn’t help but glance over to your neighbours’ and notice their family car was missing from their house. You forced yourself to ignore the curiosity that was getting the better of you as you had been in a constant strive to pretend absolutely nothing had happened between you and George. In reality, nothing did happen, but the strange feeling of guilt was eating at your heart. Some distance would do just the trick, you were sure. 

It was nice to have Andrew able to come to Richard’s first little league practice, especially after he was tired from a long day of commuting and work, but you thanked him silently with a quick kiss to his cheek as you climbed in the passenger seat of your station wagon. His warm smile back at you still managed to bring that little flutter to your heart after your six years together and you broke his gaze to glance to your son in the back seat. Richard gave you two thumbs up and a beaming grin that was all his father’s, making his big brown eyes scrunch closed at the corners, all ready to go to his first event. 

The community park was only about a five minute drive from your house and once Andrew pulled into the gravel parking lot, it appeared that there were still some families pulling up. The baseball diamond looked busy though so you hurried to get your son all signed in and so he could meet his teammates and coach. Andrew took the cooler and your hand while Richard ran ahead in his own determination to socialize. You joined the queue of parents by the team dugout who were signing in their sons and as you waited, you both watched Richard help himself to the group of boys who were playing in the red sand of the baseball diamond, all in matching navy blue uniforms with their own chosen number on their backs. 

After a few moments, Andrew gave your hand a squeeze to get your attention, “I’m going to put the cooler down and find us a spot on the bleachers. You okay to sign him in?”

“Of course.” you agreed. 

He left you with a brief kiss before heading off to the metal bleachers that were already dotted with parents and families alike. You watched him go for a few seconds before turning back to the lineup you were in, only to find yourself face to face with George himself. You were so startled that you nearly choked over your breath but he just smiled cooly. 

“Hello, neighbour.”

“Hey.” you stumbled out. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

George glanced down at his blue baseball jersey and then back to you with a casual wave of the clipboard in his hand, “I’m the coach.”

“Oh, right, of course you are.” you chuckled faintly. 

“Your boy signing up?”

“Yeah, his name should be on the list. Richard Ridgeley.”

George, who had looked down at his clipboard after his initial question, only glanced back up at you with his eyebrows raised. 

“What?” you asked worriedly.

He licked away his smile and looked back down to his list with a half shake of his head, “Nothing.”

If it was anyone else, you would have been mad, but it was George and you knew he meant no harm. You couldn’t help but smother a smile of your own in return, “Are you making fun of my son’s name?”

“Not at all. I love alliteration. Very poetic.” 

“Okay, shut up.” you laughed. “I bet your last name is no better.”

“Russell.” he told you smoothly with a playful glance. 

You scoffed teasingly, “Of course…George Russell…what a champion kinda name.”

“Who knows…maybe I’ll be MVP before you know it and you’ll be seeing my face everywhere…getting totally sick of me.” 

“Mhm.” you tried to steady the racing of your heart at the realization that you were already trying not to see his face everywhere, desperate to change the subject, “So is my kid on the list or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s here.” George crossed his name off, “I also see you’re down for snack duty.”

“Sure am. Brought my cooler and everything.” you gestured aimlessly towards the bleachers.

George looked back up at you but his eyes drifted past you with a tight smile. Before you could look over your shoulder to see what he was looking at, Andrew appeared beside you and set his hand on your back. 

“All signed up?” he asked. 

“Yeah. We’re all set.” you answered calmly. 

“Hey, mate, good to see you.” George held his hand out to your husband and they shook hands politely. 

“You too.” Andrew smiled, “It’s been a while.” 

“Sure has.” 

“Well we should let you get set up.” you said, taking a step away from George and closer to Andrew. 

“No worries.” George adjusted his cap on his head with a smile, “See ya after.”

Then he was walking off into the baseball diamond to corral the little boys to begin their practice. You and Andrew headed back to the bleachers and to the spot he had saved for you with the cooler and you sat on the metal bench between the other interested parents. It was surprising that so many parents wanted to stay and watch even if it was just a practice but it reinstated your good feelings about your new neighbourhood and how involved everyone was with the community. 

While George directed the boys through throwing drills and showing them how to swing the bats, you found yourself staring more at him than you son. There wasn’t really much to watch when the other kids were taking their turns anyway and there was something about George in those light wash blue jeans that just drew your eyes in shamelessly. They just fit so nicely over the curve of his ass and you habitually licked your lips with a focused cock of your head. 

Andrew’s arm draping around your shoulders made you jump and you pressed a hand to your heart despite his grinning face and you huffed, “You scared me.”

“That into the practice, huh?” he chuckled.

“Yeah.” you mumbled and looked back to the field for a moment, pulling Richard out of the crowd of boys with ease before you glanced back at your husband, “I’m glad you could come.”

“Of course.” Andrew smiled over at you in the evening sunshine, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I dunno. With work and the longer commute and all…you’ve seemed more tired…busy.”

Andrew sighed and pulled you closer by your shoulders and you rested your head against his as he spoke to you quietly, “Yeah, it has been a lot to get used to. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much and if you feel like I’m letting you down.” 

“Oh, you’re not letting me down.” you assured him, lifting your head up again so you could give him your full attention, “I’m proud of you for sticking with it even when it gets hard. You work so hard for Ritchie and for me and I really do appreciate it.”

Andrew reached his free hand up to tap your nose lightly and you shared in his calm smile before he was guiding you towards him by the chin for a kiss or two. 

“I love you.” he whispered against your cheek.

Your eyes drifted back out to the field, “I love you too.”

At the halfway mark, George called you over with the snacks and Andrew let you slip out of his arms to do your little job. You helped to hand out the juice boxes and watermelon slices to each little boy and most said thank you - and your son even gave you a kiss with his thanks. George stood beside you to watch as his little players ate their snack and relaxed on the grass for a few minutes and once your stock was empty, you closed up your cooler. 

“Thanks again for bringing the snack.” George said as you stood up. 

“Any time.” you smiled, “Is it a rotation thing or is it one parent for the season?”

“It depends. Why, are you willing to be the designated snack-bringer?”

“For you, sure.” 

It was out of your mouth before you could think about how it would sound and George’s expression rose into a hint of amusement. 

You cleared your throat, “And the boys, of course.”

“Of course.” George nodded. 

You stared at each other for a few seconds. 

Then, his hand was on your arm, “I should get back to practice. I will expect you here with snacks next week then.”

He was gone before you could process the warmth that his touch left and you just smiled and nodded after him as he herded the snacking boys back to the diamond, the sunshine yellow '63' printed boldly on the back of his jersey. You carried your empty cooler to the bleachers again and sat yourself stiffly beside your husband who was oblivious to anything going on and, instead, was waving to your son from across the field. 

For the next week or two, you ran into George more than you’d have ideally wanted. Between school drop off and pick up, little league baseball practice, and the casual neighbourly run-ins, it was starting to feel nearly impossible to avoid him. And, at the same time, the more you saw him, the more you didn’t want to avoid him. There was something so charismatic about him that made him so easy to talk to and to confide in and you hated to confess that you took him up on his offer for tea once or twice during the week. While you sipped in his living room, there was never a silent moment as there was always something to talk about and even little Nancy was starting to warm up to you just a little. 

Despite your fluctuating feelings towards your neighbour, your guilt was something that stayed stagnant. You loved Andrew with your whole heart and you never once doubted that, but the strange warmth that spread across your skin at a mere glance at George was unlike anything you had felt before. You swore it would be something you would take to the grave. No one - especially not George or Andrew - needed to know the internal battle you were facing. 

Since your first conversation with George at his house two weeks earlier, you only started to see more and more of the truth behind your honest chat. Andrew was working himself exhausted between the commute into the city and the lengthy hours which left almost no time for you to relax as husband and wife the way you would have appreciated. You tried to talk to him here and there about it but you also didn’t want to make him feel badly - you knew he was trying his absolute best and for that you were grateful. But still, at the end of the day, you were still a woman with needs and it was growing increasingly more frustrating to sit around and wait for him to give you the satisfaction that you needed. 

The one good thing about Richard being off at school was that you had more private time which, with children, often was incredibly few and far between. With your record player on, you were listening to Madonna’s album as you vacuumed the main floor of your house, letting your mind wander on its own. Maybe it was the emptiness of your house or maybe it was a certain time in your hormonal cycle but as the seconds ticked by, your desire to tend to the house diminished greatly. Finally, the vacuum was turned off mid chore and you rested it down on the carpet before flopping back onto the couch with a huff to the ceiling. Your music played on from the other room, the familiar scratch of the vinyl record bringing comfort and you closed your eyes for a moment to let yourself be taken by the celestial voice of Madonna. 

As if with a mind of their own, your fingers inched their way over your thigh and up to the waistband of your straight leg blue jeans and you popped the button, taking an habitual glance towards the front door as if someone were going to walk right in unannounced. But you were in the complete privacy of your own home, away from the paper thin walls of Manhattan apartment buildings, and you could do as you so pleased. Your jeans were dropped to the carpeted floor. 

Propping your feet up on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, you got yourself situated comfortably within the warm embrace of the sofa cushions and your eyes were drawn to your framed wedding photo that sat on the fireplace mantle directly in front of you. Licking your lips and then your fingertips, you didn’t tear your eyes away from it as you slipped your hand down the front of your underwear and refamiliarized yourself with your body. 

It had been so long that the first graze of your fingers had your lips parting in a soft gasp, working yourself slowly without any sort of prior build up, gentle circles over your aching clit. You hadn’t realized how many weeks had gone by without any sort of touch like this until you got yourself in that position. Under slightly furrowed brows, you stared straight ahead at your wedding photo, eyes boring into those of your husband without so much as a blink; almost as if you were reconditioning yourself to direct your full entire attention at him and him alone.

No more nonsense thoughts of the neighbour. 

Even though you spoke that line to yourself in warning, the concept just tasted so good to your mind with your hand down your panties and your legs spread in the middle of your sun-bathed family room. Flashes of him at the last little league game filled your head; the way his arms looked in that snug navy blue t-shirt standing out against his lightly tanned skin…his blue eyes sparkling every time he looked at you. You couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter closed and your head fell back against the couch with a soft whimper, shutting out the framed photo with the curse of your own mind. 

Little did you know, said neighbour was on his way over to your house at that very moment with a sealed Tupperware container in hand and a whistle on his lips. The faint muffled sound of Madonna leaking through your walls brought a fond smile to George’s face as he crossed over onto your property and made strides over your perfectly trimmed grass. His attention was caught by the sight of you through the single paned front window and he went to send you a smile and a wave until he stopped in his tracks at the realization of what he had stumbled upon. 

There you were, lounged back on your couch, socked feet propped up on the coffee table with your legs spread and your hand nestled between them. The look on your face was nearly erotic as you faced the ceiling with an angelic furrowed expression and made yourself writhe under your own touch, any sounds muted by the music that filled your empty home. 

George stepped away from the front window so as to not be caught and he turned to head back home to give you your privacy but before he crossed over the property line again, something stopped him. Almost like he was held by an invisible force, he stood dumbly at the edge of your lawn, staring at his house, the Tupperware container of homemade banana bread held in his hands. Everything in him knew it was wrong but he couldn’t help but glance back to the side of your white paneled home to the side window that gave him a direct glance inside and to the couch on which you sat. 

If anyone drove by, they would have thought this man looked absolutely ridiculous just standing there, but he was captivated by you, watching you touch yourself to whatever thoughts were taking up your mind. Little did he know, but they were thoughts of him. 

His name fell from your lips when you came, almost startling yourself in the process. As your body shuttered through the small waves of your orgasm, your eyes snapped open to land on your wedding photo again as if your husband had seen the whole thing. A furious blush came to your cheeks and you panted heavily as you tried to catch your bearings and process the realization of what you had just done. Sitting up a little more on the couch, you found yourself unable to look at the framed photograph again, instead, staring wide eyed into the darkened fireplace beneath. 

A flutter through the window beside the fireplace caught your eye but when you looked, there was nothing there. You hurried to tug your jeans back on and buttoned them up before making a beeline to the kitchen to wash your hands and splash some cool water on your face. What was wrong with you? Your husband was going to walk through the door in four hours and you were going to have to kiss him hello with the mouth that just moaned another man’s name. You were going to have to face said man at the bus stop in an hour and that was the last thing you wanted to do.

Before you knew it,

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

Silence. 

“Did you have a good day?”

“Huh? Oh, me? Yeah…fine. It was fine. Nothing…important.” you looked to the sidewalk beneath your feet. 

George nodded, “Nice.”

Silence. 

“How was yours?” you asked. 

“Fine. It was good.”

“Good.”

“Good.” 

Silence. 

You urged the bus to round the corner with the pleading glance of your eyes, desperate to escape the horribly awkward situation that was completely one sided. George cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to another at your side. Neither of you knew what the other knew and somehow it made it that much worse. You swore that even a few of the other parents at the bus stop were catching onto your horrible tension and you tugged at the collar of your shirt habitually to try and get some air. 

In reality, it was all in your head but, to be fair, George was all in your head too and that was the root of your issue. As you stood there, your mind taunted you with the thoughts that had clouded your mind that afternoon - curious imagination of how his lips would feel or how his hands could grab you or how his body would feel against yours, traced by your fingertips. You discreetly stepped away from him. 

In perfect time, the bright yellow school bus rounded the corner and you took that opportunity to step even further away from George, feigning it as simply excitement to see your son. Like every afternoon, Richard ran off the bus and right into your arms and you hugged him tightly with your warm maternal greeting. You barely gave George a goodbye before you were encouraging your son to race you home - a perfect excuse to get as far away from George as possible…and as quickly as possible. Of course, despite the way you ran down your street in the afternoon breeze, you still let Richard get to the front door first and you let him inside with a ruffle to his hair and one last glance from where you came, almost as if you were hoping to see your neighbour trailing after you. 

Later that evening, once Andrew was home and dinner was had and Ritchie was tucked into bed, you were desperate to repair the damage to your mind that you had caused by your own actions. Your husband was sitting in the same spot on the couch as you had been earlier that day, already in his pyjamas, a magazine in his hand as he read quietly by the light of the table lamp. He was oblivious but you felt as though just him sitting there would cause him to realize what you had done so the only way to prevent that was to bring your full and entire attention back to him - where it rightfully belonged. 

You plucked the magazine from his hands and tossed it onto the coffee table, urging his eyes to raise to your face as you tossed a leg over his lap and sat yourself down on his thighs. His hands fell to your hips just as you swooped in to kiss him purposefully, lingering on his lips for a few seconds before offering him a bit of tongue. He humoured you for a few seconds before he was tilting his head back with a soft chuckle to break your kiss. 

“What are you doing?” he asked playfully. 

You slung your arms around his shoulders and leaned forward against his chest until your noses were almost touching, asking him almost pleadingly, “Have sex with me.”

Andrew’s hands gave your hips a squeeze, “You know I love you,”

“Mhm.”

“But I’m far too tired for that right now, sugar, I’m sorry.”

“Andy.” you dropped your head back in frustration, staring at the same part of the ceiling that you had earlier that day.

“I’ll be nothing but completely disappointing to you.” he argued lightly. “You deserve my best.”

You frowned and slid off his lap onto the couch beside him with a sigh. 

“I’m sorry.” he repeated, leaving his hand on your waist to keep you close and he kissed up your neck, “It was just a really exhausting day today. Maybe this weekend, okay?”

“Since when do we have to plan it?” you tisked. 

“Since we got old.” he teased. 

A small smile perked at the corner of your lips and you swatted him gently with the back of your hand, “Speak for yourself.” 

Andrew kissed over your cheek and to your lips and you shared a few brief kisses before he replied softly, “We are the same age, in case you forgot, and thus we are going to get old together.”

Never before did that statement bring a tinge to your heart but in that moment it did and you could only pull a tight smile and nod in reply and he gave you one more kiss before shifting off the couch and taking you by the hand to lead you to bed. 

By Friday, you seemed to have fallen back into your usual routine of pretending that George didn’t exist. The few times you saw each other in passing or at the baseball games were few and far between and conversations didn’t stray farther than a polite hello or shallow discussions about your sons or the weather. Your initial guilt due to your solo situation on your couch from earlier in the week seemed to die down and you were very thankful for that. George was a great guy and you appreciated him as your neighbour and wanted to keep it that way. 

That might also have been a reason why he was the first person you thought to call when your washing machine flooded all over your basement floor just after lunch. If nothing else, he was kind and reliable. He came over right away with his tool box in hand and you opened the front door for him and led the way into the basement where the flood was occurring. The unfinished concrete floor was covered with a thin layer of cold water that only seemed to be leaking more from somewhere behind the washing machine. 

“I haven’t even used it since we moved in!” you said as you stepped cautiously through the water to your laundry basket that was sitting protected on top of the machine. “First time and of course it goes to shit.”

“It’s okay.” George set his tool box on top of the adjacent dryer and then leaned over the two machines to see down between them and the wall, flashlight in hand. “Good you called. Wouldn’t want you flooding away.”

“My new house at that.” you added. 

“Exactly.” George wrapped his hands around the sides of the washer and warned you politely, “Step back a bit.”

When you did, he heaved the machine away from the wall with a tight grunt and your eyes widened at the bulge of his biceps under his t-shirt. It certainly wasn’t a light thing to move so you coloured yourself impressed and you stayed out of his way as he managed to give himself enough space to get between the washer and the wall with a wrench from his tool box. You clutched your hands together and held them anxiously in front of your mouth as you watched him crouched down working, focusing your attention on hoping there was no damage done to your house rather than how his jeans fit him so nicely over his thighs.

“Nothing major.” he called out with his head still hidden by the washing machine, “Just a loose pipe. Guess they weren’t installed correctly.” 

“Damn.” you tisked.

“Yeah,” George chuckled, his voice tight as he worked the wrench around the pipe to fix it for you, “That’s what you can expect from these installers on new builds. They’re getting sloppy.” 

“You seem to know what you’re doing.”

George straightened up carefully from behind the washing machine, “Same thing happened to us when we moved in, if you can believe. I actually liked to pay attention to what the plumber was telling me…and guess it helped to save you $30.”

Your eyes widened, “$30? My Lord.” 

“Yeah,” George chuckled and set his wrench back in his tool box, “Should be all set now. If you have some towels we can use to mop up the floor that could be good. I can restart this load for you.”

“Sure. Thanks.” you headed back upstairs and traipsed your damp footsteps up to the second floor to retrieve all your towels you owned from the linen cupboard in the main bathroom. 

Bringing them all back to the basement, George had restarted your load of laundry that you had attempted to put on - including detergent and fabric softener and even set it to the correct wash cycle for your blouses. He then showed you the most efficient way to mop up the water with the towels without allowing it to leak into the foundation of the house and you couldn’t help but be impressed by his knowledge base. 

“I can’t thank you enough.” you said with a relieved sigh as you both stood on the bottom step of the basement stairs and admired the organized mess of towels soaking up the water.

“No problem at all.” George assured you modestly, “Was the most interesting thing to happen today.”

“Yeah, I bet.” you chuckled, “Nothing like a damsel in distress call to really shake up the lunch hour.”

“Hardly a damsel in distress.” George brushed his hand over your back casually, “You’re perfectly capable in many ways.”

You met his eye in the dim basement lighting before turning to look back up the flight of stairs as you cleared your throat, “Did you want tea or anything?”

“Sure. If you’re offering.” 

As you led the way back upstairs and into your kitchen, you realized that was the first time he was in your house. Of course, it was when your basement was flooding and you had breakfast dishes still in the sink and Richard’s toy cars scattered all over the family room and part of you felt embarrassed as if you had to impress him for some reason. 

“Sorry that the place is such a mess.” you rushed out as you hurried across the kitchen to try and make the mound of dishes in the sink look less disgusting. 

“No need to apologise.” George tisked, “Realities of parenthood. I get it. I don’t judge.” 

“Yeah.” you sent a calm smile over at him in silent thanks before focusing on filling up the kettle in the sink, ready to make you both tea just like he did for you that first day you truly talked. 

George set his tool box on the round kitchen table and stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans as he walked slowly around the kitchen and took in your shiny new house that was already starting to look like a home. The counter by the hallway archway was covered in pens and stamps and opened mail on which your address was written on each and addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs Andrew J Ridgeley’. George looked away, walking across the linoleum floor towards you and he leaned against the counter beside the stove as you turned on the burner and set the kettle down on top. 

“Where’s Nancy today?” you asked casually. 

“Oh, sometimes she goes to work with Jenn on Fridays and spends the day at the daycare in the office building. She has a few little friends there and whatnot so she likes it.” George explained. 

“That’s nice.” you replied, “So on Fridays you really feel like an empty-nester like me, huh?”

George laughed faintly, “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“Good thing I saved you then today.”

“Very good thing.” George agreed smoothly. 

There was a calm pause between you as the kettle boiled on the stovetop and you looked away from his light-eyed gaze with a casual lick to your lips. You tapped your fingers against the countertop. 

“Y’know,” George said, “I was worried you were avoiding me recently or something.”

You looked back at him, “What?”

“I just felt like you’ve been going out of your way not to talk to me or something so getting your call today kinda reassured me that we’re still on good terms.”

You let out a half laugh and rested your hand against your forehead for a brief moment in near embarrassment, “Actually…I kinda was, honestly.”

George’s eyes widened, “Oh? Did I do something?”

“No, no.” you assured him quickly, “We have just been spending a lot of time together and I didn’t want Andy to get the wrong idea.”

“Did he say something?”

“Well…no…but-”

“Then what wrong idea is there to get?”

You let out a soft nervous laugh without looking away from the steaming kettle but you didn’t offer him any sort of response. George cocked his head to the side slightly in acknowledgment that he was listening for your reasoning. You had his undivided attention. Why did it make you nervous?

“You’re just…” you sighed despite the anxious smile that you couldn’t lick away, staring unwaveringly at the stove, “Really sweet and really personable and I don’t want to get too comfortable and too close to where Andy might feel uncomfortable or suspicious. Or Jennifer, for that matter. There are boundaries, you know? I don’t want to overstep.”

“And if there weren’t boundaries? What would be different?”

The kettle whistled and you stalled in answering his question by taking it from the stove and turning off the burner so you could pour the water into the mugs to steep. Finally, you set the empty kettle back down and forced yourself to look at him, “I don’t think it’s appropriate to be talking about this.” 

“You started it.”

“I didn’t say anything.” you countered quickly, covering your bases. 

“It’s not what you’re saying…it’s how you’re saying it.” George said smoothly. You were suddenly very attuned to how warm and rich his voice was and your eyes flicked across his face like they always did when he was around, wanting to look at every inch of him. He continued purposefully, “How you can’t stop staring at me, especially.”

You scoffed and turned away from him with a blush rising to your cheeks, “I’m not staring at you.”

“You were. You often do.” George teased. “I’m not a complete idiot, I know when someone is checking me out.”

“I don’t-” you laughed nervously down to your steaming mugs of tea, your hands falling gently onto the edge of the counter, “I don’t check you out.” 

“Yes, you do.” George laughed just the same. “It’s okay. I don’t mind it. It’s flattering.”

You opened your mouth to reply with some defence but no words came to mind and you shut your mouth with a frustrated little huff and you pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes for a moment. With your cheeks so warm they could keep your tea hot, you almost wanted to leave if it wasn’t for the fact that it was your own kitchen you were both standing in. 

When your hands dropped loudly to your sides, George leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest as he asked in retaliation, “Do you mind when I check you out?”

Offering a disbelieving laugh, you glanced over at him, “You don’t check me out.”

“Why do you say that?” he questioned. 

“Why?” you were taken aback, “Because I dunno. Because why would you?”

“Because you’re beautiful.” George answered. “And I most definitely stare at you…although I must be better at hiding it than you are.”

You kept your eyes on his, eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment, and you let a faint smile prick at your lips as you gave him a faint shake of your head. 

“Can I confess something?” he asked. 

“Sure.”

“The other day I came over here to bring you some banana bread I had baked but…I saw that you were already occupied on the couch.” he gestured haphazardly behind him towards your family room. “And I might have stared at you a little then.”

Your eyes widened and you raised your hands to your cheeks in realization, “Oh my God.”

“I’m really sorry, I should have just left when I first noticed but…” George sighed, “You looked fucking gorgeous when you were touching yourself like that.”

“That’s so embarrassing.” you mumbled despite your smile and the eye contact you kept with him. 

“No, it’s not.” George shrugged, “We’re human…we can do whatever we need to in the privacy of our own homes.”

“With peeping neighbours in our windows.” you teased. 

“Hey, now.” he laughed, reaching out to gently nudge your arm, “Not like I was standing out there with binoculars in one hand and my dick in the other.”

Your smile faltered for a second as if he had completely read your thoughts from that day and how you shamefully fantasized about him as you made yourself cum on your family couch. George’s hand grazed down your arm and his finger linked in the sleeve of your blouse for a brief moment as if he were debating something in his own mind. 

Then, his eyes focused on yours once more and he asked as casually as the weather, “What were you thinking about?”

It was a question that would ultimately change the course of your life depending on how you answered but at the moment, you didn’t think that deeply about it. He was right there and he already confessed that he liked it when he stumbled across you like that, the least he deserved was an honest answer. Not to mention the gorgeous blue of his eyes was so mesmerizing that maybe you were a bit dizzy by him as you breathed out a soft, “You.”

Pin drop silence. 

Unbreakable eye contact. 

And then he was grabbing you by the back of your neck and yanking you towards him for a kiss that burned every inch of your skin. 

Your hands grasped the front of his t-shirt to hold him as close as possible, letting your lips mould sloppily together in some sort of semblance of a kiss that easily progressed into more. Standing at the counter in your kitchen, you grabbed onto each other like you were life preservers and he kissed you with so much passion that you had nearly forgotten what it had been like to be craved so carnally like that. He nearly took the breath from your lungs, bending over you until your back was arched and your body took the shape of his. Your hands tangled in the back of his hair as your lips smacked together wetly, tongues pushing together for a greedy taste of infidelity; although your spouses were the last things on your minds. 

The steeping tea was forgotten about as he guided you backwards blindly across the kitchen and you gently hit the edge of the opposite counter, giving him the chance to grab the backs of your thighs and hoist you up onto it. Right away, your arms and legs were slinging around his body and yanking him closer all without breaking your kiss, sharing hungry moans into each other's mouths. Your fingers tightened in his soft hair but your aggression just pulled a handsome groan from his throat that tasted like heaven against your tongue. 

With your ankles linked behind his back, you used the heels of your feet to pull him closer to the counter as you rested near the edge so the front of his blue jeans were pressed up snugly against yours, getting your fix of that fiery touch after so long, regardless of who it was. Your eyes were shut tightly with greed, taking what you wanted from his lips with your body arching against his. George’s hands on your hips pressed indentations of his fingerprints into your flesh and he held you against him as he grinded against you faintly. 

The sweet moan that fell from your lips had him moving like that again, rutting the front of his jeans right up between your spread legs, creating that friction that satisfied the craving of pleasure that you ached for. You moved with him faintly, grinding against his body in return from your spot on the edge of the kitchen counter until you both were turning more and more desperate from it. 

George broke away from your kiss first and his hands shoved up the bottom of your blouse and lifted it over your head so it could be tossed aimlessly to the floor. You panted heavily to the kitchen as he moved his kisses down your neck and over your breasts that were tucked in your unflattering bra but he didn’t mind one bit. He groaned against your chest as he sank to his knees in front of the counter, “You’re fucking sexy.” 

“Holy shit.” you exhaled, lifting your bum off the countertop when he popped the button on your jeans so he could yank them off you. 

“That’s it.” George licked his lips as he guided your feet back until your heels were tucked on the edge so you were spread open for him, only separated by your underwear. He leaned in close and dusted his nose right up between your legs before his tongue was following, teasing your pussy over your underwear with the faintest of touches that still managed to make you squirm. He stared up at you from his knees, sending you a teasing wink as his fingers linked in the hem of your panties and he started to pull them down too, “I’ve wanted to do this for too fucking long.”

Once they were dropped to the floor too and your feet were back in place where he wanted them, you could barely rush out a reply, “Me too.”

In reality, you hadn’t truly realized you wanted that until you were put in that position but the images that your mind pictured earlier that week certainly might have proved otherwise. 

He touched you like you were a masterpiece, gliding two fingers down between your glistening folds with his lips parted in near awe, watching how your wetness clung to his fingertips greedily. You raked a hand through his hair to guide his face in too and he gladly obeyed, nustling his tongue alongside his fingers with a gorgeous exhale that sent shivers up your spine. The caresses of his tongue were devine and he teased around your clit and down across your pussy in gentle strokes that had your head lolling to the side. 

Being in that position wasn’t new to you - you had a husband after all - but you weren’t aware of how limited your experience might have been until George had you there. His first few touches and licks were expected and you offered him soft hums in appreciation, your teeth sunken into your bottom lip faintly as you watched him between your thighs. But then his large hands were sliding around your thighs and his fingers pressed into your flesh, his wedding ring on his left hand shimmering in the early afternoon sunlight, and he was nuzzling his face deeper with quick laps of his tongue. Your mouth fell open at his insistence and your hand in his hair gripped tighter in surprise. 

“Oh-” you stumbled out faintly. 

George tugged you closer to the edge of the counter as he slurped at your cunt until he was sucking on your clit and your head tossed back with a sharp gasp and your back straightened up. 

“Fuck!” you squeaked.

He hummed against you, blue eyes staring straight up your body to gauge your every reaction as he tongued at your clit in quick strokes. The feeling was intense and you didn’t know what to do with yourself as you gaped dumbly into your kitchen and almost choked over your breath, eyes struggling to stay open, and your hand that wasn’t tangled in his hair ended up slamming flatly against the side of your refrigerator. The upper cabinets caught your head as you let out a loud moan to the ceiling, toes curling over the edge of the countertop, and George only grabbed tighter to your thighs to hold you on his mouth. 

Your hand tightened in his hair although you couldn’t decide if you were pulling him closer or wanting to push him away with how strong the pleasure was that he built within you. You mouthed a silent chant of “fuck, fuck, fuck-” to your kitchen ceiling, gaping dumbly to the light fixture. George took his right hand back just long enough to slip two fingers in his mouth before he was guiding them slowly inside your leaking pussy. 

“Oh God-” you whined tightly. 

“Good girl.” he praised warmly against your cunt as his fingers started to thrust into you shallowly but strongly. “This what you were thinking about?”

“Mhm-” you could only nod cluelessly, barely able to make out what he was saying thanks to the ringing of your ears that was brought on by the pleasure he introduced to your body. 

His tongue flicked faster at your clit and his fingers nudged up against that warm spongy spot just inside you at a perfect consistent pace. The moans that tumbled from your lips were nearly involuntary, coaxed out of you by his generous touch, until you were sure the neighbours could hear - if it weren’t for the fact that your neighbour was the one between your legs at that very moment. All your stresses and anxieties from the prior few short weeks seemed to fall away and the rush of pleasure that tore through your body completely made up for it. 

You felt dizzy and you rested your head back heavily against the upper cabinets behind you with your eyes screwed shut, barely able to choke out a, “Yes-”

George gripped you tighter and kept his pace going, keeping his eyes on your face even if you weren’t looking at him. He analyzed your every flutter of expression to see just how you wanted it, smothering a half smirk at the displeased huff that you let out when he gave his tongue a break to suck on your clit instead. The change up took a second to get used to but you had never been so catered to before so you weren’t one to complain, tightening your fingers in his soft hair while he worked wonders on you. 

Then that build up was forming again, flushing warmth across your skin, and you gaped down to him, “Yeah, yeah, yeah-”

George didn’t move a muscle from exactly where you needed him even as your legs started to quiver from where you were held open. You choked over your next breath as the first wave of pleasure tore down your spine and George gripped onto your thighs to hold you steady on the edge of the kitchen counter as you came on his mouth. His name fell from your lips like it was second nature and it truly felt so much better when he was there to hear it himself. 

He pulled away once you started to get sensitive and he pulled his fingers out of you as he stood up and he rubbed along your messy cunt in lazy strokes. Your hand in his hair slid around the back of his neck and pulled him in for another open mouthed kiss, instantly sharing the taste of you that lingered on his tongue and you sucked on it greedily. George blindly unbuttoned his jeans while he kissed you, barely able to drop them and his underwear to the floor before you were tucking your legs around his waist again and tugging him closer. 

“No one’s ever gone down on me like that before.” you confessed breathily between feverish kisses.

“No?” George chuckled cockily into your mouth, kicking his jeans off his ankles and across your kitchen floor, “Well good thing you have me.”

You offered a sweet “mhm” in reply that was quickly swallowed up by his lips once more. 

He grabbed your thighs again and tugged you closer to the edge of the counter, “This okay?”

“Yeah.” you slung both your arms around his shoulders, leaving one hand in his hair and the other grasping onto the back of his shirt. 

“You want this?” he asked breathily. 

“You have no idea.” 

The two of you shared faint laughter that was swallowed up by a few more sloppy lustful kisses before George was breaking away from you long enough to look down between you so he could angle the head of his cock against your slick cunt. You shuttered slightly in anticipation, clinging onto the back of his shirt as you breathed him in greedily with your nose pressed against his cheek. 

George pushed inside you slowly and once that aching stretch came to spread across your hips, your eyes met closely as your mouth fell open with a soft gasp. His eyes darted across your face before his lips were capturing yours in a sensual kiss and he slid deeper inside you with his hands grabbing at your doughy hips, sinking himself into your body. The wavering breath he let out into your mouth was laced so perfectly with the faintest moan and you felt it right through your body, making your muscles flutter around him. 

“Holy shit.” George slid a hand around the back of neck, his fingers nestled in the roots of your hair, and he pulled your lips harder onto his with an underlying sense of urgency that burned hot over your skin. And, as he did, he started to thrust into you hungrily, sharing in your whimpering moan that blessed your kiss. 

“Fuck.” you choked out, your grip tightening on the fabric of his shirt as if to pull him impossibly closer. 

Your kisses were messy from the quick aggression with which he fucked you on your kitchen counter but you kept at it like you never wanted to stop, unable to get enough of each other and the addictive drug of sin that joined you together. When even what he gave you didn’t feel sufficient enough, you pressed your heels into the flesh of his ass to try and get him to give you more, whining desperately against his tongue-led kisses. He stopped completely, nestled as deep inside you as he could fit, and your head dropped back against the upper cabinets behind you with a warm moan at the glorious fullness he offered you. George grabbed your ass and pulled your body right up against his so he could lift you up off the counter and into his arms. 

You gasped in surprise but clung onto him tightly, trusting him entirely to do whatever he pleased, and your hands splayed across his back over the thin material of his shirt to feel the way his toned back flexed as he held your body weight. He carried you through the adjacent doorway into the dining room and through the spacious archway into the front living room, the afternoon sun streaking in through the large picture window at the front of the house. The carpet was soft beneath his feet and hid his footsteps as he blindly navigated his way to the couch, still taken up by your lips that kissed him like he was more important than air. George sat himself down heavily on the couch with you perched perfectly on his lap, his dick still tucked warmly inside you. 

“Mm, my God.” you withered, driven by humanistic lust, and you were right away starting to bounce on his lap. 

“Holy fuck, you’re sexy.” George groaned, slumping back comfortably on your couch that had been a wedding gift to you and your husband. He stared up at you with dilated blue eyes and he licked his lips at the sight, his large hands on your hips following your eager motions. But despite the obvious intent you held, he still reminded you politely, “You tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not.” you insisted strongly, grounding your hands flat against his chest so he was held down on the couch and you had the leverage to ride him harder. You had wanted that for what felt like weeks now and even though you had initially wanted it from your husband, you couldn’t be completely blamed for finding it elsewhere. 

“Oh my God, look at you.” he breathed in near awe, “You want it so bad.” 

You couldn’t bite back the sly smile that pricked at the corner of your mouth even if you scrunched your eyes shut and tilted your head back in some effort to keep him from seeing the effect he had on you. Your skin clapped lewly against his thighs with every bounce, tainting your marital home each and every time. The feeling of his hand around your throat startled you slightly. 

“This okay?” he asked. 

“Fuck, yeah.” you stumbled out. 

That wasn’t new either and you had your fair share of more kinky interactions with your husband before he was your husband and before parental responsibilities and careers started to diminish the passion. It had been far too long. 

“Harder.” you ordered. 

George’s hand squeezed your throat a little tighter, “Better?”

“Mhm.” you withered, still messily bouncing on his lap. 

“What do you say?” 

His demand took you by surprise but it was invigorating and you looked down at him and his handsome lust filled expression, offering him an angelic, “Thank you.” 

“Thank you, sir.” he corrected you smoothly. 

You nearly choked over your breath and the obvious reaction to that simple demand had Georges smirking proudly under you as you tried to keep riding him on your couch. 

His hand tightened around your neck a little more, ordering you strongly, although his voice could never get rid of the undertones of gentleness, “Say it.” 

“Thank you, sir.” you exhaled. 

“Good girl. You’re doing such a good fucking job.” 

“You feel so fucking good inside me.” you whimpered. “I don’t wanna stop.” 

“Don’t. Keep going until you make yourself cum.”

A soft chuckle left your lips as you confessed, “I can’t cum like this.”

“No?” George tugged at your neck to urge you down on top of him so you were chest to chest and he could kiss you. 

You took that opportunity to rut yourself against him greedily, rocking your hips back and forth on his lap with your clit rubbing faintly against his pelvis just enough to get a little huff out of you against his lips. George let go of your throat to take two handfuls of your ass instead and he guided you into stronger motions against his body, keeping you on his cock even as you used his body to stimulate your aching clit. Your fingers fisted the front of his shirt tightly, moaning into his mouth while his tongue pushed insistently against yours until you were falling breathless. 

When he slid his hands up your back, you tried to keep yourself going the way he had started for you but it wasn’t the same. Before you could beg for him to help you again, he was swallowing you up in his arms and smoothly sliding one of his legs under him so he could flip you over and drop you both lengthwise across the living room couch with him rightfully on top of you. 

“Fuck.” you squeaked, throwing your arms around his shoulders just as he started thrusting into you roughly, forcing your head back against the arm of the couch with a choked, “Sh-Shit!” 

“Better?” George taunted against your cheek.

“Yes, sir.” you whimpered. 

His chuckle was low and warm and your toes curled at the sound, legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. But he would never dream of stopping, not when he had you where he had dreamt of having you for as long as you had imagined the same about him. 

What had started as a somewhat cautious rendezvous had quickly moulded into a carnally lustful hookup, entirely trusting of each other, and he wasn’t holding back as he fucked you on your couch harder than you had been in a while. You couldn’t even manage to form words as you stared up at him above you with your mouth agape and your eyebrows furrowed with intense pleasure, stupid little moans tumbling freely from your throat as language abandoned you. His icy stare was steamy hot and you refused to look away for even a second, raking your nails across the back of his t-shirt until the fabric was definitely being creased and wrinkled. 

“Want me to make you cum, sweetheart?” 

His voice was ethereal and you could have finished from that sentence alone, the pet name causing your swollen cunt to tighten around him for a moment. 

“Use your words.” George teased. 

“Please,” you forced out, “sir.” 

“Can you cum like this?” he asked softly. 

You nodded quickly, already feeling the seeds of an impending orgasm blossoming inside you, “Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” George chuckled, nudging his knees across the floral couch cushion to be a bit closer to you, keeping his thrusts so perfectly deep, and when he sat back from you just enough to get his hand around your throat again, he was at the perfect angle to hit your g-spot dead on. When you took in a sharp breath at the quick rising pleasure from his minor adjustment, he smirked down at you, “You needed it that bad, huh? Already gonna cum for me?” 

“Yes, sir.” you repeated dumbly up to him, swimming in a euphoric haze, “Please don’t stop.” 

“No way, baby.” he promised, keeping your unwavering eye contact, “Wanna feel you cum all over my fucking cock.” 

“Please.” you breathed, face scrunching up from the intense sensations. “Please-“

George was on the same wavelength as he was blessed with the glorious feeling of your body, already feeling himself falling into his own rising pleasure. His hand that wasn’t taken to your throat was gripping the arm of the couch beside your head and with every thrust, his hair was falling farther over his forehead on beautiful messy waves. You wanted to kiss him again but you wanted him to make you cum more, so you didn’t dare move him from his positioning, taking the view gladly instead as your attention was all on him and your fingers stayed locked around the fabric of his shirt. 

“Fuck, that’s a good girl, I can feel you tightening up already.” George spoke down to you, his voice so rich and heavenly you swore it made you dizzy. 

“I’m gonna cum.” you whimpered loudly, head lifting from the arm of the couch so you could peer down your body and watch how he fucked you, the sight of his dick disappearing inside you before pulling back out almost all the way covered in your glistening wetness in rapid succession only making your impending orgasm feel stronger and stronger. You were almost sure you were going to rip his shirt right off him as you squeaked out, “Fuck, fuck fuck, right there, right there-“ 

“Uh huh?” George’s jaw clenched as he tried to hold himself back for the sake of you as the priority. You had to finish first. 

The moment that the first wave of pleasure hit you, your entire body shuttered and your head tossed back against the arm of the couch with a silent gape to the ceiling, eyes screwed shut. Then it was all let out with the most beautiful trembling moan George had ever heard and you filled your silent house with the sounds of your euphoria and the praise of his name, painting the walls in sin. You hadn’t cum that hard in a while to the point where you almost blacked out from the strength of it and your body wrapped itself around George to yank him down on top of you for something to hold onto. 

That just made it even more impossible for him to stop as he kept fucking you right through it, groaning loudly against your cheek as he fought against your vice-like grip around his aching cock. He was getting sloppy with it, losing himself in the warm wet heaven of your pussy and the lewd sound it filled the living room with. Your ankles linked behind his back and pulled him in deeper, gasping and whimpering in sensitivity that you pushed aside to bask in the glorious and reliving pleasure he brought you. 

“I…” George choked out, dipping his face into your neck as you held each other tightly, “I’m gonna fucking cum.” 

“Gimme it.” you pleaded. “Please, sir.” 

Forward thinking was not your priority in that moment as all you craved was for him to claim you completely, filthily, beautifully. For all you cared, this could have just been one perfectly intense dream and you wanted to make the absolute most of it. 

With a few more thrusts, George was shoving hard into you once more and as his dick throbbed inside you, he came strongly, spurting thickly as deep as he could reach. Your mouth fell open at the feeling and one hand flew to his hair to tangle in the soft strands and hold his face in your neck as he moaned heavenly against your flushed skin. He ground into you greedily, giving you everything he had and it made your mouth water, your head tilting back to stare up at the living room ceiling with a mouthed ‘oh my God’. 

“Fuck.” George huffed, gently allowing his body weight to rest on top of you completely. 

You welcomed him gladly and enveloped him in your embrace and even kissed his head and his faint breathy chuckle at your action had you smiling. The pleasure hormones swirled around your mind and body and before they could fade away, George was sliding his hand over your cheek and guiding your lips to his for a slow, sensual, breathless kiss. 

The two of you made out like that on the couch for a few minutes, what was once such a rush now dimmed down to lazy yet purely passionate kisses in the silence of your marital home. He was still tucked inside you and feeling his body so close with yours was addicting. Your fingers scratched through the back of his hair and he broke your kiss to rest his head against your collarbones. 

“I needed that so fucking bad, oh my God.” George sighed. 

“Me too.” you confessed lightly. 

“It’s been way too long.”

“Tell me about it.”

There was a moment of silence as the reality of your situation settled on your minds. 

“We really did that.” you exhaled. 

“Yeah.” George sighed. 

“Do you regret it?” 

George lifted his head from your shoulder to look at you properly, “Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

A faint smile pricked at the corner of his mouth and he answered with a soft, “No.”

You trailed your hand out of his hair and down the side of his neck to guide him in for a chasté kiss, “Me neither.” 

George gave you one more kiss before he was carefully sitting back from you, “Our tea is probably cold.”

You giggled softly, “Probably.” 

“Want me to get you your clothes?”

“Please.” 

He carefully pulled out and you let your hand take his place, staying on your back to keep from leaking out onto the couch, and he disappeared back into the kitchen. For the few seconds he was gone, you stared wide-eyed out the front window to the tree-lined street, the heavy side of reality settling onto your consciousness. If you had felt guilty about your thoughts the last weeks, then this was unimaginable. You committed arguably the ultimate sin in marriage - how would you ever come back from this? 

“Here you go.”

George held out your underwear to you first and you glanced up at him - now fully dressed himself - and you took them from him with a soft thanks. He helped you up from the couch and you hurried to shimmy your clothes on while he watched you. 

“This should be a one time thing, right?” you said after a moment. 

“Yeah, probably.” George sighed. 

“And…just between us?” 

“Of course.” he agreed quickly. “We don’t want to…mess everything up.”

“Yeah.” you smiled faintly, thankful that he understood. 

You could see him hesitate for a moment before he was taking your hand and leaning in to kiss you again. Despite the events that had just happened, the move made you a little shy and you pulled away a second later with a bashful smile to the ground. His thumb brushed over your skin lazily and as you stood together in your living room face to face in the afternoon sun, you felt drawn into him to steal another gentle kiss from his plush lips. Without sharing a word or any additional touch, you kissed softly, innocently, for a few long seconds before breaking away from each other again. You licked your lips that tasted like him and he noticed with a fond smile. 

“The school bus should be here soon.” he said. 

“Mhm.” you hummed, only half paying attention as your gaze was transfixed by his swollen lips. 

“We can walk together if you want.” 

“Mhm.” 

There was another momentary silence between you and George’s faint bite to his bottom lip had your eyebrows naturally peaking for a split second. He could read your face like it was the front page of the morning paper. 

“This isn’t going to be a one time thing, is it?”

You shook your head and took the half step closer to him as you leaned in for another tender kiss. 

He was everywhere in your house now. Everywhere you looked it was tainted with George and you were worried that it showed all over your face. The kitchen...the living room…everywhere you looked. That very same night you stood in the kitchen preparing dinner while Richard watched TV in the family room and you tried not to think about the memories that the counter behind you held or pay attention to the constant leak that dampened your panties under your jeans. Andrew would be home in no time and you had only that long to compose yourself enough to face him like nothing was wrong. 

The phone on the kitchen wall rang loudly, startling you dramatically and your head whipped around to it. You set the knife down on the cutting board and wiped your hands on your apron as you made your way over to it. Without thinking twice, you answered it with a casual, “Hello?”

“Hey, my love. It’s me.”

Your grip tightened on the receiver at your husband’s voice and you cleared your throat before answering, “Hi, Andy. What’s going on?”

“I just heard news that the boss wants me to come out for dinner with a potential client tonight so I won’t be home until a bit later. Nothing crazy but we’re hoping to get them onboard with this pitch and apparently bottomless wine is the way to do it.” his soft chuckle acted as a way to cover up his disappointment - you knew that well after your few years together. 

“Oh. Okay.” you looked to the ground, silently grateful you wouldn’t have to face him until later. 

“I’m really sorry, sugar.” Andrew said softly through the phone, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“No, no. That’s okay. Do what you gotta do.” you pulled the most chipper voice you could. 

“I’ll make you proud.”

You slouched your shoulder against the wall, “You always do, Andy.” 

“Tell Ritchie I say hello and I love him. I won’t be back before his bedtime.” 

“Of course. Be safe, okay?”

“I will. I love you.”

You nibbled your bottom lip for a half second before answering through the guilt that burned within you, “I love you too, honey.” 

It was almost 11pm when you heard the front door open. Richard had long been put to bed - although not without asking for Andrew a half dozen times and trying to stall bedtime so he could see him before he slept - and even you had retired to bed yourself. With a book in hand, you were in your nightgown on your side of the bed in the warm light of your bedside lamp, trying to look as nonchalant as possible for when your husband would return home. He didn’t need to know a single thing and especially not how often you had been thinking of how George’s night was going since you had parted that afternoon. 

Each quiet footstep on the stairs had your heart racing but you had all evening to calm yourself so you had belief that you were definitely able to play it cool. So, when the bedroom door opened and Andrew stepped inside in his black work slacks and pale blue button up, you offered him a loving smile. He closed the door behind him again so as to not wake your son and it was then that you noticed the small bouquet of flowers in his hand. Your smile faltered for a moment, feeling an uncomfortable weight settling in your chest. 

Andrew just kept his warm grin and he walked over to your bedside to lean down to greet you with a kiss and the flowers, “Happy anniversary, sugar.” 

You didn’t know what to say for a moment, using all your willpower to keep the smile on your face despite the fact that you completely forgot it had been your wedding anniversary of all days. But you closed your book and set it on your bedside table, “Aw, thank you, my love.”

“I’m really sorry I missed most of the day.” Andrew said, leaning down to kiss your cheek.

“That’s okay.” you brushed it off easily since you did much worse that day, “You’re here now.”

“Finally.” Andrew took the flowers across the room and set them on the dresser still in their cellophane so he could get ready for bed. “And it’s Friday, thank God.”

You watched him loosen his tie and then slide it off from around his neck and he dropped it on the dresser before starting to unbutton his shirt. 

You tried to keep casual conversation, “How was the dinner?”

“It went really well actually.” Andrew said, “Got them on board and they will be signed with us on Monday.” 

“That’s great! Although I didn’t have any doubts; you’re their best guy anyway.” 

“You flatter me,” Andrew glanced over at you with a sweet smile as he walked across the room and draped his shirt over the back of the armchair. He then unbuckled his belt before it, too, was joining the forming pile on the chair and he dropped his slacks, “But now I don’t want to think about work because it’s now the weekend and it’s our anniversary and all my attention is yours. I told you I’d make today up to you.”

“That’s okay.” you assured him softly. “I’m not upset.” 

“I am.” he protested gently and your eyes followed him back across the room and around to his side of the bed. He pushed back the sheets and climbed in beside you in only his underwear, telling you honestly, “I’ve felt so badly saying no to you so much the last little while.”

“It’s really okay, honey.” you promised, lolling your head to the side to look at him. 

“Nope, not accepting that.” he tapped your nose, “I can tell I was doing nothing but disappointing you and I don’t like doing that. Not that we need an excuse but I think our anniversary is the best time to get back at it, you reckon?” 

You didn’t realize how hard you were biting your bottom lip until the pad of his thumb gently swiped over it to get you to let go and then he slid his hand around the side of your face and guided you in for a soft kiss. You tried to push the guilty thoughts to the back of your mind and focus on your kind-hearted husband at your side who, even after an insanely long work day, still wanted to give you what you wanted. There was no doubt in your mind that you were still in love with him, but you kept your new secret locked away in order to prevent hurting the man you loved. 

Andrew was obviously clueless to your internal affairs and his kisses were just as passionate as ever, still managing to erupt butterflies in your stomach with every lingering lock of your lips. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist of the hand that cradled your face and the fact that he didn’t have an ounce of suspicion from the taste of your lips that had kissed another man made you sure that you could have your cake and eat it too. It was almost thrilling. 

Your husband broke your kiss and reached under the sheets to tug at the hem of your nightgown, “Wanna take this off for me?” 

You gladly pulled it over your head and tossed it to the carpeted floor beside the bed and he moved in again to kiss your neck while his hand trailed down your naked body and traced the shape of your breasts and the peak of one of your nipples. He definitely knew where to touch you and that was never a question, proven by the way your eyes fluttered shut when his lips grazed just the right spot under your ear and his tongue against your skin pulled shivers down your spine. 

You took the initiative to shuffle yourself on the mattress so you could lay yourself down properly against your pillow and Andrew was following after you gladly, laying half on top of you with his forearm holding him up at your side. Your hands guided his lips back to yours and you shared deepening kisses in the warmth of your shared bedroom. With your fingers tangled in the back of his short brown hair, you shared the responsibility of guiding your kisses until his tongue was nudging against yours. Opening up for him was easy but there was that tiny worry in the back of your mind wondering if somehow he could tell who else you had been kissing in his absence. 

In reality, Andrew was perfectly clueless, and he trailed his hand down your bare body and under the sheets and right over the front of your panties. You hummed pleasantly into his kiss and spread your legs a little more for him, urging his hand to rub strongly across your clothed pussy. After a few seconds, he was pulling away from your lips with a faint smile at the corner of his mouth and you met his gaze with your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“Oh my God,” Andrew chuckled breathily, his hand still helping itself between your legs, “You’re so wet.”

You could only offer him a soft giggle that he kissed away greedily. 

“I’ve kept you waiting that long, hm?” he teased against your mouth. 

You could only manage a faint nod into his kisses.

He didn’t need to know that most of that wetness he was feeling was thanks to your neighbour. 

Andrew pulled away from your lips for a moment so he could focus on shoving down your underwear under the blankets and you blindly helped to kick them off to get lost under the sheets. Once his fingers found your cunt again, you were pulling his lips back on yours by the back of his neck, silently praying he couldn’t feel the remnants of George’s cum still leaking out of you. But he was blissfully unaware as he touched you like that, fingers rubbing at your clit and then sliding between your glistening folds and back up, his lips pulling hungry kisses from your own. 

When he finally pulled away from your lips, you followed his lead to hold up the sheets to let him shuffle himself underneath them, sharing soft laughter at the ungraceful nature of it as he got himself between your legs. You let the bed sheets fall overtop of him and you adjusted your pillow under your head with a nervous lick to your lips as you stared up at the ceiling. You were sure there was no way he could know - it had been all afternoon and evening after all - but a part of you couldn’t help but feel nervous. 

The first touch of his tongue against your pussy had your eyelids fluttering and your breath shuttering in your chest. He nudged your legs open wider and his hands wrapped around your thighs, holding you open for his mouth and the gentle caresses of his tongue. Your eyes bore into the ceiling, focusing on the touches of your husband beneath your bedsheets, shamefully thinking back to that afternoon when George had you up on your kitchen counter and ate your pussy like it was his last meal. Andrew’s lazy and gentle strokes weren’t bad, just…different. Familiar. Expected. 

He moved as if he were cleaning you up rather than aiming to make you messier and although it felt good, it still fell short. You shut your eyes and tried to focus on it a little more, offering a soft hum to the dimly lit bedroom as your fingers grasped the pillow you were lying on. You exhaled to the ceiling, trying to relax yourself into the mattress without thinking too hard about the fact that your husband was pretty much eating another man’s cum out of you at that very moment. 

After only a few more seconds, Andrew pressed a sloppy wet kiss to your clit and then started to move back. Eyes snapping open, you set your hand on top of his head over the sheets, holding him in place as you requested quietly, “Can you put your fingers in me too?”

“Sure.” he chuckled faintly, words muffled by the sheets and duvet. 

You felt him glide his fingers across your slick pussy and then he was sinking two inside you slowly, right down to the knuckle. His tongue followed again and he lapped at your clit while his fingers pushed strongly inside you all the way and back out in slow thrusts. 

“Yeah,” you breathed, keeping your hand on the back of his head, “Faster.”

He followed your demand with fingers and tongue, ravishing you a little faster until his jaw was starting to ache and his hand was cramping up from those quick thrusts. Andrew hummed flatly against you and slowed himself down after a few seconds and before he could stop completely, you were squirming slightly underneath him. 

“Can you only go, like, halfway with your fingers?” you requested quietly. 

There was a pause and then movement as he shuffled his way out of the sheets to let them fall to the end of the bed, exposing your naked body to the air conditioned bedroom. He caressed your hip gently with a quiet, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” you replied almost too fast, “Why?” 

“It’s just…you’ve never had to tell me what to do before. I always usually make you cum.”

“I know, I know.” you assured him quickly, wracking your brain for an excuse, “Was just wanting to try new things.”

Andrew smiled faintly at you and nodded, “Okay.”

You returned his soft smile and he leaned down to kiss your lips, once, twice, and a third time before he was sitting back on his knees and shuffling out of his underwear. You tried to hide your disappointment that he wasn’t going to go down on you some more behind a tightlipped smile as he met your gaze and pulled the sheets up around you both again. Habitually, your legs went around his thighs as he situated himself on top of you and his lips locked with yours again in slow sensual kisses, tangling together as husband and wife in your shared bed like how it was supposed to be. 

“Ready?” he asked softly. 

“Mhm.” you slid your hands up his back and scratched your fingers across his shoulder blades lightly as he got himself situated. 

The head of his cock nudged against your dripping pussy and your muscles fluttered at the sensation, naturally waiting for him to finally push inside you. And, when he did, his eyes stayed focused on yours without breaking away for even a second, watching your expression as he filled you completely. Your hands rested on his back as you stared right back at his face, taking in his dark and handsome features that you loved so dearly, and yet part of you was already missing George’s blue eyed gaze. 

The flicker of a guilty wince across your expression was covered with ease by the first thrust from your husband as he started to make love to you properly. He kissed your lips sweetly, sharing single little fleeting kisses and soft breaths as you tangled under the sheets together. His thrusts were slow and deep and so incredibly loving, something that had been so comforting over the recent few years together. Something you didn’t realize mattered much. Not until George came over that afternoon and shook your very knowledge of reality and pleasure to its core.

Andrew broke away from your kiss to tuck his face into your neck and your arms wrapped entirely around his back to hold him on top of you, whimpering softly against his shoulder as he took you over like that. Your eyes scrunched shut and you desperately tried to stay in the moment, clinging onto your husband’s beautiful caramel skin and the scent of his office that lingered on him; copy ink and paper. His warm breaths fell against your neck in gentle pants in time with his precise thrusts, your bed squeaking faintly beneath you. 

But your mind was straying again, drifting to the house next door and the man who had his way with you that afternoon; the one who somehow made you see stars for the first time in years. That used to be you and Andrew or so you recalled as the memories faded with time, but now it was all so fresh with George and you were drunk on the newfound adrenaline of it all. You tried to hush your mind from begging you to do it again and again and again with the man who had his own wife and his own family and who wasn’t legally bound to you in any way. 

Just because you couldn’t have him didn’t mean you couldn’t think of him. With your eyes closed tightly and your husband’s face still tucked warmly in your neck as he made love to you gently into your bed, you shamelessly imagined him to be George instead. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip and your mind swirled with memories from that afternoon and the dirty words that your neighbour spoke to you. You imagined him saying such things to you now, holding you down on your bed, fucking you like you never knew you needed. 

As you clung onto your husband, your lips formed the words without thought, mouthing them silently to the ceiling, “Yes, sir.”

George took up your mind until your thoughts were so vivid that you swore you could smell him right there with you, taking the place of your husband. Even Andrew’s soft sounds were that of George and you were buzzing off the fresh memory that burned within you, completely encapsulated by the man that wasn’t yours. You could do nothing else but picture him on top of you instead, mouthing his name to your bedroom ceiling over and over as if speaking to him in your mind. 

“That’s it.”

The breathy faint voice that ghosted across your ear tore you from the strength of your imagination but the power that George still held over you kept you going just that little bit longer. 

“Holy shit, you’re gonna cum already?” Andrew chuckled against your cheek, “I can fucking feel it.” 

“Shh.” you pulled his face back into your neck, playing it off effortlessly that you were too close for casual conversation. That wasn’t entirely a lie because the words that George spoke to you in your memory were certainly bringing you closer by the second, urging your muscles to tighten up around your husband’s dick. 

Andrew kept his pace going even as your nails pressed into the muscles of his back and your body fell into pleasure beneath his. Your orgasm certainly wasn’t as strong as the two you had that afternoon but it was still real and it still felt good, regardless of the slight disappointment that filled your guilty conscience. 

“Yes.” you squeaked out, tangling your hand in the back of his hair to grip tightly to his soft brunette roots, “Fuck-”

“Oh my God.” Andrew groaned from over top of you, shifting away from you a little to get a better angle with his hands pressed onto the pillow on either side of your head.

Panting softly underneath him, your hands slid down to his biceps and you held onto him as he thrusted into you a little faster, those big brown eyes staring right into your distracted gaze. He was still as beautiful as ever to you and the expression of pleasure that spread across his face was just as breathtaking as the first night you shared together six years earlier. Only seconds later, he was pulling out of you and coming right across your abdomen with the added help of his own hand, offering quiet moans to your bedroom walls as he finished himself off. You watched him closely, tearing your eyes away from his face to glance down between you under the sheets to get a glimpse at the mess he made across your flushed skin. 

“Shit.” he huffed and carefully shifted off of you. 

You took the sheets from him to hold them up and out of the way as he rolled over to grab a few tissues from the bedside table. He helped to clean you up like the gentleman he was and then you let the blankets fall gracefully over the both of you as he leaned in for a few breathless kisses. 

“How was that?” he asked teasingly. 

You bit back your smile, “Good.”

“Good?” he laughed lightly, feigning offence, “Just good, huh?”

“You know what I mean.” you swatted his chest playfully. 

Andrew tossed the sheets back and swung his legs off the bed, “I’m gonna throw this out. Did you want water or anything?”

“I’m okay.” 

He leaned back down towards you for one more kiss, “Okay. Be right back.”

You tucked the sheets up to your chin as you watched him stand up and shuffle his underwear back on before he was patting across the carpeted floor to the ensuite bathroom. When he was out of view, your eyes drifted to the flowers still resting on the dresser across the room and you nibbled at your bottom lip to try and keep the guilt at bay. Then, you looked straight up at the ceiling instead, trying to settle the rapid beating of your heart over the realization that you had to think of another man apart from your husband to get off. That had never happened before. 

Andrew’s gentle humming came from the bathroom as he brushed his teeth and finished getting ready for bed and you tried to let the familiarity of his voice soothe you but it didn’t do much. Instead, you just kept wondering what George sounded like when he sang or what music he played when he baked or if he was thinking of you as much as you were thinking of him. How ridiculous. How absolutely teenage of you. 

“Alright,” Andrew emerged from the bathroom and joined you in bed once more, “all set.”

You reached over to your bedside table to turn off your lamp before laying beside him again, habitually wrapping yourself up under his arm. He kissed your head and sighed as he settled, holding you close under your shared sheets. 

“I love you.” he said through the dark. 

You rested your cheek against his shoulder, “I love you too.”

Andrew was drifting quickly after a long day but you were still wide awake, staring blankly across the room to the front windows and their shut curtains. You aimlessly trailed your fingertips over your husband’s chest and the faint dusting of chest hair that grew down between his pecs, wondering to yourself that if Andrew still felt like home to you, why did your mind crave to be elsewhere. Mostly, you tried not to think of George.

You really tried. 

Part Two

My Very Extensive Tag List™:

@wetforwolff

[hunny-bean]

Too Close For Comfort

Pairing: Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: Frank comforts you after he is forced to kill a man in your shared motel room.

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), Gun Violence, Dead Body (Not Frank's. Don't Worry), Explicit Sexual Content, Little Pinch of Angst, Long Ass Flashback, Porn With 3.5k Words of Plot

A/N: This is the first fic I've ever written! I've been wanting to write for the JB fandom for a while and I finally decided to go for it. I'm planning to write for a lot more of his characters in the future, but I figured Frank was a good starting point. Hope you like it! I'm open to feedback if you've got it. XOXO.

Read on AO3

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After almost three months of living in an old stolen pickup truck and a series of shitty motels, you had learned to count your blessings. An important one, you quickly came to realize, was good water pressure. You were in the middle of your forth shower in the three days you and your new travel partner had been in this town, and you were trying your best to savor the moment. Since the closest companion of long showers is long trains of thought, you allowed your mind to wander back to how your adventure first began.

You took a step back in the cereal aisle in your local grocery store to examine the top shelf and ran directly into someone trying to pass behind you. Startled, you dropped the basket you were carrying full of frozen veggies and canned soups, and watched them roll in all directions. You whipped around so quickly you almost joined your soup on the floor, but luckily a strong hand shot out to steady you before you could.

"Whoa. Sorry 'bout that," the stranger said. And that was how you met Frank Castle. Surprisingly, your first impression of him had nothing to do with his gentle giant aura or his warm, gravelly voice. Your first impression happened before you even laid eyes on him, and that was how backing up into him was like hitting a brick wall with your car. He didn't stumble or falter. He didn't even flinch.

"No, sorry, that was my fault," you replied, your cheeks flushed from creating a loud noise in a public place. The stranger removed his hand from your arm and glanced down at the floor where your bags of peas laid, slowly thawing.

"You, uh... You want some help with those?"

"Oh, I got it, don't worry."

The man mumbled an "alright" and you watched him start to walk away, expecting him to leave the aisle, but he only took a few steps before his foot brushed a stray can, and he bent down to help anyway.

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that," you said when all the groceries had been collected.

"No problem," he muttered. You weren't sure why, but there was something off-putting about him. Later you realized it was the stark contrast between his gruff outer appearance and his quiet way of speaking. He was so intimidating but he seemed so trustworthy. "You have a nice day, ma'am."

Before he could walk away, you found yourself calling out to him, too curious to let him leave without asking any questions.

"Hey, I don't think I've seen you around here before. Are you. . . new in town?"

He seemed amused by your attempt to start a conversation, but decided to indulge you anyway. "I'm just passin' through. So you, uh, you really know everyone that lives here?"

Although he seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, he kept subtly glancing around like he was about to cross the street or something. When he turned his head, you noticed the remnants of a week-old bruise on his jaw.

"Pretty much, yeah," you responded. "So, life on the road, huh? Sounds pretty exhilarating."

He let out a friendly chuckle. "Yeah, I guess it can be. If exhilarating is what you call lukewarm showers and buying all your food from the gas station."

You smiled back, happy the man seemed to be warming up some. He seemed less on edge, and you weren't sure why, but that made you feel accomplished in some way.

"Well, this isn't a gas station," you remarked, playfully contradicting his earlier statement.

"You're right, it's not," he said. "But I had to make an exception because-" You watched as he pulled a round object from his jacket pocket, holding it up and waving it slightly as if to show it off. "-gas stations don't carry mangoes."

You mock gasped, unable to fight back a smile. "Pocket fruit? I hope you were planning to pay for that. Or are you 'just passing through' because you're on the run from the police?"

You expected him to laugh at this, but instead you saw him staring intently over your shoulder at a man who had just entered the aisle. He seemed to identify the new arrival as some sort of threat. You saw that they were looking directly at each other, and you suddenly felt uneasy. Before you could ask what was wrong, several things began happening at once.

The man at the end of the aisle pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at the two of you. No, not at you, just at the kind stranger, who immediately pushed you behind him as the first shot rang out, followed by a second one. Thankfully, they both missed the two of you, but the second bullet grazed the basket you were still holding which was sticking out from behind the stranger's leg. Instantly, you dropped the basket and began sprinting for the nearest exit with the stranger close behind you.

You ran through a door marked 'EMPLOYEES ONLY,' which the stranger quickly barricaded with a tall shelf packed with bulk boxes of paper towel rolls. As the shooter banged at the door, the two of you found an exit at the back of the stock room, which you flung open and rushed through into the building's side alley. The stranger pulled you behind the building to where his vehicle was conveniently parked, almost as if he'd been anticipating an emergency escape. Too terrified to argue, you didn't protest when he ordered you to get in the passenger seat and jammed his keys in the ignition. He tore out of the parking lot and onto the main road, carrying you away from your home and the man who had tried to kill you both.

It took you half an hour to work up the courage to ask questions.

"Who was he?" you asked, softly. You're sure he heard you, although he seemed happy to pretend he didn't.

After a few long moments, when he realized you weren't going to stop staring at him until he answered, he begrudgingly responded.

"A bad man."

"Why did he wanna kill you?"

"I, uh, took something from him," the stranger said, studying his rear view mirror to see if you were being followed.

"Are you a bad man?" you asked, tentatively.

At first he just sighed, and for a moment you thought that's all he was going to give you for an answer, but then he spoke.

"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're asking."

"Then. . . can you take me home?"

"I can't turn around yet, not 'till I know we're not being followed. Then I might be able to take you back so you can pack a bag or two."

"Pack?! For what?" you exclaimed, dreading the answer. There was another awkward silence while the man planned his answer. "Why do I need to pack? Tell me!"

"That man, the one with the gun? He has a, uh, habit of targeting his enemies' loved ones."

"But we barely know each other, why the hell would he-"

"He doesn't know that."

"Besides," he continued after a while, "I don't really. . . have any loved ones. So he's kinda grasping at straws to find somebody I'd want to protect."

"So, he thinks you would care if I died, and now we're both in danger?" You stared at him in disbelief.

"Pretty much, yeah," he mumbled.

After that, the truck was silent for a long while. The only time you spoke in the next two hours was to give the stranger your address. You watched the trees and road pass by beside you, trying to figure out what you would pack when you finally made it home for possibly the last time. You were lost in thought so long that you were pulled out of your head by the truck's tires bouncing over the dip in your driveway. You didn't even know you had turned around.

"You get ten minutes. We're traveling light, so don't go crazy." You began to hop out of the truck before the stranger's voice stopped you in your tracks. You turned around and saw that he was looking at you for the first time since you escaped the grocery store. "For the record," he began, contemplating what to say next, "I would care if he killed you."

You just stared back at him, not knowing how to respond to that.

"I'm gonna keep you safe, alright?" he promised, and you believed him.

You nodded, and went inside to gather your belongings. There was just something about this man that made you want to trust him. You managed to fit everything you needed into a large duffel bag and a back-pack. Looking around you, you realized something. You lived alone and all your friends lived out of state. This town had nothing to offer you except a shitty restaurant job. Most likely, the only person who would even notice you were gone was your boss. You took a deep breath before returning to the truck, putting your life in the hands of someone you just met.

You hopped back in the passenger seat, and the stranger helped you toss your bags in the backseat after checking that they were of a reasonable size. "You ready?" he asked.

"Fuck, no. Lets go."

The two of you took off down the road in a different direction than before, hoping to throw the bad man off your trail. After about an hour on the road, you looked over at the stranger to find him smirking slightly, lost in thought.

"What?" you asked, happy the mood seemed to be lightening despite your situation. He glanced over at you momentarily, and instead of providing a verbal response, he just reached into his pocket and handed you a slightly dented but still perfectly ripe mango. You took it from him with a smile.

"What's your name?" you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment, before seeming to make a decision. "Frank. What yours?"

You were brought back to the present by a torrent of freezing cold water, telling you you had been in there too long. You were thankful that Frank seemed to prefer morning showers. As you stepped out and dried off, you thought about the man chasing you. Eventually, when Frank opened up to you, he revealed that his name was Jordan Carlisle, and that his father was involved in the murder of Frank's family. You also discovered that the thing Frank had taken from him was his father's life. It had been so long since that day at the grocery store, and you wondered if you'd ever see him again. Maybe by this point, he'd given up on his revenge, and decided to leave Frank in peace. But Frank said Carlisle wasn't the type of man to just give up, and that if you ever wanted to stop running, someone would have to die.

During your few months together, you also learned that Frank wasn't the type to run away or avoid confrontation. The only reason he hadn't met Carlisle half way and taken him down was to keep you safe. That and the fact that he had been forced to leave behind some supplies shortly before you met and was left with nothing but a handgun, two bullets, and a pocket knife. (All things you could use to kill a man, but probably not a trained assassin).

You were both anticipating the end of the chase, however, because Frank had recently acquired various new firearms and a respectable pile of ammunition, and he was getting a little tired of running. Also, there's only so much distance you can put between you and your attacker before he realizes he's moving in the wrong direction. You had just pulled your favorite cotton nightgown over your head when-

*BANG*

You heard the unmistakable sound of the motel door being forced open. You heard a gunshot and something hit the floor. The sounds of a physical struggle just behind the bathroom door simultaneously relieved you and caused your heart to slam against your rib cage. At least you knew Frank was still alive. Unfortunately, so was the person who broke in. You couldn't see him, but you were pretty sure you knew who it was.

Two more gunshots shocked you into motion. You slid under the bathroom sink and tried desperately to remember what Frank told you to do on your first night together in case of a break in. He told you to get outside and find a hiding spot or barricade yourself in a closet or bathroom and wait for him to come get you. His voice in your head was commanding you, "Do. Not. Move." You tried to do as you were told but the urge to make sure Frank was alright was growing stronger. The muffled grunts and thuds were scaring you. You couldn't tell who had the upper hand and you didn't know enough about guns to determine which shots came from which man.

A loud cry of pain from Frank was your final straw. There wasn't a single thought in your head, let alone a plan, but you couldn't keep hiding while someone you cared about was potentially getting himself killed. You ran to the bathroom door, unlocked it, and threw it open with as much force as you could manage. The door slammed into the wall beside it with a loud crash. A distraction.

Just a few feet in front of you, Jordan Carlisle was caught off guard by the sound and he twirled around to find the source. Almost instantly, his gun was trained on you. Suddenly, you felt consumed by fear unlike anything you'd ever felt before. You heard the gunshot and flinched violently backward, as if you could somehow escape the bullet, stumbling back onto the bathroom floor. You screamed and squeezed your eyes shut tight, waiting for the impact, but it never came. You hesitantly opened your eyes just in time to watch Carlisle collapse onto the dirty motel carpet, eyes open and unseeing. He was dead. The chase was over.

Almost immediately you burst into tears, unable to get the image of his lifeless body out of your head. You knew you should be relieved, but there was something about almost dying that made you prone to emotional outbursts. You gazed up at Frank across the room, who still had his gun pointed at the spot where Carlisle had been standing moments before. He slowly lowered it and looked over at you where you were sitting on the floor, sobbing. He seemed angry, like every cell in his body was infused with a furious energy, and he had just shot the thing he was taking it out on.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!" Guess now it was your turn. "I TOLD YOU IF SOMEONE BREAKS IN, YOU FIND A PLACE TO HIDE AND YOU STAY THERE."

"I was j-just wo-horried about you," you hiccuped.

"I HAD IT COVERED."

"I'm sorr-"

"YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN YOURSELF KILLED. THEN ALL OF THIS RUNNING BULLSHIT WOULD HAVE BEEN FOR NOTHING."

You turned your head away from the shouting and found yourself looking directly at Carlisle again. This time, you were unable to turn away. It was like you were completely frozen, tension locking all your muscles in place, rendering you incapable of even the slightest movement. Your tears began falling harder but you were barely making a sound. Your lungs were tight and burning. You couldn't even draw in a full breath. Frank's reprimanding faded into background noise. You found yourself wishing desperately that you were anywhere but in that room.

"Oh, fuck," Frank muttered when he saw you damn near hyperventilating. He calmed down considerably when he realized yelling at you was only making things worse. "Shit, I didn't want you to see this."

He made his way over to your side of the room and knelt down to be at eye level with you. You barely acknowledged his presence.

"Hey, look at me," he asked gently. You didn't move your head. Softly, Frank cupped your cheek, the one farther away from him, and used it to turn you in his direction.

"You're gonna be okay," he promised. "Can you stand, sweetheart?"

Seeing Frank alive and calm helped you come back to yourself. Slowly, you nodded. Frank stood and held out his hand to you, which you used to pull yourself up with a little effort. You managed to get upright, but your legs were shaking so hard you weren't sure if you'd be able to walk. It was pathetic, and you were quite sure Frank would agree, but he didn't say anything about it. He just took one look at you and scooped you up into his arms. You were embarrassed by your incompetence, but you had finally stopped crying, and that was an accomplishment in and of itself.

Frank carried you over to your bed on the far side of the room and laid you down carefully. On your way over, you passed his bed which was closer to the bathroom, and saw two bullet holes in the pillow Frank had been laying on when you left to take a shower. That was when the relief hit you. You felt no more grief or fear or regret, only solaced by the fact that you were both alive and safe at last.

"Stay here, alright? Don't move," Frank murmured. He turned to walk over to the body again but you grabbed onto his arm before he could leave. He looked back at you questioningly.

"I heard you get hurt," you mentioned shyly. "What happened?"

Frank's eyes revealed that he was happy you were talking again. He seemed touched that your first concern when the shock wore off was for him.

"Ran into the nightstand," he admitted, rubbing his side. "It's just bruised, nothing to worry about."

You had a feeling he wasn't telling you the full story, but you decided to accept his answer. As far as you could tell, he wasn't bleeding anywhere and he didn't seem to be in much pain. Satisfied, you let go of his arm and turned to face the wall. You had a feeling you wouldn't want to see what was about to happen.

You laid there for a while, listening to Frank working behind you. You heard something being dragged across the floor, several grunts of effort and a sickening thud. You heard the faucet running in the sink and the sound of the bathroom door closing. There were footsteps moving around the room. . . the sound of someone changing clothes. You smelled the air freshener left in the bathroom cabinet masking the scent of blood.

Finally, after God knows how long, you felt the bed dip slightly as Frank sat down on the edge. You sat up and moved next to him, resting your head on his shoulder after a moment of hesitation. He put his arm around your shoulder and held you closer to him. The two of you weren't usually this affectionate, but you had certainly grown closer during your time together, and you figured the situation called for it.

"Do you think the police are on their way down here?" you asked.

Frank shrugged. "Probably not if they haven't shown up by now." Frank tried and failed to fight back a small smile. "Either that guy behind the front desk is a really heavy sleeper, or he did something to piss off the jackass in our bathtub. The only other people in this dump checked out yesterday," he said. You couldn't help but smile at that along with him. You were just so happy to be alive.

The more you let that thought run through your head, the more you wanted to be close to him. You needed more than an arm around your shoulder after you almost got shot in the head. You wanted to be held. 'Oh, sue me,' you thought. 'Who wouldn't?'

But you tried to let it be enough. You weren't sure how Frank would react to more than what you were already doing and you were too nervous to find out. You felt Frank shift next to you and realized that overthinking had caused you to become tense. The silence between you grew slowly thicker and you were worried he was about to pull away from you. In that moment, Frank standing up seemed like the absolute worst thing in the world that could happen to anyone, and you weren't about to let it.

'Fuck it', you thought, and with one quick movement, you were straddling his lap with your arms thrown over his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. He was caught off guard for a brief moment, but a second later his arms were wrapped around your waist, holding you just as tightly. You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in and savoring the feeling of his pulse against your cheek.

"We're okay, Frankie," you breathed. "It's over."

"I told you I was gonna keep you safe, sweetheart. I don't make promises I can't keep."

The two of you stayed like that for a while, content to just hold each other until the sun shone through the curtains. Well, you thought you were content, but it wasn't long before the closeness started to affect you. He was just so warm and solid, and suddenly you felt like he was wearing too many clothes. You wanted to feel him. Feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin on yours.

Your stomach was tight with desperation and you felt tears forming behind your eyes. You needed to be closer. Your thighs tightened around Frank's hips and he felt your breathing get heavier against his neck. You shifted your position slightly to ease some of the wanting in your veins but you froze when you heard Frank's breath hitch.

As you settled your weight on his lap again, your new position provided a new sensation. There was something warm pressing against your inner thigh. Even through Frank's impenetrable denim jeans, you could feel it heating up.

Frank was just as aroused by your position as you were. He wanted you, too, but you knew he would never admit it because he cared about you too much to do anything that could potentially hurt you.

The worst part was, you could feel it getting bigger and pulsing softly right next to where you wanted it the most, and he knew you could feel it. He knew, and he knew you wanted it, but he still wasn't saying anything about it because he was too damn stubborn. He probably thought you weren't in your right mind and would regret it in the morning but that was just such bullshit. You could never regret him, and you were going to make sure he knew that.

There was still some part of you that was afraid to make a move, and that part of you really wanted Frank to break first. So, you decided to make him unable to ignore it any longer. Pretending to adjust your position again, you settled down directly on top of his bulge, making sure it was exactly where you wanted it. The feeling of his cock hardening against you sent another wave of desperation through your body, causing you to tighten your limbs around him again. Still feigning innocence, you rolled your hips once for good measure, grinding down on him to see his reaction.

You didn't see it so much as feel it, when his arms tensed up around you and he turned his head away from you in frustration. You could feel your blood pumping hard, and you were sure your face was flushed. You wondered if he could feel your heartbeat the same way you could feel his pressed up against your clit. You felt his cock twitch again, even through three layers of fabric, and you could barely take it any more. You rolled your hips again, purely on instinct, and accidentally let out a soft moan.

Frank exhaled sharply and slid his arm from around your waist to pull your head away from his neck.

"What are you doin', sweetheart?" he asked, looking at you sympathetically when he saw your wrecked face. Suddenly, it was all too much for you, and there was nothing you could do to stop a rogue tear from sliding down your cheek.

"Please," you whispered, and that was all you had to say.

He put a hand on the back of your neck and pulled you toward him before lightly brushing his lips against yours. You pushed forward, wanting more, but Frank pulled away before you could really kiss him. He just sat there for a moment, searching your eyes for any signs of reluctance or any lack of clarity whatsoever. In the end, he found nothing but pure desire and maybe, just maybe, love.

This time, when he leaned in, you met him half way. This time, it was more than just a brush of lips. Frank kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. Gentle, yes, but also tortuously deep. You felt his tongue brush against your lower lip and gently coax your mouth open to kiss you harder, and it was warm and wet and perfect. As your need got worse, you began to grind down on him again, sighing into his mouth from the friction.

The hand he had on your neck moved up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently, while the other one shifted to settle on your lower back as he encouraged harder, slower movements of your hips. As he forced you down against him, the feeling of the rough denim on your clit through your thin panties caused you to whine quietly. Every slight movement sent sparks shooting up your spine.

You shifted your body backwards and reached down between you to tug at his zipper, but it didn't want to come down. Frank let you struggle with it for a moment, but just as you started getting frustrated, he took over for you.

In one swift movement, you were on your back underneath him, your legs still hooked around him. He sat up for a moment to pull off his shirt (revealing his fucking perfect abs that seemed completely unfair and you were about to LOSE YOUR MIND BECAUSE HOLY SHIT) and then he was back on top of you, pressing one last kiss to your lips before pulling away to look you in the eyes.

"You sure you want this, sweetheart?"

"Don't you fucking dare leave me like this, Castle."

Frank snorted, rolling his eyes affectionately. "Yes, ma'am."

With one hand, he reached down to unzip and tug down his pants and underwear, freeing his flushed cock from it's uncomfortable confines. It was bigger than you expected it to be, which is saying something because you already knew he was big from rubbing against it. He was so hard it looked painful, and he gave himself a few tugs to take the edge off. Just watching it drip onto the bed had you feeling dizzy. You were unbearably wet and all you wanted was to feel it inside of you.

Luckily, Frank seemed to tell as much, because he slid his hand up your thigh, kissing your neck gently and pushing the hem of your nightgown up to your stomach. He hooked the fingers of one hand in the waistband of your underwear but he paused there, waiting for some sort of go-ahead. You nodded at him, and he sat back again to tug your panties down your legs and pull them off.

This time, instead of immediately climbing back on top of you, Frank took a moment to admire you from an upright position. He gazed hungrily at your exposed cunt before swiping a finger through your folds and brushing your clit with the pad of his thumb. You jolted at the feeling, whimpering when he did it again just to watch you shudder.

"Frankie, please," you whined.

Frank decided to have mercy on you, and he came up to kiss you as he lined the tip of his cock up with your aching hole. He pushed slowly until the thick head was all the way in, surrounded by your soft, fluttering walls. It was a stretch, and it wasn't even half-way in. You appreciated Frank giving you a moment to adjust, but you didn't want one. You wanted to feel all of him, even if it hurt.

Hooking your legs tighter around him, you tried to push him into you. It didn't work, obviously. You didn't think you could move Frank if you barreled into him full-force, but he got the message.

In one smooth thrust, he buried himself fully inside you, grunting loudly and whispering an "Oh, fuck" into your neck. Your back arched up off the bed and you moaned loudly as his cock hit sweet spots inside you that you didn't even know existed.

Having Frank hovering over you, connected to you in so many ways, was easily the best thing you'd ever experienced. You were both breathing heavily and shaking as you waited for the initial pleasure shock to wear off.

Once you adjusted, you shifted slightly under him, trying to fuck yourself on his cock. Whatever stimulation you managed to get from that was nothing compared to when he actually started moving. Each thrust was slow and deep, sending waves of bliss coursing through you. You couldn't stop the gasps and whimpers that kept escaping, nor did you want to.

Franks arms were on either side of your head, closing you in so all you could see and feel was him. You had never felt so safe in your entire life. Every movement was so complete and perfect. Nothing was rushed or forceful, but it was still all pure pleasure. You were sure you had never been this wet before.

Feeling Frank's back muscles shift under your fingertips as he thrust into you was mesmerizing, and hearing him moan softly and curse against your pulse point was sending shivers through your body. Every time Frank pushed his cock back inside you, you felt yourself ascending further, rapidly approaching your peak. Every time he pulled out slowly so you could feel it dragging against every part of your sensitive walls, you wanted to sob from feeling so good.

It wasn't long before you were crying out from your release, tightening your grip on every part of Frank and leaving long scratches down his back. When your climax finally hit, you swore you were having an out-of-body experience.

"Attagirl, that's it," Frank whispered as he felt you spasm around him. "Oh, fuck, sweetheart. Where-" he began. Reluctantly, you rubbed your hand on your stomach. You hadn't had access to birth control in almost six weeks and shitty motels don't provide condoms. Even the ones with good water pressure.

You rubbed the back of Frank's head gently as his thrusts grew more erratic, grabbing onto and playing with his hair. Suddenly, he pulled out of you and jerked his cock barely three times before he was finishing on your stomach with a quiet groan, painting it with his cum.

Breathing heavily, the two of you collapsed next to each other, coming down from your highs and processing what just happened. Idly, you began playing with the mess on your stomach as you thought about what was next for the two of you. There was no way in hell you were letting Frank drop you off at your house and just take off after that. You know you said "It's over," but it couldn't really be over, right?

"Stay with me," you whispered.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, baby."

"I'm not talking about tonight. When you take me back home, stay with me."

Frank pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you in disbelief. "Sweetheart, I don't think I can-"

"Then I'll stay with you. My house is a family heirloom, I've only gotta pay for water and electricity. It'll still be waiting for me whenever I need it."

"I can't let you do that. You have no idea how much I want to, but I'd get you killed."

"Then stop moving for a while. No one would find you in that town. Just stay with me. Please. If you hate it, you can leave."

Frank sighed, glancing around the room before settling his gaze back on you. He brought his hand to your face, brushing his fingertips down your cheek like you were a precious artifact. You both knew he wasn't ready to let you go.

"Okay."

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[pali-writes-atiny-bit]

Of Haircuts and Hyunjin

Pairing: Hyunjin x afab!reader (Y/N)

Summary: Hyunjin badly needs a haircut, and you're about to be his new favorite hairdresser.

WC: 1.95k

Content Warning: Intended for 18+ mature audiences, MDNI! Suggestive Content. Let me know if I missed anything else.

The rays of the early morning sun shine down as Hyunjin pulls up outside of his favorite salon, District 9. The exterior is a sleek and modern building with an interior design of black and white. You stand behind the cleric counter tapping away at the booking computer's keyboard. You've just opened, so you're the only one here. As he approaches the cleric counter you greet him with a smile and a small bow.

"Welcome to District 9! You must be Hyunjin. I'm Y/N and I'll be your hairdresser today. Do you know what kind of style you're looking for today?"

He confirms and gestures to his hair with a chuckle "I think it's time to cut this a bit shorter.” All through dance practice the previous evening his silky black hair had been falling in his eyes and sticking to the sweat trickling from his temples.

You smile again and laugh "I think I can handle that. Are you interested in any color?"

Hyunjin finds himself caught up in your laugh - it's so warm and sweet and it lights up your face. Your rich brown eyes crinkle at the edges and he notices you have the cutest lips with a perfect cupid's bow.

After a moment he realizes he still hasn't answered your question.

"Color? Hmm..." He ponders. He hadn't been thinking about color but he could be persuaded. "What would you recommend?"

You study him for a moment - taking in the fine planes and angles of his face - before turning and leading him back to the hair wash stations. "I think you'd look very nice with a deep burgundy color."

He follows you a few strides behind and takes in your outfit. You're wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck crop top and a free flowing red skater skirt paired with black over the knee boots. He can't help the fleeting thought about how hot you look.

Once you reach your assigned wash sink, you gesture for him to take a seat on the plush leather. He does as instructed and reclines back so his head is over the sink. You turn the water on and adjust the heat until it feels just right.

You have to lean over him slightly to thoroughly wet his hair. He looks up at you through his lashes and is startled to realize that he can just catch a glimpse of your underboob. It's just a small sliver of flesh, but it looks firm and perky, and delicious. His tongue flicks out to lick across his upper lip. He flushes slightly at the trajectory of his thoughts and squeezes his eyes shut hoping you don't notice.

He opens his eyes again as you turn off the water and glances up at you. You give him a smile before turning to pump some shampoo into your hands. As you work the shampoo into a lather you also begin to massage his scalp and it feels heavenly. He closes his eyes again and lets out a small sigh of pleasure as he melts into the seat. 

You smirk at the sigh, you know it feels good - the wash step is everyone's favorite part about a haircut. While his eyes are closed, you study his face closer. His face is absolutely stunning, and you notice a beauty mark just below his left eye. You also notice the remnants of the flush that painted his face as you leaned over him earlier.   He may be your client, but it seems that neither of you are immune to the other's charms. And that, that makes you want to make him feel better.

Continuing your massage, you begin lightly scratching your short nails across his scalp. A bolt of pleasure zings down his spine leaving goosebumps in its wake. He shivers slightly and groans softly. The feeling of your nails at his scalp is transferring directly to his cock. He struggles  to quell his growing arousal. After all, the hair salon isn't the place to pop a full boner. 

Eventually, you remove your hands from his head and Hyunjin almost whines from the loss. You turn the water back on to thoroughly rinse the shampoo out before pumping some conditioner into your hands and applying it. After a few minutes, you rinse out the conditioner and squeeze the water from his hair. You wrap his hair in a towel and then purposefully lean over him again before tapping his shoulder and letting him know he can get up.

He looks up and catches another glimpse of that tantalizing flesh before you straighten up. He subconsciously licks his lip again before moving to get up. He follows you to your hair cutting station. He could just be imagining it but your hips look like they have a little more sway during your steps - your skirt swishing teasingly.

He sits in the barber's chair and you fasten a cape around his neck before adjusting the chair to the proper height. You prepare your comb and clippers with a #4 guard and say "well, shall we get started then?" He nods and you begin running the clippers through his hair. 

He strikes up a small conversation with you while he studies you through the mirror in front of you. He studies the way that top clings to your breasts. The way your skirt flares out from your waist. He asks how long you've been a hairdresser. You reply that you've been doing hair for about 7 years now, that your family doesn't approve, and that this is your first month with District 9. That explains why he's never seen you before, he'd have remembered.

You continue your movements while engaging in his idle chitchat, the words flowing effortlessly. Once his hair is uniformly clipped, you switch to your pair of scissors for the finishing touches. You spin the chair around to work on his hair in the front and Hyunjin promptly finds himself face to face with your perfect breasts. The barber’s chair is set to just the right height - all Hyunjin would need to do is lean forward and his face would nestle straight between your globes. The ones that he was just admiring in the mirror. Instead, he takes in a steadying breath through his nose. Notes of jasmine, amber, and a hint of citrus invade his senses. You smell smell warm, sensual and inviting. Rather than steadying himself, his exhale is even shakier. 

You raise your arms to trim some uneven pieces of hair and your breasts rise with them. Christ. He groans to himself. He can tell you’re not wearing a bra, and if he’s not mistaken, he can see your nipples. Hard tips pressing against the ribbed material of your top. He can’t help but lick his lip again as he imagines what it would be like to take one of those points between his lips - his teeth. 

As you're trimming with your scissors, you leave the ghost of touches along the shell of his ears, and down the back of his neck. Brief and teasing, but innocent enough to be passed off as accidents. The feather light touches heat his skin andsend jolts of pleasure shivering across his body. Between everything - his thoughts, your smell, your touches - he’s rock hard in his jeans. He’s never been more thankful that the cape covers his entire lap. He wonders if you know what you're doing to him. (You do - and you love how responsive he seems to be).

As quickly as you turned him to face you, you spin him back around. You set down your comb and scissors and brush off any stray pieces of hair that remain stuck to his shoulders. You lean down and whisper in his ear “all done.” His brain seems to freeze as he feels your warm breath caressing his ear. Before he realizes it, you’re standing up straight as if nothing happened asking "what do you think? Have you given any more thought to color?"

His brain is still struggling to catch up. Did he just imagine that you whispered in his ear? He clears his throat and studies his reflection in the mirror. He thinks the hair cut is perfect and just what he wanted. He shouldn’t have his hair in his eyes for a least a couple months. After studying himself for a second, his eyes slide to look at your reflection. His hair might be cut, but he’s not quite ready to leave yet. He swallows and replies "the cut is perfect and I think I'd love to get some color."

You grin and excitedly reply "you want to go with the burgundy?"

He nods and you clap your hands and head off to mix the dye.

He watches you go with a smirk on his face. Just what are you doing to him he thinks. 

You return and apply the dye to his hair before setting a timer and leaning your back against the counter in front of him. You cross your arms, pushing your breasts together and up. After seeing them up close he wants to touch them so bad. To feel how they fill his palms, and to test their weight. He has to clench his jaw and his hands into fists below the cape before he does something that would be very inappropriate. 

You catch him staring and give him a smirk and wink. "Do you like what you see?" Your voice is low and sultry.

"Darling, you have no idea," he groans. You might have some idea you think to yourself.

You unfold your arms to push yourself up to sit on top of the counter. As you do so your skirt rises slightly. Hyunjin’s gaze tracks straight to the toned thighs that are revealed a little more. You cross your legs, allowing him a flash of your panties as you do. "Well, I like what I see too,” you say as you not so subtly look him up and down. He flushes slightly but meets your gaze. His twin orbs seeming to mirror the desire you feel. 

You spend the next 30 minutes waiting for the color to develop and exchanging flirty remarks. When the timer goes off you lead him back to the hair wash station. You know exactly what you’re doing as you take your final chance to lean over him. You take your time carefully rinsing the dye from his hair. 

Afterwards, you lead him back to the chair for a quick blow dry. As you fan the heated air across his hair, ears, and neck he can’t help but think of the warm air that came from your breath. He stares hard at your reflection while you work - thinking of this experience and all the things he’d like to do to you. Glancing at him in the mirror, you catch him staring. 

Turning off the blow dryer you place it back in its holding slot. You lower the barber’s chair to it’s resting position and remove the cape from around his neck. "Alright Hyunjin, if you're done checking me out, let's go ahead and get you checked out!" You grin at him and he smirks back, taking a moment to not so subtly adjust himself. Your eyes flick down to the way he grabs himself through his jeans. It’s your turn to lick your lips. 

At the cleric counter he hands you his sleek black card and you ring him up. He signs the receipt and leaves you a big tip. You hand him a copy of the receipt. At the bottom is a hastily scribbled note.

In case you want to do more than look ###-###-#### - <3 Y/N

A/N: Thanks for reading my second fic, y'all. I left this one suggestive but let me know if you'd be interested in a part 2.

Also, my requests are open and I'd love to hear your ideas!

[zvaigzdelasas]

The head of an Iraqi militia participating in a coalition of groups that have waged attacks against U.S. troops and Israel has told Newsweek that his forces are prepared to escalate their campaign significantly if President Joe Biden does not meet their demands.

According to Sheikh Mohammed al-Tamimi, secretary-general of Faylaq al-Waad al-Sadiq, all they are asking for is the complete withdrawal of U.S. forces from their country.

The group, whose name translates to the "True Promise Corps," is one of several factions that have banded together as part of the "Islamic Resistance in Iraq," which launched a campaign of near-daily rocket and drone attacks against U.S. forces stationed in Iraq and Syria in October, shortly after the war between Israel and Hamas erupted in the Gaza Strip.

The offensive took a deadly turn in January when three U.S. soldiers were killed on the border of Jordan and Syria.

As unrest worsened with Biden ordering intensive airstrikes and the killing of a high-level militia commander last month, the Iraqi government began to harden its calls for a timely exit of U.S. forces. The Pentagon soon commenced talks with Iraqi counterparts over a "transition" in the U.S. military presence, which is officially limited to battling the remnants of the Islamic State militant group (ISIS).

With these assurances, a number of Islamic Resistance in Iraq militias largely paused their campaign, instead turning their sights on Israel itself. But as weeks pass with little sign of progress and reports of new attacks on U.S. positions, Tamimi has warned U.S. troops will be met with an offensive that goes far beyond even Hamas' devastating October 7, 2023, attack on Israel should "the reckless, senile" Biden ultimately fail to withdraw U.S. soldiers from the country.

"If the agreement is not achieved, we will expel the Americans in their coffins from Iraq, and we will humiliate the 'Black House' administration," Tamimi told Newsweek. "And they will see who the resistance is and what the capabilities of the resistance are, especially now that we have drones and long-range smart missiles."[...]

Iranian officials[...] have denied exerting command and control over such groups, which they argue are involved in legitimate defensive maneuvers.

"The military actions undertaken by the resistance front against the Israeli regime are defensive measures aimed at exerting pressure on the occupying regime, with the goal of halting its crimes in Gaza," the Iranian Mission to the United Nations told Newsweek in response to Hagari's comments.

"The Islamic Republic of Iran staunchly supports such resistance," the Mission added. "However, given the Israeli regime's inability to effectively counter the resistance, it seeks to portray Iran as the occupying force in the countries comprising the resistance front."

Tamimi, too, rejected the notion that he led a state-sponsored group. But he attested to a growing level of coordination among allied international factions of the Axis of Resistance.

"Faylaq al-Waad al-Sadiq is Iraqi, and the mujahideen of the corps are Iraqis," Tamimi said. "We have coordination with the resistance factions in Lebanon, Yemen, or Gaza. We do not have coordination with any country, only with the resistance. We are with the unity of the resistance."[...]

"The Iraqi resistance now stands with the Palestinian people, and our duty now is to stand with them and support them against the crime and genocide against them by the Zionist entity supported by the American government, Britain, and Europe," Tamimi said.

"The change in strategies in the Iraqi resistance was clear, especially after the American deal with the Iraqi government, which was urgently asking us to stop the jihadi operations in Iraq," he added. "In return, there will be immediate withdrawal from Iraq, non-interference in the Iraqi situation, and Iraqi money will be handed over."

Once again, he warned that a failure to meet these conditions would result in all-out escalation against U.S. troops, who he warned would meet their end in Iraq.

"We respect the right of peoples to live in peace, and it is our right to have peace in our country without American military forces on the land of Iraq. The Iraqi people respect all peoples but reject the military presence on the land of Iraq," Tamimi said. "If these forces do not withdraw, they will be sent with coffins, and we will destroy the American bases."

"And we are able to carry out more operations than the Hamas movement in its storming of the bases of the Zionist entity," he said. "We are able to shatter these bases."

Already, reports shared by Faylaq al-Waad al-Sadiq's media channel reported a new attack late Tuesday on a U.S. position near the Conoco gas field in eastern Syria's Deir Ezzor province, the site of yet unattributed explosions apparently targeting the militia presence there just a day earlier.

Meanwhile, a high-level Iraqi delegation visited Washington this week ahead of a scheduled trip by Prime Minister Mohammed Shia al-Sudani next month for talks in which the future of the U.S. military presence is likely to be a central topic.

But Tamimi, in a direct appeal to the U.S. people, affirmed that the wrath of the resistance was reserved only for perceived occupiers, and not civilians.

"We wish peace for everyone, and we want to live in peace in our country," Tamimi said. "We ask you to withdraw your children from our country, Iraq, and let us live in security, prosperity and peace. We welcome the American people to visit our country for a tourist or commercial visit, but we reject their military presence, and they must know that we do not need them."

27 Mar 24

[i-hate-people-1]

~Mid to west~

Part 2

Eddie Munson x Henderson reader road trip au

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Henderson Reader

Warnings:none

Word count: 3,782

An hour into your trip, you hear the first dreaded “I have to pee.” Of course, it came from Dustin.

"Really, come on, man, we’re barely even a town over,” Eddie groaned, pulling into the next gas despite his sentiment.

“I’m sorry,” he whined, dashing out of the car the moment Eddie put it in park.

“Maybe we should all try to and we can grab some snacks” Steve suggested Ever, the mother of the group.

"Ugh, fine,” Eddie groaned, throwing his head back. “But no drinks!” He yelled as your friends dashed out of the vehicle. “I mean it!”

“There’s no way they actually listen,” you told him, giggling as you got out of the car Eddie close behind.

“My lady,” Eddie said, smiling brightly as he opened the door for you, bowing slightly.

“Why thank you, kind sir,” you said, giggling and curtsying as you walked in.

After using the restroom, you were scanning the isles for a snack. Indecisive as ever, you finally settled on a bag of Cheez-Its, a pack of gum, and a nougat bar Dustin’s favorite for when he inevitably complains about being snacky (when he’s hungry but doesn’t want real food).

"This all,” the teen at the counter asked. Well, you think she was asking, but her deadpan tone made it hard to tell.

"Yup,” you said, smiling.

She looked up from your snacks, her unamused glare fixed on you.

“Hey sweetheart, spot me a pack of smokes?" You felt his arm before you heard his voice as he hung it lazily over your shoulder.

Casual touches like this almost fooled you enough to think that the boy you’ve been crushing on since you saw him perform at the middle school talent show actually liked you, or at least thought of you as more than his friends older sister, but then reality would always come crashing down on you when you remembered that Eddie was like that with everyone the pet names, teasing remarks, and touching. I mean, the boy was a walking ball of love to give, constantly looking for a new friend or a new lost sheep he could take under his wing.

No matter how many people teased him, judged him unfairly, or called him the most unspeakable things, he never gave up and always kept that signature Eddie Munson smile that simultaneously lit up the room and made you weak in the knees.

“Y/N?” Eddie asked, his concern-ridden face pulling you out of your thoughts as his arm slid awkwardly off your shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, I can,” you said, turning back to the unamused teen. “Uh, and a pack of Malboro Reds, please,” you told the cashier, surprised that the frown she was wearing could get deeper.

“You know my brand?” You could practically hear the shock in his voice—a deep blush taking over your cheeks.

"Yeah, I guess,” you mumbled as you paid for your things, purposely avoiding his eyes that were boring into you. “What?” You asked, turning back to look at him and handing him the cigarettes.

His doe eyes were soft, and there was a remnant of a smile he was holding back on his face.

"Nothing,” he answered through an awkward cough. “Come on, sunshine, the ass crack of America awaits.” He finished turning around to grab the door for you.

You quickly followed, telling the teen at the counter thank you and to have a nice day.

As you made it outside, Eddie broke off to go lean against the wall to smoke. As you finally made it back to the van, your cheeks were still ablaze from your interaction.

Everyone but Steve had made it back to the van, already getting settled in, to hopefully not stop for at least a couple hours.

After about 5 minutes, Eddie and Steve returned, Steve having two huge bags of snacks, so you wouldn’t have to get any more, hopefully.

"Alright, hellions, buckle up. We’re not stopping for a while,” Eddie said, pulling out of the gas station. “I’m just kidding. Of course, my van does not have seatbelts.”

***

"Eddie, I’m hungry,” Lucas whined, poking the boy in the cheek. “Can we please stop? You made us skip lunch.” He finished continuing to poke him.

"Sinclair, you poke me one more time, and I’ll cut your hand off and make you eat it. How’s that sound for dinner?” Eddie said it through clenched teeth and crazy eyes.

Lucas stopped his finger inches away from the boy's cheek cautiously after a moment of testing the waters; he seemingly gave up pulling his hand back.

Eddie let out a sigh of relief, unclenching his jaw, and everything was peaceful for about two seconds until Lucas decided that poking the bear was the best idea he could think of, poking Eddie’s cheek once more, smirking mischievously.

“That’s it!” Eddie yelled, pulling off to the side of the road, making all of you tussle in place as he abruptly stopped the car out of his seat as quick as lightning to tackle the younger boy to the ground. He was so quick, you almost missed the smirk fall off of Lucas’s face and the horror take over his eyes.

Which is how you found yourself in the driver's seat, looking out for a place to stop for dinner, with Eddie in the passenger seat slumped down, arms crossed over his chest as he pouted.

"Alright, let’s all get some food in us and stretch our legs, yeah?” You asked as you pulled into the first dinner you’d spotted.

Lucas and Dustin rushed out of the vehicle, the former fully recovering from the tackle he’d taken.

Robin Max and Steve took more time getting out, following the two rambunctious boys.

You, however, stayed in the van, waiting for the boy in the passenger seat to look anywhere but out the window quietly.

"Oh, come on, Ed's, you know you're hungry too,” you said, turning in your seat to face him fully. “And maybe your a tad hangry, and that’s why you tackled Lucas?”

"No, I tackled him because the little shit wouldn’t stop poking me,” Eddie snapped, finally turning to you, and while the vicious gaze of Eddie Munson was terrifying for most people, you thought it was adorable. He looked like a puppy trying to threaten you like a teddy bear with a knife.

“So you’re saying if it had been Steve in the driver's seat and he wouldn’t stop to get you food, you wouldn’t have done the same thing?” You challenged him, raising a brow. His frown softened a bit, a mischievous glint in his eyes, you assume, at the thought of annoying Steve Harrington.

"See, you’d think it was hilarious if it were Steve; your little sheep was just following in your footsteps.”

"Yeah, but they’re supposed to annoy other people, not me,” he grumbled, though you could tell he was starting to come around.

“Oh well, now you’re just asking too much,” you teased. “Now come on, I’ll buy you a milkshake,” you told him, hopping out of the driver's seat.

“Chocolate?” Eddie asked, head-whipped, to look at you.

"Ugh, fine, but I’m going to judge you for it,” you said, rolling your eyes as you shut the door and walked inside, Eddie following closely behind.

“Woah woah woah, sweetheart, are you trying to tell me you don’t like chocolate milkshakes?” Eddie asked, dramatic as ever, his hair whipping around as he shook his head.

“I mean, they’re fine, but vanilla is definitely better,” you said, shrugging. Eddie gasped loudly, clutching a hand to his chest.

“I can’t believe you just said that to me,” he said quickly as he pulled out a seat, gesturing for you to sit down.

You sat down flustered as Robin raised a brow at you, which only made your blush deepen.

“What’d you say to him?” Max asked.

“Get this, Red; she thinks vanilla milkshakes are better than chocolate,” Eddie scoffed before you could get a word.

Leading the table into a lively debate, with some taking your side while others took Eddie’s.

“You guys are all wrong. It’s obviously strawberry." Steve cut in your heads, all turning to him with disgusted looks.

"Okay, everyone can at least agree that Steve’s wrong, right?” Robin asks, eyes darting around the group as you all nod, “All right, it’s unanimous, Steve’s an idiot.” She finishes, and Steve looks offended while all of you laugh.

"Alright, I need to go smoke. You guys stress me out." Eddie shook his head, smiling.

“Those things will kill you,” you said, popping a fry into your mouth.

"Hey, you’re the one supplying me, so don’t get all high and mighty on me now, princess,” Eddie smirked as you rolled your eyes.

“That was a temporary lapse in judgment; I was distracted,” you shrugged, trying to play it cool, though the obvious blush on your face was giving you away.

"Aww, you saying I distract ya doll face?” Eddie asked, leaning in close.

"Ew, dude, are you really flirting with my sister right now?” Dustin interrupted, gagging immediately after he got the question out.

“See what I mean? Little fuckers are so annoying, I’m surprised I don’t smoke more,” he groaned, placing a cigarette between his lips as he stood up and made his way to the door.

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” you announced, getting up and speed-walking to the bathroom flustered.

"Really, Dustin,” Max scolded, smacking him in the back of the head.

"Ow, what was that for?”

“You totally just ruined their moment. Eddie was finally growing some balls, and you just stomped on them,” Lucas explained.

“What?” Dustin asked again, and the poor boy was obviously very confused.

"Really, Dustin, do we have to explain everything to you? You’re not a child,” Steve quipped sarcastically.

“What these doofuses are getting at is that Eddie has just now started shooting his shot, and you might have just deterred him for another what is it like nine years?.” Robin explained hoping the young boy would catch on.

"Wait, are you guys saying Eddie actually likes Y/N?”

“Oh my gosh, look at those boys. Sherlock finally figured one out,” Steve said, slow-clapping.

“Shut up, Steve,” Dustin seethed. “So Eddie likes Y/N? Does she like him?”

"Obviously,” Max yelled, quickly apologizing when most of the eyes in the restaurant turned to her.

“So all those times he’s called her hot, he wasn’t just doing that to annoy me?” Dustin asked, still bewildered by the new information.

“While I’m sure that is a perk,Steve started sitting up in his chair to pat Dustin on the back. “He’s got it; he's had it bad since his first senior year,Steve finished shrugging.

“I can’t believe one of my best friends has a crush on my sister, and none of you told me,” Dustin pouted.

“We thought you knew it was pretty obvious,” Max said, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t want to think about that; it’s gross.”

"Well, you better get used to it because our mission this trip is to get them together,” Robin told him as the group nodded in agreement. “And it was working perfectly without us having to do anything but put them in seats next to each other, and you might have just ruined it,” Robin grumbled.

“How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me?!” Dustin argued.

“Tell you what?” Eddie asked, making the group jump and turn to look at the boy.

"Umm, uh, that there’s been something in his teeth for a while,” Lucas said as casually as he could.

"Nice,” Max complemented under her breath.

“Okay?” Eddie said, taking a seat and continuing to eat his food, “Hey, where’s Y/N?” He asked through a mouth full of food.

“She went to the bathroom,” Steve shrugged, sipping his milkshake.

Eddie’s head instinctively snapped towards the bathroom door, a deep frown falling over his features. When he was met with the beautiful sight of your smile and the crushing feeling that washed over him, he saw a guy, the one making you smile.

Eddie’s glare made everyone’s eyes shift to the bathroom as you giggled behind your hand at something the boy said.

And before the smart part of Eddie’s brain could even think of telling him to stay seated, he was on his feet, speeding faster than he could think.

You noticed him before he could even get a word out, turning to smile at him. “Hey Eddie, what’s up?” You asked, brows furrowed, man; he was so screwed if all it took was you smiling at him to turn him into jelly.

"Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said, composing himself to smirk at you. “Who's your friend?” He asked, glaring daggers into the man in front of you.

"Oh, this is Chad; he saw me looking at maps and said he’s traveling west too,” you told him, smiling.

“How convenient,” Eddie bit out, his voice lashing in sarcasm.

"Yeah, man, a total coincidence,” Chad said, returning Eddie’s glare.

The two men stood in unmoving silence, glaring daggers at each other. You furrowed your brows, looking between them, rolling your eyes as far back into your head as they could go at your realization. “Oh my, are you two having a staring contest right now?” you asked, shaking your head in disbelief.

You took their unblinking silence as an answer: “Stop it, you doofus!” You exclaimed, smacking his arm lightly.

“Hey!” Eddie shrieked, “You made me lose!”

“Lose what exactly? What would’ve happened at the end of that contest? What would you have won?” You asked, arms crossing over your chest.

“I’m not exactly a hundred percent on the rules, but I’m pretty sure he gets you now,” Eddie deadpanned.

“Dude, I thought we were just asserting dominance.”

Eddie looked at the man with an expression somewhere between shock, disgust, and anger. “And that’s who won, thanks to you, sweetheart.”

“I’m not some prize, Munson,” you scoffed, walking back towards your friends.

"Yeah, no shit. I was joking that dude never would’ve beat me fair and square anyway.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles or win me, and also, I was just talking to someone new. What is your issue?” You asked, turning to face him as you made it out in front of the diner.

“What’s my issue?!” Eddie challenged, “I don’t know, haven’t you ever heard of stranger danger? The guy was practically eye-fucking you the whole conversation.”

“So?” You asked, making Eddie scoff.

“So? So?” He asked back in unbelief, “You know what? Fine, whatever have fun getting murdered in the back of some creeps van!” Eddie exclaimed, arms waving, as he turned on his heels to stomp to the van.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that,” you said, stomping after him, “and stop walking away.” You grabbed his hand, making him turn to you and ask, “Why do you care so much?”

Eddie pulled you towards him effortlessly, pinning you up against the back of the van out of view of your friends.

His breath was hot and rugged as it fanned over your face, his doe eyes peering into your soul as he examined your face, his gaze darting between your lips and eyes.

“I care because I want you to be mine,” he whispered in your ear, his hand coming up to cup the side of your neck as you sucked in a breath. “You want that, baby?” Eddie teased biting your earlobe, and you whimpered.

"Oh, don’t worry, pretty girl, you will soon enough,” Eddie told you, inches away from your face, lips so close to touching as your body tingled in anticipation. Just as Eddie was about to close the gap, you were abruptly pulled out of your false reality by the very person you made it for. As he shook your shoulder gently, “Hey, wake up, pretty girl, we’ve got to get back on the road,” he whispered, moving some hair out of your face.

A deep blush set in at the pet name—the same pet name he had just used in your dream—coming into the front of your mind—that little voice telling you he knew but there’s no way he could know, right?

The existential crisis must have been showing on your face because Eddie was looking at you concerned. “You okay, sunshine, you look a little dazed. Nap that good?” He asked, quirking a brow.

"Yeah,” you said almost too quickly, "um, I didn’t even realize I felt asleep.”

“Oh yeah, you feel asleep on my shoulder a few minutes after you came back from the bathroom,” he shrugged.

"Well, you have a comfortable shoulder, thanks, pal,” you said, froging him in the arm, quickly getting out of your seat and speed-walking to the van.

“That was painful,” Robin said as she exited the diner behind you.

“Did I just call him pal and punch him in the arm?” You asked, your head falling on her shoulder.

"Yeah, it was pretty hard to watch,” she deadpanned. "Robin,” you whined.

“Right, sorry,” she said as she started to run a comforting hand through your hair. “What even happened to get you that flustered?”

“I kind of had a sex dream about Eddie,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by her shoulder.

“You had a sex dream about Munson, while you were napping on him,?!?” she said a bit too loudly for your taste.

“Shhh Robin”

"Right, sorry, you had a sex dream about Munson?” She repeated it in a whisper.

"Well, kind of, I was woken up before any actual sex happened, but that’s where it was leading,” you told her, finally lifting your head. “What am I going to do? I feel like a perv.”

"Okay, first of all, it’s completely natural, and second, maybe that’s your subconscious way of telling you to, you know, make a move,” Robin said, biting her thumb nail.

“You think I should make a move on him? Does he even like me?” You asked, pulling Robin's thumb away from her mouth.

“Are you kidding me? You were totally just drooling all over him in your sleep, and he didn’t even bat an eye at the guys.”

“I drooled on him.” You half asked, half whined, her head failing back into place on her shoulder.

***

“Did she just call me Pal?" Eddie asked through a dejected sigh, slumping in his seat.

"Yeah, she also drooled on you a little bit,” Dustin pointed out, poking a spot on his shoulder over the table.

“And I find that unbelievably adorable. I’m so fucked. I just got pal zoned. I think that’s worse than the friend zone,” Eddie whined, beating his head on the table.

"Oh, stop that. She didn’t mean anything by it. She just got flustered. She likes you, okay. Stop stressing and dancing around it flirtatiously and just ask her out.” Dustin told him, his eyes rolling as far back into his head as they could go.

“She said that?” Eddie’s head perked up like a puppy who had just been offered a treat.

“Not exactly, but I’m her brother, and a brother knows." Dustin shrugged, standing up. “Just go for it, man, she’s into you. I promise, just you know, maybe don’t do it in front of me because gross.”

“When did you get so wise?” Steve asked, hands on his hips, sassy as ever.

“I’ve always been wise; you deepshits just never notice,” he said, sticking his chin high as he walked off.

“No wonder his head is so big; it’s got to fit that massive ego.”

***

It’s been two hours since you stopped for dinner and 12 since you started the trip as a whole. Eddie had driven for another hour after you stopped before you made him stop and let Steve drive before he felt asleep at the wheel.

Steve and Robin were now in front. Robin passed out until Steve would shake her awake to ask for directions.

And other than the sound of Steve’s quiet humming and soft snores coming from the kids, the van was quiet.

Eddie was out cold the second his head hit the makeshift pillow of his waded-up leather jacket, stirring occasionally to find a more comfortable position.

You were in the limbo between resting and actually sleeping, not completely awake and not completely asleep, when you felt something touch your side. You turned your head, smiling sleepily at the sight in front of you. Eddie, who was already close due to the big group and limited space you had in the back of the van, had moved to lay on his side, one arm curled under his arm to replace the jacket that was now thrown over his body lazily, his other hand poking out just barely grazing your side. You could feel the coldness of his fingers through the thin material of your tank top.

You sat up frowning on the lookout for another blanket, but it seemed that every one was being occupied. After a few minutes of trying to plan in your sleepy state, you finally decided on just sharing yours with him. It wasn’t huge, but you think it could fit over both of you if you shifted a little closer.

You gently pulled the leather jacket off him, setting it aside, grabbing his hand, and moving it closer to his own body as slowly as you could, smiling proudly when you managed to do so without disturbing him.

After shifting as close as you could without actually touching the boy, you took your time situating the blanket, making sure it covered him as much as possible. You finally laid back down yourself, too tired to be anxious about the little amount of space between the two of you.

You had just closed your eyes when another touch pulled you out of your almost-sleep. This time it was more than a few fingers. Eddie was now curled into your side, arm thrown over your waist, head resting on your collarbone without even thinking you started lazily ruining a hand through his curls, making him snuggle into you further. You felt your body relax against him, starting to pull you down into sleep, finally letting it take you. You lay there with a sleepy smile on your lips, content to lay like this the rest of the night. Even if you weren’t really sure where this would leave you, when you wake up, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Relaxing in the heat, his body was now suppling, finally closing your eyes to let sleep take you.

[dead-ringer-if]

DEMO (TBA)

The Wardens, stationed within the bustling city of Seattle, were the first proof of what could come from The Scourge, a cataclysmic event that had set off a chain reaction that would forever echo throughout time: Los Angeles falling into the Pacific, New York City being partially taken over by water, the Sahara Desert sweltering in intensity which killed off native fauna in record amounts, were among the most prominent. Years of misery, of fear, transcending over a century, wherein every remaining government strived to figure out a solution.

Which they found in the form of Titan— the first meta-human, Patient Zero, whose natural abilities were enhanced by various procedures. Titan started a new wave, hope beginning to appear, as more and more meta-humans were found— mainly due to the efforts of the Rose Family— and their naturally honed abilities, seemingly derived from the Scourge itself, being able to combat the effects until there’s only fractal remnants of it left.

From there The Wardens were formed, with Titan leading them, a new period of peace fell over the world once more. Of course, that never lasts as more and more villains began to pop up out of the woodworks, threatening the sanctity of the New World. However, without fail, The Wardens were there to answer the call and defend those that couldn’t defend themself.

Titan persevered, The Wardens went on, until a fateful day a decade ago on this date— wherein Titan lost Peregrine, their sidekick and protege. It’s a day that will forever live in infamy, as it’s a day that Titan lost Peregrine, but the world lost Titan.

— Excerpt from the Seattle Times.

The world was your oyster— at least that’s what you were told. By who? You’re not quite certain of that. Everything could be possible if you just strived to reach it… They just never tell you how to deal with the harsh reality of it forever being unobtainable.

Maybe that’s why you fell into a life of crime? Well crime is a stretch, you’re more a prisoner in a heavily guarded fortress than anything else. You’re not quite sure, not being able to remember the majority of what brought you to this moment; only fragments of what used to be visits you in your sleep. Of course, working for Diego Ruiz, the local crime boss in downtown New York City, wasn’t the worst possible job, barring the imprisonment, not that you were truly part of anything nefarious to begin with, but you still saw things you’re never sure you’ll be able to unsee.

When he gets arrested, you can’t say you’re too surprised— after all he took a lot of gambles while not having the intellect to back up such moves— but you are concerned about what the future could mean for you.

Nothing you ever imagined could prepare you for what’s in store, however. Never could have imagined The Wardens would have such a vested interest in you. You’re nothing special, haven’t been for as long as you could remember.

And why the hell do they keep calling you Peregrine?

Play as an MC that doesn’t quite remember their past life. Is it possible that you’re Peregrine? The protege that had been killed in a surprise raid a decade before? Or is something more nefarious going on and you’re simply caught in the middle of it? Why are you suddenly developing powers that you’ve never had before? And why the hell do you feel like you’re in a constant state of deja vu?

Please note that this story is rated 18+ for depictions of explicit language, alcohol consumption, potential drug use, sexual themes, mentions of death, blood, torture, and grief.

Customizable MC: name, nickname, appearance, sexuality, hobbies, bits and pieces of what occurred in the last decade, and more! (The MC has a slightly semi-set personality.) You’ll also be able to partially design your Avian friend: name, gender, and feather colors (it’s a Peregrine Falcon). The MC is 28.

Bond with The Wardens and discover, or potentially rediscover, your found family. The people who thought they lost you.

Uncover the seedy underbelly that lurks beneath the surface of the New World. Will you be able to discover what exactly happened to you? Uncover if you’re truly Peregrine or someone, or something, else entirely.

Romance 1 of 4 romance options— from the newest initiate within the Inner Circle to a suave, if slightly broken, billionaire villain.

Cultivate your powers that are both new and old.

You’re a dead ringer for a hero the world thought it lost… Just make sure you don’t lose yourself too.

Camilo/Camila Osorio — M/F

Age: 29

Power: Chlorokinesis — the ability to create and control plants.

Alias: To the world they’re known as Verdant, partner to Frostbite, a superhero within the Inner Circle of The Wardens.

Appearance: Of Colombian descent, they have richly tanned skin with piercing dark brown eyes to offset it. Ash brown hair is naturally slightly wavy— Camilo has his to his jawline and Camila has hers to her shoulder blades— which brings out the elegant contours of their face. An alluring presence all around, partially due to their powers, they stand at around 5’5” with a lithe body type.

Personality: While not being completely unkind, they’re not the most welcoming person. They don’t detest you, but it’s clear that they’re barely able to be in the same room with you. After all, they were best friends with Peregrine (with you?) and being near you only brings back painful memories. A wall of apathy, and sometimes cutting remarks, separate you from them, but at times, when they think you’re not looking, grief flashes through their gaze— latent pain rising to the surface that they’ve tried to bury for years.

Romance Route: Ex-Best Friends to Lovers, Slightly Rivals to Lovers (in a roundabout way), Lost Love, Finding Each Other Again, and Second Chances.

Airan/Aira North — M/F

Age: 26

Power: Cryokinesis — the ability to create and control ice, while not being affected by the cold.

Alias: To the world they’re known as Frostbite, partner to Verdant, the recent addition to the Inner Circle of The Wardens, a prodigy in the making.

Appearance: Ebony ringlets, that’s strewn with arctic blue and white, fall to just beneath their jawline, complementing the dark brown tone of their skin. Sapphire blue eyes shimmer with warmth despite the coldness that always seems to follow them. With a slender physique, they’re not one to get into fist fights but that doesn’t negate the danger level they could present. They stand at around 5’8”.

Personality: With the warmest smile and a boisterous laugh, they’re the embodiment of a golden retriever. Always wanting to make other people happy and stress free, with a genuine quality that surrounds them. They may be one of your “caretakers” to help you get acclimated with the world once more, and your growing powers, but they truly wish to be your friend too. No matter what they’d always be there to lend a hand if needed, or a shoulder to cry on.

Romance Route: Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Golden Retriever, Stuck Together, Gentle Compassion.

Damon/Diana Ambrose — M/F

Age: 45

Power: Widely regarded as the most powerful meta-human, partially due to their past that’s still shrouded in mystery, they have multiple abilities— flight, invulnerability, enhanced senses, and super strength (to name a few).

Alias: They’re known to the world as Titan, the old leader of The Wardens. An individual that hasn’t been seen in nine years and rarely, if ever, leaves the comfort of Warden Tower.

Appearance: Fair, perfectly unblemished, skin is complemented by the raven black color of their hair. Piercing green eyes, that look almost unreal due to their brilliance, brings out the chiseled features of their face— high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, well defined nose, and full lips. They were made for perfection, but is it truly all that it’s cracked up to be? With a toned/well muscled body, they stand at around 6’3”.

Personality: With a softly compassionate nature, paired with a presence that could silence an entire room by simply appearing, they were born to be a leader. Born to guide and help any that needed it. With a loving demeanor, wherein they have their heart on their sleeve, it’s no wonder that they took Peregrine in, at the ripe age of fifteen, in order to help train the young person that was clearly trying to find their way in the world. It’s also no wonder that they completely lost themself when losing Peregrine, something that they believe could have been completely avoided, and they’ve forever blamed themself for it. The last decade has brought with it a slew of darkness for them, their smiles not coming as easily, their anger at themself growing, and their hope slowly fading. Maybe with your reappearance things will be okay?

Romance Route: Old Mentor, Age Gap, Second Chances, Reunion, Forbidden Love (on their part), and Slow Burn.

Morgan/Morgana Rose — M/F

Age: 38

Power: Shapeshifting.

Alias: They’re infamously known as Silhouette. The leader of a criminal enterprise known simply as Syndicate.

Appearance: With sharp gray eyes, that seemingly stare right into your soul, and honey beige skin that’s complemented by their wavy auburn hair. They have an aura of danger consistently surrounding them, giving many the impression that they shouldn’t be trifled with. With a lean body type, they stand at around 6’0”.

Personality: Being called a variety of names within the tabloids: “The Lost Rose” or “Wilting Red”, to name a few— due to their abrupt departure from their rather famous family. They’re infamously known as Silhouette; a master manipulator, cutthroat in their dealings, and refusal to backdown over something they want. Of course, that’s simply gossip from individuals that have never truly met them— much like the tabloids that speculate on the life of the lost Rose Heir. Despite what you may think of them, they’re your best bet at discovering what happened to you in the last decade.

Romance Route: Enemies to Lovers (in a sense), Slow Burn (slightly), Age Gap, Villain/Hero, Misunderstood.

[kafus]

over the weekend at the knoxville regional pokemon championships, i met up with a longtime internet friend in person for the first time, and he traded me a very special pokemon - a unique celebi that takes a bit of context to explain the significance of

from november 2001 to january 2005, the building that is now a nintendo world store in new york city was actually an american pokemon center, which hosted the "Gotta Catch ‘Em All!" station, a large machine that you could pop your gold/silver/crystal cartridge into (or later ruby/sapphire/firered/leafgreen, but that's not relevant here) and get a special distribution pokemon unique to the store. often times these were normal pokemon in eggs with special moves they couldn't usually learn, but other times they ran distributions for shiny legendaries, and of course, the mythical celebi.

there's very few pictures of the machine and all of them are pretty low quality, but you can see an iteration of it here during the gen 3 era:

when PCNY (pokemon center new york) shut down, the machine and its contents were presumed lost forever, but due to the preservation efforts and the good luck of a few individuals, some of the distributions have been preserved, as well as parts of the machine and its software. this is extra incredible because almost all gen 2 save files from the time the machine was actually functional are long since wiped due to the battery inside dying, meaning that very very few of the gen 2 event pokemon distributed from this machine at the time still exist. i won't go super in detail on that in this post but you can read an article about all of that here (julie, the person who runs this historical PCNY fansite is incredibly passionate and if you want to know anything about the PCNY store i absolutely recommend reading her writing!)

so, one day when i was rambling to my friend (his name is Venty!) about my fascination with the PCNY machine, and how i wish i had been born early enough to experience that, as well as wishing that i could have traded with anyone in gens 1-3 as a child but never got to due to isolation, venty told me that he's actually friends with a guy (Professor Rex) who knows the guy who owns the remnants of the PCNY machine (Gridelin), and he would love to reach out and ask if there's any way rex could distribute a celebi to himself and trade it to him sometime so that eventually when me and venty met in person one day, he'd be able to trade the celebi to me.

i pretty much burst into tears and very passionately explained how much that would mean to me - not just because owning a celebi actually distributed from the historical PCNY distribution station is just... insanely cool, but because like i said, i had never traded anyone in the old internet-less generations of pokemon, and having that be my first was just... a monumental thought. i am deeply fascinated with old gen event distributions because of the tactile, interpersonal nature of them, in direct contrast with my isolation and loneliness as a child. it might sound silly to be so worked up over a collection of bytes/pixels, but i really couldn't believe venty would offer me something so kind. and not only did he offer to ask - rex said yes!!

so on may 21st last year (2023) rex traveled out and distributed the celebi to his pokemon silver cartridge. specifically, the celebi is from the "Celebi Present Campaign" which ran from the 22nd of november 2002 to the 28th of november 2002. the display on the monitor is the same video that would have appeared on the screen in the PCNY store, but flipped sideways here haha. (the gen 2 distributions were special and had custom animations for the legendaries and stuff, which you can watch here in full quality on gridelin's channel - there's videos of the other distribution animations on his channel, too!)

and then months later, during the weekend of august 11th 2023, rex and venty met up at the pokemon world championship in japan and rex traded the celebi to venty's gold cartridge...

...then, finally, just this past weekend, on sunday (february 4th 2024) venty and i finally met in real life for the first time at the knoxville TN regional pokemon championships, and with link cable in hand the celebi finally made its way to me in my hotel room, after crossing the ocean twice and passing through canada to the US to japan and back to the US...!!

gen 2 pokemon data isn't very complicated, but you can tell that my celebi is unique from the other PCNY celebis dumped online (here and here if you'd like to play with some of these historical pokemon yourself) because it has the trainer ID of 00204 which none of the publicly available celebis have - though of course to me, regardless of what becomes publicly available in the future (and i hope one day the common layperson can simply emulate the PCNY machine, video game preservation >>> unique collections always) this celebi will always be special and unique because of how it got to me, and because it represents my friendship with venty who i care so much about. it was an extremely kind gesture i will never forget and i can't believe how much traveling and how many people were involved with getting this tiny bundle of bytes and pixels to me. i hugged venty after the trade was done haha

oh, and by the way, don't worry, i have the hardware to back up my gen 2 save files so this celebi will never die even after my crystal cartridge battery eventually dies once more!! (also, while i don't think it would be an issue i do want to say please don't bother any of the people mentioned in this post...! gridelin & co are working on making the distribution machine in question available for anyone to use, it'll come out whenever it's out and for now there are dumps of the events that were recovered. i would not want them to receive any annoying requests for pokemon because of me. thank you!)

[octuscle]

Now open under new management (remake)

Edward Parker III rolled down the car window a crack. Peter, his driver, had switched off the air conditioning to save fuel. The fuel gauge was practically at 0.00. Here, in the middle of nowhere, they had no mobile network. The last Google message said that a petrol station would appear at some point. And Peter claimed that it should open in five minutes. Open from 10:40 am. Strange opening times. Edward's stomach grumbled. Something had gone wrong at breakfast. The car desperately needed a gas pump. And he needed a toilet just as badly. Then, like an oasis in the desert, a building appeared in the middle of endless cornfields and pastures full of stupidly staring cattle. It was 10:39:50 a.m. when Peter steered the car into the dusty gas station with the last drop of gas. At 10:40 sharp, Edward yanked open the car door and jumped out. And the moment his spotless Oxfords touched the ground, the neon sign flashed. Open!

Edward ran towards the little store where the neon sign was shining. He was far too intent on not wetting his pants to notice the leather soles of his shoes turning into a firm rubber tread. When he pushed the door handle down, he got something like an electric shock. He didn't care. The store was empty. His palm became calloused. His fingernails were black. There was a door at the back labeled "Private". Hopefully there was a toilet there. Thank God the door was open. And thank God there was a toilet. In the middle of a room full of tools, car tires and packages. It stank miserably. But Edward didn't care at all. He had already undone his belt while running, unzipped his trousers, pulled them down and dropped onto the dirty toilet seat at the last moment. And he had to shit like never before in his life. The stench was overwhelming. But the relief was immense. Edward finally relaxed again. But only for a second. Then his eyes fell on the dirty biker boots. They contained a pair of completely filthy jeans, pulled down as far as they would go. And what was even more irritating: his right hand was the hand of a construction worker, the sleeve of his shirt had disappeared. And the fabric of the right sleeve of his jacket was also coming undone. And on his chest and back, the color changed from a navy blue to a washed-out red. What the hell was going on here?

Even greater than the panic was the disgust at the stench. His left hand, still freshly manicured, reached for the toilet flush. And again he was hit by an electric shock. Panicked, he watched as his fingernails became dirty and his hand calloused. Edward's gaze fell between his legs. That wasn't his circumcised, shaved penis. That was a cheesy, hairy cock. Much bigger than it normally was. Edward had to get out of here! He hastily wiped his ass. A tight, hairy ass, sitting there on a familiar toilet seat. A man needs a good place to shit. Hehehe, this was a good place to shit. Stumbling, Edward stood up, his head spinning. He looked in the mirror. That was still his head. But the rest of him? His stiff white collar and tie knot vanished into thin air, revealing a well-toned chest. The last remnants of the finest navy blue wool on his upper left arm disappeared, and the transformation of his jacket into a washed-out and worn-out tank top was complete. I look like a fucking hillbilly, were his last thoughts before he grew a scruffy three-day fuzzy beard. His $100 haircut became a home-cut mullet. Damn, the greasy hair hadn't been washed in a while.

Loud honking from outside. "Damn, I've taken a shit! Can't you wait?" Edward shouted. He wiped his hands on the dirty cloth stuck in his pants. Washing hands was for sissies in the city. He entered the yard of his gas station.

Hehehe, he knew the dirty truck that was parked there at the gas pump. "Pete's services of all kinds" was written on the door. And Pete Jr. was hanging in the cab with a visible bulge. "Eddy, don't you always promise the best service at your gas station?" said Pete with a grin. Ed spat out the chewing tobacco and licked his lips. "Go ahead, gas station attendant. The belt buckle won't undo itself!"

Full service and guaranteed customer satisfaction. That's what Ed's gas station was famous for.

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 12

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 12/? 10.7k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Grades are high, but stakes are higher.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: flirting, play fighting, heavy angst, drinking, pregnancy mention, a heaping helping of family tension, mild fantasy blood/gore 

Special thanks to @storiesbyrhi for the beta reading on this one.

Monday, November 18th 1985

Hawkins felt different this weekend. 

Perhaps it was the ashen sky that hung over the scattered remains of a brilliant fall. The way it bathed the world in a pale, sullen wash. The way it made the rust on the signs outside the gas station seem more corrosive, the streets seem smaller, the storefronts seem older. Perhaps it was because everywhere you looked, you saw him. 

You were used to hearing Eddie in the cars that billowed smoke and blasted music as you pumped your gas. You had grown accustomed to seeing him in the crushed beer cans and cigarette butts that littered the weeds along the sidewalk, in the remnants of a good time. Those things were not unusual. But this weekend you saw him under the harsh fluorescents of the grocery store. On the crinkled label of a 99 cent can of soup. In the faces of small children as you stood in line with a cart that you could never fill alone. You saw him in the windows of subsidized apartments. Heard him in the squeak of wire hangers against the pole at the secondhand store. Felt him as you drove past the huddled rows of trailers.

On Monday after school when you sensed a tall figure in the doorway of your classroom, you half expected to look up and feel those grey skies again. To see those weed littered sidewalks and pothole riddled roads that led nowhere. But instead you saw something much brighter.

Eddie was smirking, rapping his ringed knuckles against the doorframe as he leaned into it. A look in his eyes like he was keeping a secret.

His dirty white Reeboks squeaked against the tile as he padded over to his spot in the wooden chair beside you and dropped his backpack irreverently to the floor. The gust of air that followed was painted with base notes of skin and leather, top notes of cigarette smoke and a bright hint of shampoo. Not a trace of rain.

You gathered the papers in front of you, shuffling them into a pile in the corner as you glanced over at him, unable to suppress the smile breaking out on your face. “What?” 

The smirk twisted deeper on his lips. “I read your story.” 

It was like he said he’d seen you naked. Heat crept up your neck. “All of it?” you asked with a nervous chuckle. 

“Not exactly.” Eddie grabbed the seat between his legs and walked it closer. “I’m at the part where they’re, uh, cooking over the fire outside of Grimhold and Cybelle takes her mask off for the first time. Well, in front of Lazarus anyway.” He shrugged his leather jacket off to drape over the back of the chair. 

It was strange to hear him say those names. Names you hadn’t thought about in years, dusted off from where you shelved them in your mind. It was like he was speaking a dead language, breathing new life into it. 

You swallowed. “Oh, that part. Yeah, that’s an important moment.”  

“I had a hard time putting it down, if that tells you anything.” 

“I take that means you like it then?” 

“Like it?” he said in a breathy chuckle, leaning closer. “I’m blown away.”

Your stomach turned to mush, unable to tear your eyes away from the soft earnestness of his features. “Really?”

Eddie gave a deadpan look. “Look, I’m a huge fantasy geek, but this world you’ve created is…” he shook his head as a soft puff of air left his lips, “unlike anything I’ve ever read.”

There was a weight to his gaze, so heavy that you needed to break it. “Oh wow, um, thank you,” you said, glancing at the paperclips on your desk as heat made a home in your cheeks again. “It’s been ages since I’ve read it myself honestly.” In the same span of time you still never learned how to take a compliment.

“Yeah—no, I mean it. It’s really good.” He tipped his head towards you, searching for your eyes. “I like that it’s, uh, based in a sort of… reality, if that makes sense. Like the whole thing about illness being a problem and how the change in the atmosphere makes Cybelle dizzy. The gold and how it powers machines. Stuff like that. It’s clever.”

You found the courage to meet his gaze again. “Well, thank you. I mean I’m definitely no Tolkien, but…”

 Eddie scoffed. “Honestly? Tolkien takes three pages to describe a door. You never need to and yet the world is crystal clear.”

The ease that washed over you escaped through a chuckle. “You know, I always thought that killed the pacing.”

“It does! God, I mean don’t get me wrong, he is the grandfather of fantasy but Jesus Christ.”

Your laughter mingled, soft and easy, coloring the air in the space between you. It echoed off the tile floor and concrete walls as beams of golden sunlight poured in through the row of windows to your right. The rays made a halo of his hair, catching the frizz that escaped the pattern of his curls. 

Eddie’s eyes sparkled, and you would search for the hurt in them. You knew it was there, hiding somewhere deep in those pools of molten chocolate, but in this moment there was no trace to be found. 

“Hell, maybe I should consult you for my campaigns,” he said scooting his chair impossibly closer. Close enough to feel his aura. To feel the hair on his arm tickle against yours. 

“Jeez, don’t flatter me.” You were surprised at how steady your voice came out.

“No, I’m serious,” he said, his eyes drifting toward your lips. “Okay, don’t tell the boys but I’m actually kind of stuck on this one part coming up.”

You snorted. “Right, because I have such a good rapport with the boys.”

The smile lines deepened around his smirk. “Ok, so… the final boss is coming up and I kind of want there to be a plot twist but I’m not sure how to like, make that work.”

“Alright, well what’s happened in the story so far?”

There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes before his voice dropped to a theatric narration. 

“There’s a dark, evil force in the village of Hammerfall,” he began with a wave of his hand. “Crops are withering, livestock perishing. The villagers say it’s a curse put on by a spurned old crone who vanished into the forest, never to be seen again.” 

The gooey smile breaking out on your features could not be contained. A new color in the lexicon of hues you knew his voice to be. Rich with iridescent animation, reaching deep enough to turn your heart to putty.

“Six brave adventurers investigate the cause and venture deep into the nearby woods where they encounter harpies,” he emphasized, flourishing his fingers, “dryads, and a forest teeming with dark activity. There’s something deeper going on…” he paused for dramatic effect, “or at least I want there to be,” Eddie chuckled, breaking character as his voice snapped back into its normal cadence. “Originally I was just going to have it be that the old crone is a kind of sorcerer but we already sort of figured that, you know? I feel like that’s too predictable. I want it to be something, I dunno, more interesting?” 

You blinked as you willed your dopey mouth to move. “So she’s, um, going to be the final boss I take it?”

“Yeah, but that’s like, totally predictable right?”

“Hmm.” Resting your elbow on the desk and your finger between your lips, you thought for a moment. “What if she’s like, I dunno, possessed by something else? Like maybe there’s an even darker force at work and it’s just using her as a puppet or something?”

Eddie’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “I like the way you think.” His voice was tinged with a playful darkness.

You tucked your fingers behind your ear in reflex. “I mean I have no idea what it would be, but…”

“No—no that’s a good place to start. I think I actually have an idea of who could do that sort of thing, like in the monster manual. He’s a sort of… necromancer.” 

You nodded. “Oh yeah, that sounds plausible enough. Maybe there’s some sort of clue that gets left behind when she dies or something. Maybe there are like, markings on her body or some sort of strange amulet or… something that would lead to clues about who might be behind this.”

Eddie nodded along, his eyes growing wilder with every word. “Hey uh,” he began, leaning in like he was about to share a secret. “I don’t… know if anybody’s told you lately but…” his soft breath feathered your cheek, “you’re pretty brilliant.” 

It was the way he said it. Soft in tone, heavy with intention. Peering under his lashes like he wanted to kiss you. You swallowed, hard, as your heart pounded into your throat. “No uh,” you choked on your laugh, “not lately.” Breaking his gaze, you fiddled with your green grading pen and pressed your thumb nail into the gummy gripper. 

With startling animation, Eddie grabbed a spare piece of paper from the pile on your desk and snatched the pen out of your hand. 

“Hey!”

“Not like you were using it,” he teased, swiping your attendance clipboard to prop the sheet against. 

Your mouth fell open. “Well… no… but—”

He turned the pen over in his hand and clicked it a few times. “So much power in this little tool.” Putting it to the paper, he etched a green mark that would form the first letter of your first name. “Hmm what grade am I going to give you?” he tapped the pen against his lips.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh you’re grading me now?”

“Well you definitely have attention to detail down, so A for that.” His hand hurried across the page, flourishing as he marked the A.

You sat back in your chair, thoroughly amused. “How generous of you.”

His eyes crinkled as he scribbled against the paper, clipboard cradled in his left arm to shield it from you. “Let’s see, what’s next… oh I know. Creativity. A plus for that one.”

You rolled your eyes, a weak diversion for how hot your face was getting. “How ‘bout I give you an A plus for being a total cheeseball?”

“Ohh wit — A for that one too.” His tongue darted out, nimble hand dragging your pen across the page. 

It was almost uncomfortable, the grip he had on you. How he could make you feel with a gesture, a word. “Ok enough flattery, give it back,” you said, reaching for the clipboard.

Eddie jerked it away. “Sense of humor, hmm, might have to give you a B for that one.” He shot you a smirk.

You balked. “Oh come on!”

“…B minus.” 

A laugh escaped you. “Eddie!”

His eyes were full of mischief as he scribbled frantically against the paper. “What, never got a B before? First time for everything, sweetheart,” he jested with a firm shake of his head. 

It was hard to be offended when your brain was short circuiting. 

“Maybe we can work on it together,” he offered, biting back a snicker.

Your brain clicked back on with the glare you shot him. “Okay, that’s it.” You lunged for the clipboard, but he was slow on the juke this time. Your fingers made purchase with the masonite slab.

Gripping it like a lifeline, he practically dragged you across his lap as he lurched away. It all happened so quickly. The swift tug he gave, your hand jutting out to brace the first thing in proximity — his denim clad thigh.

There was a pause in the movement. Heat lit up your whole body, radiating from the point of contact. 

His leg was warm and solid under your palm. So too was his shoulder nestled into yours as you reached across his lap, deeper into the bubble of his scent. You didn’t dare look him in the eyes, but in your close peripheral you could see his mouth; gaping just as yours was. 

Recovered from shock, the tension resumed in his tugging, and you responded with equal and opposite force. Your hand remained planted. For balance.

“So serious!” Eddie teased, wild hair bouncing as he jerked.

“I am serious, give it back.” Maybe it was your bright, airy giggles that gave you away, but he didn’t seem convinced.

God he was strong. You could feel the tremble of his arm emanating through the clipboard. Feel the flex of his bicep against yours as you fought his strength. You allowed yourself, for just a moment in the struggle, to glance at the one furthest to you. To follow his white, angular knuckles down to his wrist and see tendons flex against blue veins. To trace the curve of his inked forearm, to the bend of his elbow, to the bulge of his bicep. Your eyes lingered there. At the swell under his velvet skin. It surprised you, how large the muscle was, so much that it caused your grip to slip for just a second. 

It only made him tug harder, but not too hard, you noticed. Gentleman he was, trying to play fair. It was, however, hard enough to draw you further across his lap, further into his scent, close enough to slot your chest into his outstretched bicep and feel it tremble. You fought to regain your hold, hooking your fingers over the top and yanking back with an invigorated fervor. 

“Wai-wai-wait I’m not finished! I haven’t even gotten to ‘plays well with others’,” he wheezed, breaking into a warm, bubbly chuckle right against your ear.

You could barely eke out words. Sweat dampened your hand against the denim as his thigh flexed with every tug. A large, strong muscle that glided and stiffened under his heated skin. “Give it back,” you gritted weakly.

Soft curls tickled your cheek, feathered your lips and nose. You could smell it deeper than ever; that bright shampoo, that warm musk radiating from his neck. 

“What, you gonna give me detention?” he quipped, turning his head to steal a glance from you. 

Your mouth hung open. It was the way he said it, so defiant and cocksure. Daringly taunting for someone whose face was blotched pink. “Yeah, write you up for being a smartass,” you choked out with a pointed tug while your other hand burned a hole in his thigh. 

He gasped dramatically, pausing in the struggle. “You think I’m smart?” His tone was comically serious. It was scary how easy he could feign it on a dime. 

You deadpanned. “I’ve been telling you that this whole time. Maybe you should pay more attention.”

“Oh I’m paying attention.” 

“Oh yeah, to what?” 

It was all you could do not to stare at the ridges of his neck as his Adam’s apple bobbed, pink lips twitching, eyes darting between yours.

“That’s what I thought.” You seized the split second opening in his defense and snatched your dignity back.

His fingers clung desperately to the clipboard. “Ok—ok, I’ll give it back, I promise, just answer one question for me… about your book,” he panted, ghosting your lips with it.

It was those goddamn Bambi eyes that defeated you. Large, almond, pleading. His last, pathetic line of offense. “Fine,” you sighed.

“Is this a love story?” he murmured, close enough to taste his words.

They hung like a cloud. Heavy and potent. Threatening to burst. Hovering in the fractional distance between you.

“I—” you balked, voice trapped in your throat. 

The tugging ceased. Arms went slack. Fingers dampened masonite and paper. Eyes flicked back and forth. Yours caught the dip in his lids as they lowered to your lips, the long, gentle curve of his lashes as he peered at you from under them. 

You could not will your hand to move. It was glued there like his eyes were on you. Clammy fingers twitched against warm denim, itching to snake them further, to pull him closer, to commit each aching second to memory. 

Your eyes dipped next, quick enough to see his nerves make subtle twitches in his smile lines. To catch the parting of his plush, pink mouth that drew you like a magnet. Your heartbeat drowned out any sounds of pinballs. 

You could have done it. Moved your chin two inches. Snatched his pout.

Instead you swallowed and summoned a whisper. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

______

Your childhood home had gone rather unchanged since you had moved out of it. A little one-story ranch built in the 50s. Looking at it from the outside, it always amazed you that it could fit three bedrooms within its four walls. Plain and unassuming. White exterior, green shingled roof, a brick flower bed underneath the big bay window in front. Your mother had planted a tidy row of mums in it for fall. There was hardly a stray leaf to be found fluttering across the small, manicured lawn.

Inside you were greeted with the same paneled living room walls, painted powder blue now. The same family portraits from when you were seven, another from when you were ten, and then thirteen. Clean white carpet. Neat and orderly. Your old room had become a craft room soon after college. There was hardly a trace of you left. The Led Zeppelin and Beatles posters were the first to go, replaced with more tasteful decor like cross-stitched landscapes. A singer sewing machine was now perched on the desk you spent countless hours huddled over in study. Nick-knacks took up residence in your bookshelves. The purple walls were painted over with a powder yellow.

Mickey’s room remained largely unchanged. Bigger than yours, though you never had the heart to move over. It served as a guest room now, the full size bed still dressed in the quilt he used, the one your grandma made. Same cobalt blue walls. Your mother still dusted his trophies. 

What was most different was the table that stretched from the small dining room part-way into the living room. It was decorated with candlestick holders that looked like turkeys wearing hokey pilgrim hats. Those were definitely new. You wondered where your mother picked them up.

Both you and your mom would assume your roles — hers as host, and yours as helpful. You would busy yourself with the little things first. Details like folding linen napkins just how she instructed; in cascading triangles. You would sit at the end of the table and press daydreams into them. Quiet fantasies of warm nights and summer winds. Folding in details like the scent of leather and smoke inside the van, the sweet country air gusting through the windows. Details like how you imagined freedom would taste — slick and hot, hungry and lazy with room for seconds.

Once finished, you placed your folded secrets where they belonged — under the dinner forks.

You were making yourself useful with a can of cranberry sauce when your relatives arrived. The kind with whole cranberries. Clamping the gummy handles of the can opener and twisting as the teeth bit into the metal lid. Last year you’d made your own. Simmered sugar and orange juice in a pot over a real flame in your own house, added plump red berries and heated them until they burst. Dan’s mom said it was her favorite thing on the table.

This year you scooped cold, jelly chunks into an plain glass bowl, running the spoon down the ridges like a washboard. You were tapping off the bitter excess when the front door cracked open, ushering the sound of familiar voices colored in casual pleasantries. 

They would find you there eventually — in the kitchen putting rolls into a basket. It was effort, to smile and laugh and act like you were doing great. It was easier to act like you were busy. 

You hadn’t seen them since Connie and Cameron’s wedding. A sweltering day in mid-July. The last place on Earth you wanted to be. You’d spent most of it swallowing your feelings. Washing down saccharine cake with acrid mimosas. Sitting at a vacant table littered with party favors and sweating, half-empty glasses while your relatives slow danced to I Want To Know What Love Is by Foreigner. 

Your Aunt Helen and Uncle Larry spared no expense for their daughter and her new husband, from the country club venue to the live band. From the four course dinner to the three tiered tower of a cake.

Connie’s dress was beautiful. An ivory silk with princess puff sleeves and a train that stretched down the aisle. Like a limited edition Barbie still inside the box.

You hadn’t said much to her then — a tepid congratulations from behind a tired mask. It was all you could offer besides cash in a Hallmark greeting card. You doubted she noticed. She was busy anyway, as all brides were on their wedding day. It’s not like you were really that close to begin with. Not close in age with her being seven years your junior, not close in interests or hobbies. Not even close in proximity for most of her adult life, until recently. 

What you remembered more than anything was the way your grandma looked at her that day — like she’d hung the moon. She’d looked at you like that before of course — adorned with sashes in the parking lot as you clutched your first diploma. In the shade outside the the stadium as you cradled your second. When you reached across the table to present your ring to her.

You were reaching across the table to place the steaming basket of rolls by the cranberry sauce when you caught that look again — at Connie, the Sears catalog between them blanking the napkins you’d placed so carefully.

“See, I was thinking about this matching set with the dresser and changing table. See how it’s sort of built in like that?” Connie explained, leaning in toward your grandmother at the head of the table. 

Your stomach did a sinking somersault, eyes magnetized to her pastel pink fingernail tapping against the full spread of baby furniture. 

“Oh my, well isn’t that convenient. Yes I do like the natural wood grain of this one, the lighter color,” your grandma added.

You tried to swallow it away. Pretend like you didn’t even notice. Like the cheering coming from the living room was summoning you. You could still hear them as your stocking feet crossed over the divide from the hard wood to the plush carpet.

“I was thinking the same thing. It’ll go nicely with the paper we’ve picked out for the walls. Oh shoot, I meant to bring the sample. Sorry, I’ve been so spacey lately.” Connie’s sticky sweet chuckle clung to your hammering ears.

Suddenly your mother’s Precious Moments collection had never been so fascinating. Looking past your anguished reflection in the glass cabinet, you drank in their big, dopey eyes. Vignettes of little cherub hands clutching flowers, posing as firefighters and dentists. Droopy eyed children sitting on see-saws and garden benches. Frozen in their perfect little worlds.

“Oh that’s quite alright dear,” your grandma’s gentle reassurance echoed from the dining room. “I can come over and see sometime after my knees are healed, plenty of time between now and April.”

You tried to blink away the image — your old craft room on Clementine painted pastel pink or blue, filled with furniture from the pages of Connie’s catalog. It probably was at this point. Your eyes burned a hole in a ceramic cherub head as heat rose in your veins.

The sound of a whistle drew your attention to your uncle and cousins crowded around your family’s meager television. 

“Oh COME ON!” Larry bellowed as the plastic cushions squeaked under his shifting weight. “There’s no way that was a foul, you see that, Kevin?” he gestured to his son, slumped against the couch half asleep. “Total baloney.”

Cameron adjusted his glasses as he shifted forward. “Oh yeah his foot was totally on the line, I bet we can catch it on replay.”

“Where do they find these damn refs anyway? The academy for the blind? HA!” Larry sat back in his seat and cracked another beer, amused with himself.

You raked your eyes over the blurring sea of dolls again, drowning in your thoughts until one of them pulled you to the surface. On the middle shelf behind the one in the lab coat and stethoscope, this one stood in front of a big desk with a stack of books and an apple on it and held a large slab in front of her. You crouched down to read the fine print.

Report Card

Kindness…A

Mercy…A

Love…A

Faithfulness…A

Your stomach twisted into knots. Phantom touches ghosted over your hands and arms, wrapped themselves around your heart and squeezed. You caught your own eyes in the mirror behind the dolls — sad and droopy just like theirs, only painted with shame and longing instead. 

Uncle Larry’s voice boomed through the room again. This time it was coming from the television while the Larry on the couch shushed your cousins like they were even making noise to begin with.

“At Bessler Ford we’ve always got the best deals, and this Thanksgiving we’re practically GIVING these cars away!”

“Hey you guys seen the new one?” Larry called out to the rest of the house. 

The question was met with weak replies from Connie and Grandma looking up from the catalog in the dining room. You wondered if your parents even heard him from the kitchen. With lukewarm enthusiasm, you humored him with your attention, mind swimming with pinball thoughts, eyes glazing over as you stared at the screen. Then, like a sudden apparition, your mother emerged from the kitchen and snatched the remote from the end table.

“ZERO down, ZERO interest, we’re prating BEGGING you—”

Like a Wild West gunslinger quick on the draw, the TV blipped off with a fizzle.

“Aw come on!” Larry protested.

“Dinner’s ready, time to eat,” she stated firmly, her expression unamused.

As your family peeled themselves off the couch and shuffled over to the table, you found your seat on the carpet side of the divide. 

Even with the extra leaf there was no fitting nine at a six person table, so there had been some improvising. The two tables were covered in linens you didn’t recognize. Starchy and stiff, a cream brocade with a fall leaf pattern that shimmered in the light. Your mom must have steamed them to get the creases out from the packaging. Though matching, they couldn’t hide the fact that they were different shapes. 

Your side of the family took their places at the smaller square table, and your cousins found theirs at the rectangle.

Aunt Helen’s green halo of fruit jello jiggled as your dad triumphantly plunked the carved turkey in the center of everything. 

It rested awkwardly on the seam between the two tables, a sloping butterball bridge. 

You watched the juices gather at the lower end of it as everyone around you lowered their heads to utter the words of a half-hearted prayer, the meaning long forgotten with tired repetition. 

Barely a second of silence passed before a manicured hand shot out from your left, reaching to steady the platter so it favored her side. “You know, it really was nice of you to offer to host,” Helen said to your mother across from you, “but perhaps next year we can have the honor. We have plenty of space for it.”

The suggestion was met with a tight lipped smile. “Next year we’ll be back at mom’s,” she quipped at her younger sister.

The tension was thick enough to slice. A heavy backdrop to the clinking of silverware against ceramic as servings were doled out. You busied your hands with the nearest thing to you — a warm bowl of mashed potatoes, dolloping a generous helping onto your plate and pressing a crater into the center with the back of the spoon. You passed the bowl toward your right to your dad at the head of the smaller square table.

It was your grandmother who broke the silence. “Helen you do have a lovely home, if you really wanted to host I wouldn’t be opposed,” she said, breaking the molded perfection of the green halo with her serving spoon. “Less work for me to do anyway.”

You caught it. The flicker of dejection in your mother’s eyes, cast down at the crisp table linens. Fleeting and momentary before her shoulders resumed their rigid posture, before she corrected her expression and reached across the table to usher a thick slice of turkey breast onto her plate.

Helen looked delighted as she plucked a roll from the basket. “Well thanks, mom. Besides, this time next year there will be ten of us.”

You stared down at your plate, shuffling your green beans with your fork. 

The conversation would lighten up over steamy, buttered rolls and Betty Crocker stuffing. It would soften to a casual cadence about Cameron’s new accounting job at the dealership. How the pay raise from his previous job could afford he and Connie a house on Chestnut street. How the decorating had been going. How your dad was managing the hardware store this time of year. 

You would sit there in silence and unfold your secrets; smooth the linen against your lap and feel your sweating hand on his rigid thigh; the ghost of his breath at your lips when he asked you if this was a love story. You would prod at your potatoes and indulge in the fantasy of closing the gap. Conjure the cradle of his plush cupid’s bow and taste his wicked grin. Swallow the sensation of how it might feel to have a belly full of him.

Your spoon broke the gravy dam, flooding your plate.

“Dear, aren’t you going to have any liver dressing? You’re the one who made it after all. It’s quite good, isn’t it?” Your mother asked you, glancing at your grandma.

You choked on your daydream. “I—um…”

“It’s kinda chunky,” Kevin commented through a mouthful. “I mean compared to how grandma makes it.” 

Your grandma offered a sympathetic smile. “It’s a tricky recipe.”

She wasn’t wrong. It was tedious to put it mildly. It involved bread crumbs, cooked liver and ham, and a food processor. But it was a family recipe and she just had knee surgery so your thoughtful mother volunteered you to take up the reigns. How generous.

“It’s still quite good, isn’t it?” your mom asked her before turning back to you. “Why don’t you try some, you’ll see.”

You stared down at the square, pyrex dish. You never liked liver dressing. It looked like cat food cut up into little squares, the crispy edges making it only slightly more appealing. It was the texture that always got you. Mushy and homogenous. Admittedly you’d never actually tasted cat food but you wondered how it compared.

“No thanks, my plate’s already so full,” you said through feigned laughter.

There was that flicker in her eyes again, like the flames above the new ceramic turkeys. 

“Mom, come on, I don’t…” you glanced around at your relatives, busying themselves with the contents of their own plates. 

Your mother set her fork down. Her gaze flicked toward your grandma tucking her spoon happily into Helen’s jello. “Why don’t you try just one bite, sweetie.”

Huffing through your nose, you stared down at the dish, then back up at her. There was only one way this was going and you didn’t want to cause a scene. With a placid smile, you picked up the serving spoon and scooped a bite-size portion onto your plate, giving a single, solemn tap against the ceramic before setting it back in the tray.

You glanced around the still silent table, then back at your mother, still watching you intently from across the flickering candles. Defeated, you started down at the lump of mushy cat food on your plate. Scooping it up with your spoon, you brought it to your lips with a resigned sigh before opening your mouth. 

It wasn’t terrible. The rich umami of the fat and the seasonings almost made up for the texture, and quite honestly, the chunks helped. You still didn’t like it. You would never like it. You’d been forced to eat it your whole life and your opinion still hadn’t changed. Whether your mother could accept that was another subject.

You swallowed, finally, to your relief and probably everyone else’s, if they were paying attention. “I’d give it a solid C,” you stated flatly. Your mother was not amused.

“C’s get degrees,” Larry added, laughing at his own joke.

Your dad tipped his head to you. “Well I’d definitely give it a higher grade than that, but I guess you are the expert when it comes to grades, huh?” 

You humored him with a soft, pained smile, tucking into your stuffing again in hopes of replacing the taste in your mouth. You washed it down with a swig of champagne and the sweet tingle cleansed your palate. 

They left you alone after that, with thoughts too loud for your beverage to drown out. Pinball thoughts and summer thoughts. Echos of bright laughter off tile flooring. A rich, warm hum at the shell of your ear. Words like timeless and sweetheart. Loud enough to drown out dull conversations for the duration of the meal. 

“Mom can I go to Vinnie’s after this?” asked Kevin.

Helen shot him a stern look from across the table. “You may absolutely not go to Vinnie’s. I told you I don’t want you hanging out with that boy anymore.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s not a big a deal.”

“It absolutely is a big deal. I said no, and that’s final,” she said, punctuated by the stabbing of her fork into white meat.

Candles wavered in the tension as orange wax dripped down the sides. Not a sound aside from chewing and silverware against ceramic.

It was your dad who broke the silence. “Ok, I gotta know what Vinnie did.”

Connie bit back a smirk, eyes shifting around the table. “Vinnie got suspended for bringing,” she glanced at your grandma before mouthing, “pot to school.”

There was an audible stir from the table.

Your grandma clutched her chest. “At St. Michael’s?”

You bit your lip at her reaction, cheeks quivering as you struggled to keep a straight face.

“I know, mom. It’s appalling,” said Helen, “I really thought we could have avoided this sort of thing by choosing a private school.”

It was then that Larry turned to you. “Yeah, I bet you see this kinda stuff all the time at Hawkins, don’t you?” 

It was a dig. You might have been polite but you certainly weren’t stupid. “Not as often as you think,” you said flatly, taking another bite of cranberry sauce to busy your mouth before something regrettable came out.

“You know, Kevin, I had a friend in high school who smoked pot, you know where that got him?”

Just what everyone needed, Uncle Larry’s wisdom. You sighed and stared blankly ahead. It was everything you could do to keep your eyes from rolling back into your head. 

“Flippin’ burgers at Benny’s, that’s where,” he concluded before taking a swig of his beer. He set it down with solid thud, as if that made his point.

Kevin huffed and sat back in his chair looking more disappointed than convinced.

You thought about Eddie Munson again, perfumed with cigarettes and covered in tattoos. Thought about him at this table and wondered where he’d fit. Between you and your Aunt Helen? Across from your mother pretending to enjoy liver dressing? At the seam between the square and the rectangle?

There used to be ten at the table. Before that there were eleven.

Your most secret daydreams wafted in on summer winds. They hinged on the changing of seasons and circumstances. You thought about this table without your chair. Of the flickering candles in your mother’s eyes; the way they hinged on you. 

Your hands toyed with the linen in your lap. As far fetched as a future was, you wondered, desperately, if both ends could ever meet.

If the two of you would ever have a place among the dolls.

______

Thanksgiving was Eddie’s second favorite holiday. After Halloween of course, for obvious aesthetic reasons. Having no extended family in Hawkins, his Thanksgivings had always been small. Some better than others. There was the one shortly after his dad went to jail for the first time. He was only six, but there were a few things he remembered — that there was no yelling at the table, that his mom seemed happy for once, and that it was his first Thanksgiving with Wayne. 

Nowadays Eddie and Wayne were like passing ships. Wayne would come home from work after Eddie left for school and go to sleep shortly after he returned. The weekends were a little better, though Eddie had a tendency to sleep in late, so that left them a few hours for early dinners together when he wasn’t galavanting around or getting into trouble.

Over the past nine years, the two Munson men had developed their own Thanksgiving traditions.  

Wayne wasn’t much of a cook, but each year he would go out and get the smallest turkey he could find and gather some essentials. The thing Eddie loved most was that Wayne always made it fun. He would always encourage Eddie to help in the kitchen, even when he was younger. 

The first staple dish was a green bean casserole. It was easy enough even for an eleven year old to open a can of cream of mushroom soup, to scoop out its contents and mix it with shredded cheddar and green beans. Simple enough to sprinkle crispy onions on top and pop it in the oven. Eddie always felt like a chef putting it together.

The second staple dish was a baked mac and cheese. Wayne picked up the recipe from a coworker in West Virginia. It was pretty simple too. More hearty than your traditional stovetop Kraft. It involved heavy whipping cream, eggs, and three different kinds of cheese. Nothing compared to baked Thanksgiving mac fresh out of the oven. It was thick, and rich, and the cheese was browned to a crisp on top. The noodles had just the right amount of chew and the center was melted perfection. 

As Eddie got older some new traditions developed. Wayne started letting him in on the beer when he turned 18. Something about “I know you’re doin’ it, might as well be doin’ it safe under my roof.” Wayne was pretty lenient about most things. More than anything, Eddie got the sense that Wayne just wanted him to feel like there a place he could call home. 

There was one Thanksgiving tradition that stood above them all — the sacred text, the soundtrack to every Munson Thanksgiving — Alice’s Restaurant.

Every year like clockwork Wayne would dig the record out of his collection and Arlo Guthrie would accompany the two of them as they strained pasta, cracked eggs, and opened cans. He would spin his long-winded sermon, his odyssey, about one fated Thanksgiving and the trials and tribulations of dumping trash where it shouldn’t go and how it can spare you from getting drafted. The song was nearly twenty minutes long and took up one full side of the record. Wayne would play it over and over to the point where both of them had most of the damn thing memorized, which was difficult to do considering it was mostly just Arlo rambling a story over chords with the chorus thrown in here and there.

Tucking his legs underneath him, Eddie cradled his heaping plate, shifting his balance so that it didn’t end up in his lap when the couch cushion dipped as Wayne took his spot. 

“Damn boy, I sure do hope your stomach’s as big as them eyes. Mine’s hurtin’ just lookin’ at all that.”

Eddie cracked a wicked smile and leaned in like he had some kind of secret. “You know, you can get anything…”

Wayne raised his eyebrows, playing along. “Anything?”

“Anything you want,” he quoted Arlo before shoveling a heap of stringy mac and cheese into his mouth. 

Wayne brought his broad, calloused hand down on top of his head and gave his mop of curls a playful ruffle. Eddie chuckled through a mouthful, balancing the plate in his lap.

It was good like this. Sitting on the couch with a heaping pile of food. The B side of the record spinning with fuzzy familiarity as Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving played quietly on the small TV in front of them.

He didn’t need a table to enjoy it. Besides, the couch was way more comfortable than any stiff chair. The paper towel tucked underneath his plate did as good a job as any to wipe his mouth. Eddie was thankful for moments like these, and Wayne more than anything.

“You still doin’ game night tomorrow?” he asked.

“Nah, school’s closed so I guess they get a pass,” Eddie answered, “I mean I thought about making everyone get together anyway but I dunno where we’d meet. Still gonna do band practice on Saturday though.”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha been practicing?”

“Uh, been kinda on a Sabbath kick lately. Hand of Doom, War Pigs, early stuff,” he said, barely denting his mashed potato mountain.

Wayne took a stab at his turkey. “Y’all sound pretty good. An’ I’m not just sayin’ that.”

“Well… thanks.” Eddie toyed with his food, running his fork along the solid, jelly ridges of the of cranberry sauce.

“You guys oughta play more places, maybe after you graduate.” 

He raised his eyebrows as he chewed. “You sound awfully confident about that last part.”

“I am,” Wayne started, “after last Friday anyway. Got to meet that teacher of yours who’s been givin’ you all sortsa help.”

Eddie choked, shielding his mouth with his fist as he hacked mashed potatoes from his windpipe.

“Y’ ok Ed?” 

“Yeah—yeah, just uh,” he wheezed. He met you? Jesus. He wasn’t sure if his head was spinning more over the lack of oxygen or the implications. 

“Y’ know, she sure had an awful lotta good to say about you.”

“Did she?” Eddie asked between coughs. A deep embarrassment bubbled in his gut. 

“Sure did. You really lucked out this year. She really seems to… I dunno. Get it. Get you. Real sweet young thing, I’ll tell you what.”

Eddie thought his mashed potatoes might end up on the carpet. 

“Ain’t hard on the eyes either,” Wayne muttered before taking a sip of his beer.

“WAYNE.” Eddie wanted to crawl out of his skin. Dig a hole. Bury his own skeleton in the back yard between the laundry posts.

There was a glint in his eyes, like he was catching onto something. “What? A fact’s a fact.”

“Ok enough, please.” Eddie ran his hands down his heated face, certain he was absolutely crimson. 

Wayne just chuckled harder, like the torture entertained him.

Suddenly he was eleven years old again. Standing outside the auditorium with his guitar slung over his shoulder as parents and classmates filtered out in droves. 

“Come on boy, time to go.” 

Eddie fussed with his stiff pleather jacket, looking left and right with a growing desperation. “Can we wait just like… five more minutes? I wanna tell Chrissy good job.”

Wayne’s eyes sparkled with a curious mischief, “Oh I see. Got a little crush huh?”

Eddie hardened his lips into a line and fumed. “I do not, I just wanna say good job. God.” He glanced around,  growing claustrophobic, jacket suffocating him with heat. “You know what, let’s… let’s just go,” he huffed as he marched toward the glass exit.

What was he going to do? Storm off? Slam the door like a fucking child?

No. Instead, Eddie just sat there, staring a hole into his heap of Thanksgiving as the plate grew heavy in his sweating hands. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Oh come on, Ed. I’m just teasin’.”

There it was again. The heat that lit his skin like fluorescent lights as he stared down problems he was too stupid to solve. 

“It’s fine,” Eddie muttered, vision blurring as Snoopy doled out helpings on the television. The record skipped with a steady rhythm in the silence of its end.

You had met Wayne. He knew now, who you were to him. There was no unknowing that. What did he think? That he was going to bring you by some day? Introduce you as his girlfriend? Would Wayne even believe it or would that be a joke to him too?

In the countless visions of you that played out like tapes in his mind, this part always came in fuzzy. Now it was prickling static. 

He wanted to get up; to wrap his plate in tinfoil and throw it in the fridge; retreat to his bedroom like he always did. But he was already doing a piss poor job at playing it cool and he knew that would only make it worse.

So he sat there and ate it. Swallowed his shame and frustration, chased it with a solemn resignation. 

Sometimes he could almost forget. When the books sprawled out on the big desk came from his home and not his locker. When the names on your tongues were from fiction and not history. When impulse took hold of his hands and they took hold of yours. 

Sometimes his visions were more unbelievable than his wildest campaigns. You, hammering your next novel into a keyboard. Him, surprising you with kisses and a sandwich prepared in a kitchen you both shared. A home together in some far off place that neither of you knew the name of yet.

Sometimes, in the bubbling laughter that clouded the space between you, he could almost forget his place.

By the time the credits rolled on the TV, he couldn’t stomach another bite. 

“I think, uh,” Eddie looked down at the half-eaten mess on his plate, “I think my eyes were too big for my stomach.”

He got up without another word, dumped the scraps into the garbage, and resigned to his room.

______

Eddie fluttered open his heavy lids, adjusting his eyes to the darkness that swallowed him. It had been light out when he’d closed them, though he barely remembered doing so.

He wiped the drool from his face and peeled the now silent headphones off his sore ears. The clock on the nightstand painted his vision with a red neon glow; a tether back to reality. 7:07 PM.

Reaching toward his right, he pawed the air for the cord to the hanging lamp beside his bed and flicked it on when he made purchase with the switch. 

Before the turkey’s tryptophan took hold, he had been enjoying the cool breeze at his face as he drove his wagon leisurely along the trail through the Ashmar forest. 

Eddie squinted against the light and rubbed his eyes as he glanced down at your world in his lap, still open right where he left off. The weight of it was like an extra blanket; heavy like a hug. It beckoned him to stay in the toasty cocoon of his bed. Though he had half a mind to get up and take a piss, the world outside was steeped in November’s chill, so instead he took the path of least resistance and dove right back in.

As much as Cybelle was concerned about illness, it was difficult for them to travel together and still keep their distance, but they seemed to have figured it out. They picked up a small tent and collapsable cot while in Torgaard which worked well enough for sleeping arrangements. While on the move, Lazarus had his place; in the driver’s seat, and Cybelle had hers; in the caravan. She would busy herself over the wood stove, crafting strange food and concoctions while Lazarus tried his best to stay alert and steer the horse.

Sometimes she would peek her head out the large window atop the singular door and talk to him. He enjoyed those moments most of all. Lazarus was learning all sorts of new things; what daily life was like in Myrne, what the city looked like and how agriculture worked for them. What Myrnish people thought of the world beneath and what had surprised her about it so far. Namely the flora and fauna. The weather. How diverse it all was. The people too. He would often catch her studying plants when they stopped to camp; taking samples and storing them in jars, pressing them to pages, sketching little drawings in her thick leather book.

“You know I would love to visit Myrne,” he turned his head and called to her, “once this is all over anyway.”

Small, russet fingers curled around bottom of the ornate caravan window frame, followed by a pensive, crescent moon face. “Many people want to visit Myrne.” 

“Right, well, not many people actually know someone from Myrne,” he added, “and I just happen to be so lucky.” 

Cybelle’s eyes crinkled in a soft, sad smile. “I would love to show you,” she began, “but I know they will forbid it.”

The wheels of the caravan creaked along the dirt path, shifting their weight with a soft thud as they drove over a rock. “Even just one person? What if I wore a mask, like yours?”

Cybelle shook her head, “The council is very strict. Even merchants are not allowed beyond the docks. There have still been plagues, even with these rules. One in my lifetime. I was quite young but I still remember… more than I would care to. We lost… so many people.”

He could hear the sorrow twinge her voice. Lazarus gave a solemn nod, staring down at the worn leather reigns as they plodded along. “I’m sorry,” he offered, “I’m sure you knew more than a few of them.”

Cybelle hummed softly, folding her arms across the bottom of the window to cradle her head. “I know just about every family in Myrne.”

Sunlight laced through the trees, dappling the road in patches of shade and light. They hadn’t seen another soul in miles. Perhaps he was becoming a bit stir crazy from all the driving but the further they plodded, the louder the questions that rolled around in his head became. 

“Forgive me if this is, uh,” he searched for the word in the leaves, “inappropriate, but with such a small population, how do you prevent, um,” his fingers toyed at the nape of his neck, “like, accidentally marrying your second cousin?”

To his relief, it earned a big, bright laugh from Cybelle, “We are not that small, around three thousand. But yes, sometimes you must be careful,” she chuckled, propping her head against her arm. “We do keep records of such things.”

“Ah,” he confirmed with a single nod as his face bloomed with heat. 

It encouraged a glimmer of mischief from Cybelle’s umber eyes. “There was a… how you say… practice, I suppose, long before the plagues when we were more open to outsiders where—”

The words were snatched out of her mouth by a sudden halt of the caravan, jerking both of them backward with startling force. The horse cried out, rearing to her hind legs in shocked protest.

“Woah—woah!” Lazarus braced himself against the wood panel in front of the driver’s seat and whipped his head around. Unable to see anything behind the mass of painted wood, he stumbled out onto the dirt to get a better look. “Just keep Turnip calm!” he called to Cybelle as she clambered off the floor.

He scanned the perimeter of the wagon. There was nothing he could see right away, that was until he looked down. Two thick vines, moving like snakes, were actively coiling themselves around the spokes of the wooden wheel. They were covered in tiny, glass-like thorns, and they seemed rather perturbed. He imagined it might have had something to do with running them over. Lazarus cursed. “We’re gonna need uh—a blade of some sort,” he shouted. 

“There’s the knife I was using by the stove,” Cybelle called back, running her hand gently along Turnip’s dapple grey neck.

“Uhh, I think we need something bigger, come take a look at this.”

Cybelle gave Turnip a soft, final pat as she turned to follow Lazarus’ voice around to the back of the caravan. She gasped when she saw it.

“Ever seen one of these… monstrosities in your books?” he asked, gesturing to the vines.

Cybelle crouched down, looking more fascinated than horrified, marveling at the way they moved, like prowling serpents. “No,” she whispered. “They must be very strong though, to stop us like that.”

Watching them coil around the spokes filled Lazarus with an eerie dread. He shuddered to think what he would find if he followed their length into the forest. That was when he remembered the wood axe. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Please just… keep your distance.”

The axe was on the floor when he found it, as was the kettle, and the utensils, and dozens of other objects that had been launched from their careful placement. Lazarus left the caravan with a heavy sigh.

“Alright, step aside,” he said, tapping the handle of the axe against his open palm.

Cybelle scurried backward, clearing a safe distance. 

Gripping the smooth wood, Lazarus approached the vines. He shuffled his boots into the dirt as he widened his stance, taking aim about a foot from the wheel as the menacing serpents continued their slow coil. He swung with his full force, and just like chopping wood, he let the weight of the axe do its job. It severed the vines with a clean chop. Like snakes without heads, they recoiled into the forest. He swore he heard them hiss. 

Leaning against his long axe with a proud flourish, Lazarus glanced over at Cybelle. She seemed more captivated by the what remained of the plants than his demonstration, much to his quiet disappointment. 

Cybelle shuffled over to the wheel, fascinated by the green, glassy specimens. They had fallen to the  road in a heap upon severance.

“Maybe we ought to invest in a sword when we get to Fenwood,” Lazarus half-joked, “More dangerous out here than I—”

The vine that shot out from the forest snatched the words right out of his mouth, morphed them into a scream as it seized his forearm with a searing sting. In an instant he was on the ground, clawing at the dirt with his other hand as the vengeful, severed serpent lurched him from the road. 

With startling quickness, Cybelle stumbled to her feet again. She snatched the axe from the ground and chased after him.

The pain was blinding as it dragged him. Small, glassy hooks like a fire in his forearm. It made the sticks that scraped his body feel like tickles. The rocks that raked under him like a dull massage. Though his other hand flailed desperately at ferns and the damp, dead leaves that blanketed the forest floor, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t pull back. He couldn’t stop. All he could do was scream and panic. It was hard to tell how fast he was really going, how much time had actually elapsed. The seconds felt like agonizing hours. But when he heard the dull thud of footsteps by his head, there was a glimmer of hope for his misery to end. 

A guttural scream proceeded a loud THWACK.

It would seem Cybelle had decent aim, because he wasn’t moving anymore. Clambering off the forest floor, he righted himself as quickly as he could in his spinning, pounding world. It was anyone’s guess how long they had before the next retaliating strike, and he wasn’t about to play the odds. 

“RUN,” Lazarus shouted, bolting toward the caravan as Cybelle kept pace. The axe seemed even larger clutched in her small hands. Under any normal circumstance he would have been a gentleman and taken back the burden, but this was anything but normal.

He didn’t even look at his arm. He didn’t have time. He didn’t want to. He could feel it though — the blood as it trickled down his wrist, the sting of the thorns that were likely still lodged there. 

Both he and Cybelle were barely on the driver’s platform before he was at the reigns, commanding Turnip to move with a quick snap of the leather. The dappled grey horse trotted forward with a rare sense of urgency.

Lazarus leaned back against the driver’s seat, chest heaving, more grateful than he’d ever been in his life to feel the cool wind at his face. They were a fair distance up the road before he even looked down. The sleeve of his white linen shirt was completely saturated in a wet crimson that clung to his skin.

Cybelle emerged from the caravan with an armful of bandages and jars and took the seat to the left of him on the other side of the door. 

Lazarus stared blankly ahead, mind still numb from the ebbing panic. 

“Let me see your arm,” Cybelle said gently.

He met her large eyes, now brimming with a soft concern. Slowly, he raised his trembling arm to hover in the space between them; the gap between the seats. 

Cybelle’s fingers twitched above the soaked linen. Gingerly pinching the cuff of his sleeve, she peeled it back to reveal his angry wound. 

Lazarus turned his head toward the forest, unable to look. “How bad is it?” he asked dejectedly. 

Cybelle paused for a moment, assessing the damage. “There are still some thorns, I need to pull them out. They are not too deep though,” she reassured. “You will be alright.”

It was the warmth in her voice that made him turn his head to face her, to face his wound — the mangled trail of lacerations that encircled his arm. Some of them did look quite deep, to him anyway. The bleeding seemed to have stopped on its own for the most part, thanks to his shirt. 

Shifting so that her feet now faced him, Cybelle scooted forward in her seat so that her lap was below him and grabbed a pair of tweezers. Her hands hovered above his arm, and for a moment Lazarus wasn’t sure if it was the rocking of the wagon or her proximity to him that caused her hands to tremble. There was a deep fear in her eyes, and not just from the wound.

His palm faced up at her, close enough to feel the heat of her body. 

In their brief time together they had always kept their distance. Lazarus in the driver’s seat, Cybelle in the caravan. Separated by walls and windows, tents and masks. At night, she would indulge him with her naked smile from across the campfire. Blinding and brilliant, like the crescent moon above them.

Lazarus held her eyes from across his offering; a bloody bridge that hovered in the space between them. 

With hesitant acceptance, she lowered her fingers slowly, then her eyes, guiding his arm to rest across the bandage in her lap.

The wink of her tweezers in the sunlight encouraged him to study the trees again. He gripped the leather reigns to brace himself.

Her touch was delicate and tentative as she steadied his arm, like his skin was a hot iron, and hers at risk to burn.

He flinched when she pulled the first thorn.

“Sorry,” Cybelle soothed.

He flinched again when she pulled the second. And the third, fingers writhing against the warm silk of her dress. 

“I know it hurts, but you must stay still,” she quelled. 

Lazarus allowed himself a glimpse back at her large, uneasy eyes that shone over the crescent moon. “H—how many more are there?” He didn’t dare lower his gaze to count.

With deeply furrowed brows, Cybelle scanned his arm, “Perhaps…fifteen?” she guessed. “They are small, it is difficult to say.”

Lazarus gave a heavy sigh and slumped into the seat, straining to find some comfort in the greenery that passed them. His head bumped dejectedly against the wagon as it swayed along the path. Fifteen. He tried not to think about it, but instead found himself wondering how badly it would scar. His fingers trembled as he braced himself for the next sting.

Instead he felt a hand.

Featherlight touches at the heart line of his palm. 

Lazarus glanced over his shoulder, expecting to find fear in those deep, upturned ovals. Instead there was something much softer. 

It was hiding just under the curve of her lashes, in the tender brush of her fingertips — a quiet fascination. 

His chest rattled, with more than just adrenaline. Her eyes would surely raise at any moment and he braced himself to meet them, but instead she did something much bolder.

She lowered her palm. 

It nestled into the groove and slope like it belonged there. Her skin like warm, russet earth against the vast, snowy landscape of his. When her fingers got brave enough to curl around the back, he allowed his pale digits to follow suit. 

They sat like this a moment, staring at the knot of palms and fingers with a gentle awe. Her cheeks dimpled under the ivory crescent, and despite the radiant sting, Lazarus found himself smiling too.

Finally, Cybelle met his eyes and readied her tweezers again. “Are you ready?” 

Lazarus tightened his grip. “I am now,” he said softly.

There were sixteen thorns. Lazarus counted. They fell one by one to the floor of the caravan. He didn’t flinch at all this time. 

She was quick and methodical, and when her work was finished, she painted his wounds with a soothing balm that smelled of mint and fresh green herbs. The sting faded to a tingle. 

What he noticed more than anything was how her fingers lingered as they left his hand to wrap the bandage.

“Thank you,” Lazarus uttered, running his hand along the neatly spiraled ridges of the dressing.

Cybelle gave a singular, dutiful nod and shyly gathered her supplies. She resumed her place, inside, and got to work reestablishing order in the mess of objects strewn about the floor. It was quiet the rest of the ride into Fenwood. 

As they approached the city, the trees grew denser, the path grew darker. Moss hung like tapestries over lichenous limbs. Frogs croaked in chorus from every direction. A peaty moisture hung heavy in the air. 

All signs pointed toward the same conclusion — they were entering the boglands. 

Eddie sat back against the heap of pillows and rubbed his arm. The one with the puppet tattoo. 

He would always wonder what you said about him, to Wayne. The words you used. Verbatim. You were always so good with them. He would watch you wield them every day, like a weapon or a spell. You could paint worlds for him as quickly as his eyes could gather them. 

It was when he was next to you that you seemed at a loss, like the concrete walls were listening, like they would shatter the illusion the two of you had conjured. It was safer to speak with your eyes, your hands, your laughter. 

Despite the volumes left unspoken, the questions left unasked and unanswered, the volume in his lap had answered one:

That it was, in fact, a love story.

______

A/N: I want to thank everyone for their patience and support while I wrote this chapter. I fought a lot of inner dragons to bring it to you, but I’m in a much better mental place now. I’m learning so much about myself in the process of writing this story, my first one of this length, and how best to keep my inner flame alive. It can be scary when it dims, but it's bright as ever now. 

I was admittedly very nervous about including so much family backstory for Teach, but I felt it was important for the telling of the story. The Precious Moments teacher doll does actually exist. It’s called “Love Never Fails” and it came out in 1984. I couldn’t have conjured it better if I tried.

As always, nothing encourages me to continue writing this story more than hearing what you think about it in comments, reblogs, and asks. It's truly the most rewarding thing for me as a writer.

I’ll be serving up some piping hot drama in 13 so stay strapped, folks!

Taglist:  @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @bibieddiesgf @idkidknemore @alizztor @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @alienthings @eddiemunsonsbitcch @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi

[rwbybutincorrect]

Wow ruby is sure carrying a lot of tension on those shoulders

[wint3r-h3art]

It’s You, It’s always Been you

Pairing: Stephen Strange x f!Reader

Summary: It’s a known fact that you are in love with Stephen Strange. It’s also a known fact that Stephen Strange is still in love with Dr. Palmer. When Stephen asked you to be his wedding date though, you’re starting to regret your decision. A confession from the doctor himself, changes everything.

Word count: 3.0K (I got carried away, oops)

Genre: angst, unrequited love, confession, overall feels!, and soft smut (of course)

A/N: There’s no major MoM spoilers, just the beginning with the wedding and all that. As much as I love Stephen being a complete daddy in MoM, I need to write me some soft smut. No beta, so if I missed anything, It’s my fault. If you enjoyed this, please please comment and reblog. It just means a lot. Please follow @wint3r-library​ and turn on post notification for fic update.

Strange was getting impatient with you.

You haven’t noticed it yet, but with all your inability to sit still during Doctor Palmer’s wedding, you were getting on his last nerve. 

Another heavy sigh fell from your lips as you sat there beside him, slouching slightly because you really wanted to shift your body. Your fingers fiddled in your laps as you were trying very hard to pay attention to the ceremony, quite unaware of the piercing gaze from the man beside you. 

It wasn’t like you were nervous about being the date to the bride’s ex or anything. You really didn’t need to be there, especially when Stephen couldn’t figure out what his feelings toward Christine were.

There was no doubt that the man looked as delectable as it can be in that suit, and there was no doubt that you would jump at his bones if the opportunity presented itself. However, you needed to stop saying yes to him all the time when you were dying on the inside.

Stephen exhaled sharply through his nose before he covered your hand with his. Warmness shot through you as you sat there. You bit the inside of his cheek. His hand was trembling slightly. You couldn’t help but turned your gaze to him.

His brow quirked but said nothing. He was completely unaware of the stinging pain you experienced every time you watched his eyes glimmer whenever his gaze fell on Dr. Palmer, of course. You wished the ceremony ended already. There was so much you could take. Sometimes you wished that Happy had never introduced you to him. 

You let out a sharp exhale once he let go of your hand and stood up. Once again, your heart felt heavy as your gaze followed his following Christine walking down the aisle with her new husband. Your heart was heavy as you looked at the man before you trying to hold it in. He was too proud to say it, but Strange was never really over her.

You couldn’t be anymore happier the moment the ceremony was over. You found yourself stationed by the bar, chugging wine and avoiding Strange as best as possible. The plan was going well so far until your date found you.

“I’m starting to think that even my own date is avoiding me,” came a voice behind you. His low baritone voice sent a slight tremor through you, sending your nerve into a frenzy. Heat flooded your cheek as your heart beat frantically against your chest. You wanted to run, perhaps you wanted to go back to your apartment. Whatever it was, you really didn’t want to deal with him right now. 

“Not avoiding you,” you mumbled before chugging the last remnant of your drink.

Stephen sighed before ordering himself a martini, his eyes were still on you though. “Your body language said otherwise.”

“You shouldn’t bring me here,” you finally looked at him. “She’ll think that you and I are together or something.”

“And that’s bad because…?” 

“You’re kidding, right?” You laughed out loud from sheer discomfort as you stared at him. You watched as the bartender set his drink down before you quickly snatched it away from Strange. He could sense your nervous energy from miles away, which made him wonder how you got to become Happy Hogan’s assistant in the first place. 

“I wasn’t.”

The firmness in his tone made your heart skip a beat. 

“She asked me if I’m happy,” he said, but he didn’t look at you. Instead, his gaze fell for the bride once more. You had to bite back your uncomfortable laugh before you looked elsewhere, trying to hide your expression. It was getting harder and harder to hide anything at all from him.

“And I told her that I am…”

“Which is a lie…” You pressed your lips together into a straight line. 

“You don’t know that. For all you know, I am quite content with what I have right now.”

“Stephen…,” you gave him a look, but his expression was unreadable. “I may not know your history with Dr. Palmer, but I do know that you are a proud man.”

“I am, and you like that,” Stephen teased, trying to hide the small smile as he watched your reaction. You didn’t disappoint him of course as you were slowly and gradually getting flustered. 

“I-Um...Oh, that’s just mean,” you shook your head before you slowly walked away from him. 

It has been a well-known fact that you have some feelings for him at one point. It was also a known fact that it was a textbook definition of one-sided love. It was one thing to tease you occasionally, but it was another thing to simply play with your heart. You know Strange was cold, but you’ve never thought that he could be this cruel.  “I know I shouldn’t say yes to this,” you mumbled to yourself. You could hear him calling out to you, but you didn’t care. Instead, you turned and headed straight out.

A familiar feminine voice called out your name, making you stop in your tracks. You could feel Stephen Strange not too far behind you. You took a deep breath before turning around and forcing a smile. It made your face hurt. It reminded you of why you have to resign from being Happy’s assistant in the first place. The acting wasn’t for you. 

“Doctor Palmer! Congratulations!” you chirped as she made her way toward you. Stephen simply put his hand in his pocket as he watched on with a martini in another hand. You frowned slightly, wondering why he decided to linger there instead of sashay away from you.

“Thank you! I appreciate that. I’m so happy that you can make it–You and Stephen—”

“Oh, I’m just here for moral support,” you quickly cut her off before she could say anything that could potentially make your relationship with Stephen Strange any more awkward. 

Doctor Palmer nodded, but a smile still remained on her face. “Yeah..um, I just want to say that I’m very happy that you and he are togeth–”

“Um, definitely not together,” you quickly cut in again. You couldn’t feel his gaze burned into your back. “Again, I’m here just for moral support, and nothing more.”

Doctor Palmer looked at you momentarily before she looked at Strange, clearly confused. “Right....Well, I hope you enjoy the party. I’ll see you two later,”  she bid you goodbye before giving Stephen a nod.

The moment she was out of your earshot, you let out another sigh of relief, but you knew damn well that Stephen wasn’t happy with your answer at all. Your gaze turned to him, but he didn’t say anything.

“Don’t start,” you pinched the bridge of your nose and headed to the hallway. “I know I’m supposed to make you look good in front of your ex and all that, but I don’t think I can lie.” You were basically rambling at this point as Stephen Strange followed you not too far behind. 

The sound of your high heels clicking against the marble floor echoed through the quiet hall as you hurried out. 

“I didn’t ask you to lie for me,” came his voice not too far behind, but you didn’t stop. Instead, you continued to walk until you both reached the elevator. 

“It kinda feels that way when you asked me to be your plus one though,…Look, whatever you are going through, I just can’t…It’s–” you stopped yourself. How would you tell him that you still have feelings for him? “It’s unfair to me.”

Stephen was standing only a few feet from you know. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You expected a smartass comment from him, not this. You were speechless at his admission as the two of you stood there in the empty hallway. Your heart felt like it was about to burst the more you looked at him. “When Christine asked me if I was happy, I said yes…I told her that I found someone.”

You remained silent as he took a few steps forward until he was only a few inches away from you. The smell of his cologne filled your nostril, lulling you into a haze. “It took me some time to realize it, but I…”

You swallowed as he cradled your face in his hands. Heat flooded your face at the closeness between the two of you. His thumb pressed against your cheek, his gaze softened, melted into a pair of liquid sapphires. “I made up my mind.”

“About what?” You realized that your words came out no more than a breath as your hand covered his. Stephen was inching closer. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest at the pure anticipation alone. When his lips touched yours for the very first time, you felt like you were about to soar. 

Your eyes flutter shut as you melt into him. He was holding you there, kissing you with a passion that you’ve never known he was capable of. His hand trailed to the nape. The rough pad of his fingers gently grazed across your skin, leaving trails of goosebumps behind. You gasped at that, and Stephen took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth.

Your heart pounded heavily against your chest as he deepened the kiss. His tongue tangled and clashed with yours. Twisting and rolling, leaving you both breathless and panting.  He was kissing you with desperation–a need that was new to you. You moaned at the sweetness that lingered on his tongue, and every time he let out a low, rumbling groan, you felt your panty dampen slightly.  

Stephen walked you backward until the back of your knees hit something soft. You quickly pulled away from the kiss, only to find the two of you standing right in your bedroom. “Did you just teleport us here?” It was a dumb question, but you felt the need for some air–or at least something that doesn’t involve Stephen Strange sticking his tongue down your throat.

“Yes,” he said firmly as he discarded his suit jacket and dropped it right onto the floor. He looked flushed, disheveled almost by the way strays of his neatly combed hair came undone. His fingers tugged at his tie impatiently, loosening it before he undid a few buttons at the top till he revealed his chiseled chest. The sight made your throat go dry.

 Stephen’s mouth was on you again, this time he was less discreet than before. He kissed you with urgency and hunger that set your nerve ablaze. He gently laid you down on your soft mattress while his mouth was still on yours. His lips traveled southward, and your body surrendered to him without a thought. Your head tilted to the side, revealing the tender skin of your neck to him. His lips trailed down, tongue grazed slightly here and there as if he was tasting you. A throaty moan ripped between your lips as Strange suckled on your pulse point, and gently nipped at it before licking the same spot over. His free hand slowly lowered the straps of your dress to your waist. He stared at you momentarily as if to admire a piece of art–No, you were more than a piece of art to him. You were the sun, the moon, and the universe all wrapped up into one. You were the cosmic force that keep him grounded all this time.

Stephen said nothing before he lowered his head to kiss you once more. His name fell from your lips in no more than a breathless whisper as his beard tickled your skin, making you ache and throb for him. Stephen was lost in the moment as his lips were lingering in the space between the valley of your breasts. 

You called out his name once again as your arms snaked around his head. Stephen Strange moaned deeply, sending a reverberation through you as if to assure you that he wasn’t going anywhere. He captured your taut peak in his mouth and began to suckle on it. He was sucking gently at first, then harder, gently nipping at the bud till you cried out, only to soothe you gently with his tongue.

He moved on top of you and pulled your dress all the way off your body. You laid there completely bare underneath him. Stephen’s hand moved to the juncture between your legs and let his fingers graze at your clothed slit. His nostrils flared as he let out a sharp exhale when he found that your panty was drenching.

Stephen gently rubbed you through your panty, eliciting a soft gasping noise out of you first before he ripped the flimsy fabric away from you. His mouth moved to your breast once more, tongue flickering over the sensitive bud, while his dexterous fingers gently pry you open. Your first instinct was to close your legs, but Stephen wasn’t having it. He pressed his knees wide, forcing you to open to him. 

Your head fell back against the soft mattress when you felt that he was knuckle deep inside you as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out of you with ease. A shaky moan slipped out of your lips as he pulled his digits back and pushed them inside you again while his mouth was still occupied by your tit.

You begged him almost pathetically, your hand bunched at his hair when he pressed his thumb against your clit. 

“Say my name again, baby,” he murmured. The low baritone voice made your pussy throb and clenched around his fingers. Only Stephen Strange had that sort of effect on you. He was watching you now, probing himself on his elbow while the other hand continued to pump in and out of your pussy with vigor.

A smile etched upon his lips as he felt your body tense up around him. Still, he continued with a relentless pace until an orgasm ripped right out of you, causing your body to strain and spasm. Your face scrunched up as you dug your heels into the mattress as the first wave of euphoria washed over you.  

“That’s it, baby. Cum to me. Squeeze on my fingers like you want to squeeze on my cock.” Stephen growled as he pressed his forehead onto yours. Perspiration dampened it while you could only reply with a choking sob. 

Stephen finally removed his fingers from your sopping wetness as he stared at you. His lips pressed against your forehead. He kissed you tenderly before he pulled back and began to unbuckle his pants. 

You watched him with half hooded eyes as he got up from the bed and hastily removed his pants. You swallowed as you watched him stroking himself. The sight made your pussy throb once more as more slick was leaking out of you. Stephen licked his lips at that. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he admitted sheepishly as he continued to stroke his erect cock. It was hard to concentrate on his words when your brain only wanted one thing. 

“I’m on birth control…” you told him as you sat up and pulled him to you. Stephen settled between your thighs once more. His face strained, jaw clenched tightly as he rubbed the head of his cock along your slit. The action made your legs shake slightly as your eyes caught his. “It’s ok, Stephen.”

He growled at the invitation before he swiftly entered you, causing you to hissed sharply. A strangled moan left his lips as your tightness enveloped him. You could feel Strange tremble above you as he was trying to control himself from moving too erratically. Stephen pulled back then eased himself back in again till he was all the way in. His hips arched fluidly, driving himself in and out of you with fervor. You could feel his balls slapped against your ass every time he sheathed himself inside of you.

His hard body pressed against yours closely that you could feel every twitch of his muscles, coiling and bunching from the effort of his movements. Your arms wounded around his neck again as he rutted into you. His lips found your neck once more as he kissed and nipped at it. 

You were getting close again as that familiar tightness at the pit of your stomach threatened to snap. It wasn’t long now until that delicious burst of euphoria ripped through you again. It didn’t take long till you cried out and clenched around him, milking him until he too reached his own release. Still, Stephen was still chasing his own, fucking you and using you to sate his own appetite.

Stephen came not too long after, spending himself right onto your stomach. His body went limp next to you, panting and exhausted from the deed. 

The silence stretched out between the two of you. Where would you go from here? You and Stephen had yet to establish what this was? Was this a one-time deal? Were his words simply a lie or was everything simply a dream to you?

You felt him stirring beside you before his warmness left your body. Your first initial thought was that he was leaving, but that sort of negativity soon melted away when he came back with a damp towel pressed against your stomach. His movement was gentle, yet exact. Still, you could feel his trembling hand moving over your stomach.

Your eyes caught him again, and words failed you. You didn’t know what to say. 

“I suppose you are wondering what we are now?”

You nodded. You wanted to laugh because you really didn’t expect to have this type of conversation at all with him when you were both naked. 

“You’ve never told me who that someone is–the person that makes you happy.”

Stephen Strange was caught off guard for the first time in his life as he could only react with an “Oh.”

Your face warned once more as your heart drummed against your chest. A knowing smile quirked on his lips. “Well, It’s you, sweetheart. It has always been you.”

The word rolled off his tongue easily, making your stomach do a backflip. You couldn’t hide the smile anymore when he leaned and brushed his nose against your cheek, kissing you and whispering naughty things into your ears.

Perhaps, this wasn’t a dream after all.

[muzzlemouths]

what remains after ruination

Eclipse adjacent // Wordcount: 2,045

A year had passed by. Not a day later and no sooner than that since you stepped foot in this dreaded building.

Only in part due to your own resolution. It’d been all over the news; Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria, Gone Up in Flames! A week’s worth of synonyms for accident-destruction-fire-disaster-ruin dribbling out from between reporter’s teeth like crumbs from their stale blueberry muffin breakfast, the story already old news by the time their shirt collar caffeine stains between coffee breaks were well and dry.

After all, there was nothing of value to mourn. “It’s nothing short of a miracle that no one was harmed,” they fed the public scripted lines, little white lies on big tv screens, “a shame the ‘bots are a bust,” another chimed in, “but we’re grateful to have avoided a real tragedy.”

And where were you when the fire broke out? Safely at home, on your couch, shoveling the powdery remnants of dry breakfast cereal into your face, phone in hand, uniform on, and an alarm set to leave in ten minutes. Your favorite generic sitcom played at half-volume across the room having just returned from a commercial break when the news struck, every station within a hundred mile radius offering their briefest condolences to the franchise’s demise. As always, you received your information secondhand, the dry voice of your boss confirming that what you were seeing on the screen was the truth, your phone call interrupted by the jarring ring of your alarm in a gut twisting fit of irony.

“Don’t bother coming in,” they told you, “you’ll receive your final check in the mail by the end of the week.”

“What about the others?” You’d asked on baited breath, hopeful.

“The others… you mean the animatronics?” A beat of silence, and only that, “they’re gone,” management answers, “everything is gone.”

You didn’t want to believe it. For weeks after, you did nothing but fight the information, distancing yourself from the memory of it all together. It was nightmarish, a plague of guilt which circled you like vultures in the night.

You had been there, only a night before the fire. You had been there. Made small talk with the staff bots. Had gossiped with the Glamrocks. And in the Daycare – in the Daycare you had made friendship bracelets. Silly, stupid, trivial, the thought of it makes you want to scream, now knowing what you do and how better you could have spent your last night with them.

Sun had bragged about a new shipment of pony beads and convinced you to sit and help him sort. Sorting them turned into stringing, which turned into knots. You had a pretty pastel lineup by the time he was satisfied, and they had two. One bracelet for each of them, yellow and blue. Your own boasted two stars and a heart, childish additions that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue against at the time, but especially now. It would hurt less to simply throw the gift out or stuff it into a box and stuff that box into a closet, and lock the closet door for the rest of your life. But you don’t do that. You keep the bracelet on your wrist like one keeps a locket against their heart, and you pretend it means nothing.

How impossible it is to find solace in the death of something that leaves no trace behind. You have no grave to visit, no ashes to mourn except the old remnants of a crumbling building they refuse to tear down, no final goodbye.

“See you in the morning,” they’d said, something heavier weighing on their tongue. Ultimately, they decided against the words and offered you a parting smile, instead. Warm, doting, it had felt like home.

It’s the last thing you have of them.

And you try to get past it. You run through every stage of grief like it’s a marathon and you’re late for the next race already, but you have no trophies to show for it, no rewarding fulfillment. The wound is fresh and raw. The gaping cavern of hopelessness no less enormous. You are as bitter and traumatized as the day you received that call.

Maybe that’s why you’ve found yourself here again, on the doorsteps to the plex, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days since you last dared to look in its direction. What you need isn’t medication or a therapist burning through your pockets, it’s closure. You need to see the body.

This suffering will not recede until you’ve convinced yourself there is nothing to return to.

There’s a sixth stage of grief they don’t want you to meet. If you remain a stranger to its siren call then you really, truly, will start to feel better. That’s what they say, time and time again, and it’s what you believed for a long while, but you’re through with fighting this emotion and through with pretending it doesn’t rule your every waking moment. Its name is lunacy, and it tells you to duck beneath old, yellow tape and take a brick to the building’s rotten structure.

The shattering of glass falls on deaf ears. You march through the opening with purpose, giving no thought to the nicks and scrapes and beads of crimson that form along your skin as you make your way further into the depths of this desolate building. No life stirs from its festering core, nor light from the smoldered ceiling, blackened with old soot. Debris crunches beneath a pace that refuses to slow until you find yourself standing before the two doors most familiar to you, and only then, do you stop.

Everything stops.

Sanity winds you with its return, startling you into questioning what the hell you’re doing here. They’re dead. You know that, don’t you? Really, deep down inside, you know it to be true. You know there’s nothing that could evade such devastation as this. You know they are gone. For good. Forever.

Still, that minute, resilient hope continues to pulse with a beat of its own desire, and you haven’t the strength to put an end to it now. After a year of waiting, of wailing, of walking into circles that lead to nothing but more agony, you can’t bring yourself to call it quits. Not after you made it this far. You had to know, once and for all, or the question would drive you over an edge you’ve been skirting beyond recognition.

Your hand outstretches and comes to a halt at the doorknob, fingers twitching a flick of the wrist away, and there it sits, hesitant, terrified, until desperation spurs it forward the remaining way and the rusted knob is turned ever so gently to the right.

The door springs open with a force that drives you backwards, tumbling stumbling fumbling through the air, knees buckling, you land on your ass with a hardy thump and stare, aghast, at the wreckage that stands between the open frame.

A familiar face stares back.

The animatronic bursts from their entrapment like confetti out of a canon, claws drawn and eyes aglow with a menacing half-grin, only reeling themselves back a step upon the sight of you, where they go completely still.

The scream that rips through your throat does not come unbidden; they are not your beloveds but something else entirely, a grotesque assortment of gears and torn fabric, disheveled beyond belief, splayed about with the same obscenity of exposed bone. They are not Sun and they are not Moon and they are not someone or something that you can easily recognize, simply a horrifying by-product of disaster.

Even still, your fear appears to force them back a cautionary second step, and then a third, as if taking on the frail hope that they won’t scare you so terribly in the dark. That if you can’t see them past the shadow, maybe you won’t look at them that way.

“Ffr…rrrr...fri…f...”

You swallow hard around the lump in your throat and attempt to make sense from any of this. The word it– he– they attempt to speak is as familiar as it is foreign, and you can feel an immediate shift in the way your lunacy becomes hysteria, and you laugh. You laugh even as tears well up and begin to river down your cheeks. You laugh as their arm outstretches to meet you—

“Don’t!”

–and then you stop, and they stop, too, and all falls silent.

The expression they make is beyond your understanding. Where before you could reasonably find human emotion in their mechanic smirks and smiles, now all you see is barren metal. Loose gears with sharp edges. It creates a nausea that builds and builds until you want to roll over and relieve yourself of everything you’ve ever consumed.

Rather than try again, their arm recoils ever slowly and instead lifts to point at the wrist of their other, gesturing with great hesitance to the two bracelets found there. One blue, and one yellow.

“Ff...fri…e-end?”

Your stomach lurches and then drops as it comes to a conclusion. Quickly, your gaze snaps toward the pastel beads that sit so neatly on your own wrist, the string keeping them together now old and fraying. Your eyes return to their wrist and see perfect color among the blackened metal. The string beneath it still holds up despite its surroundings having burnt hopelessly. The implications of this – that they protected it to the very end – immediately severs any remaining instance of fear.

You move blindly through the tears, climbing back to your feet with every intention to try again. The creak and screech of crooked metal can be heard as they retrace another step backward in response, flinching from your approach, allowing you greater space between them. It makes your heart plummet to the very pit of your stomach.

“They told me you were dead,” you cry, “they told me there was nothing left to save,” a daring step forward has you that much closer to them, and then another, and another, slow and shaky as it goes, “they told me not to come looking,” your feet stop directly before their own, bare-toed silver against scuffed rubber. You share their shadow and in their sorrow, mourning the short distance still between you and the distance of the days you’ve spent apart. They wait for your lead, paralyzed with anticipation, as you raise a doubtful, trembling hand to cup their ruined cheek. “Is it really you?”

The stillness is suffocating, no less agonizing than the phone call, because any answer beyond the one you seek will feel like death all over again. You can’t imagine yourself content in life with the knowledge that the one you care so deeply for – even without recognition, without ever having said the words – is nothing more than a husk of who they once were. It would ruin you.

And what remains after ruination?

Love remains. Love remains and it is a slow, sure nod. It is a cold hand cupping with meticulous care over your own and refusing to let go. It is them. And they are yours.

A sob breaks from your throat before you can stop it, greater and louder than you've allowed yourself to feel to the day. Relief floods your chest until you think it might burst.

The hand at their cheek pulls back if only to wrap around their waist, fingers bunching desperately into the remaining fabric of their collar and smearing the ash at their back, holding so tight that you hear their frame begin to creak and moan, followed immediately by their own arms cradling your body against them with an equally bone-crushing weight, one you for once don’t fight. Rather, you would be content to stay like this forever.

It isn’t the pins and needles in your arms or the pungent smell of smoke that eventually forces you out of the position, but instead, the sudden forming of a plan and your intention to immediately put it into action. When you pull away it’s to take both of their hands in your own, and only then do you step back from the door, guiding them toward you.

“Come on,” you smile, because at last there is reward for your hope, “…let’s get you home.”

[murdrdocs]

you should totally like write something abt ethan and reader being gf together and just being literally crazy and in love and just being all up on each other after they do anything gf related !!

mmmmm feeding off of each other's energy !!! this is ,,, concerning tw for blood kinks and ethan's a masochist but GN! reader (anatomy wise) yay !!

before, when ethan met you, and you were just two teenagers interested in each other, he thought he was wrong for you. he thought the things he was interested in would be too much for you, and you would run in the other direction, probably near a police station, in your little baby doll dresses and mary jane shoes, the bows in your hair blowing in the wind.

he didn't expect for you to don the mantle and mask with him.

his admiration for you doubles each time you go at it together, switching who calls and who stabs. and each time, no matter who would come back with a new bruise as a trophy and bloodlust thumping through their veins, the night's would always end the same; wrapped up in each other, fucking out the adrenaline that the killing introduced into your system.

there was some variety in the equation.

some nights, you would lay there and take what ethan gave you. he'd fuck you in an almost animalistic way, with little regard for how you felt in the moment, instead focused on how you would feel, look, sound, whenever he forcibly brought you to an orgasm. over, and over, and over again. some nights, he would draw blood, just little nicks that would heal into small, barely noticeable scars. he'd kiss it better, of course, sometimes he would suck at the wound, lick around it, then kiss you with the taste of your blood imprinted into his lips and remnants smudged on the backside of his teeth. always, you would make sure you licked his mouth clean, taking your life force back into your body.

other nights, you would force ethan onto his back, straddling his hips and fucking yourself on him with only your own pleasure in mind. which, works out for ethan in the long run since he always got off to you getting off. your nails would scratch at his chest and shoulders, and you'd tug on his hair when you forced him between your legs. he would nibble onto the parts that were most sensitive for you, trying to get a reaction out of you, one that he hoped would come in the form of your palm colliding with the soft skin on his cheek. his big doe eyes would stare up at you, ready to receive whatever he would be lucky to get. nights like these, that cocky ghostface persona leaks from his being and he turns almost completely submissive, coming to a little to jam his hips up into you in a way he hoped was desirable. he lived for having your small hand wrapped around his throat, and there's times where he couldn't finish without it. which, is something he's becoming more fond of, especially whenever your delicate hand wraps around the base of his cock, squeezing, sometimes aided with a pretty ring that vibrates against his scrotum, deliberately depriving him of a well-earned orgasm.

these types of nights are so addicting and it's a shame that they only exist whenever a life is lost. but in your loved-filled eyes, it's a small price to pay.

[mrsshabana]

Patient!Gyutaro x Nurse!Reader - CHAPTER 3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

✦ CW: 18+ MDNI, female reader. Dead dove: do not eat. Extreme violence, mentions of self harm, mentions of non-con, mental illness, torture, physical and mental harm, abuse, altered mental state.

✦ AN: This chapter is very very disturbing. Please read all of the content warnings and proceed with caution.

✦ WC: 1,983

It took hours for you to get up from the floor. 

Hours for your tears to stop flowing from your eyes. And days for the pain to recede enough for you to be able to function properly. Not that you did. 

Things were never the same after that.

You couldn’t bear seeing him again. But you do. Even though you haven’t stepped foot in that asylum for a week, you still see him every day. Remnants of him on your body every time you look in the mirror. And his face appears every night in your dreams. 

You took a leave of absence for a week after the incident. You had planned to search for a new job in the meantime, but instead you stayed in bed all week and cried. Every time you looked into the mirror it’d trigger a panic attack, ending with you huddled in on  yourself on the bathroom floor. Breath staggered, eyes wide, and skin under your nails because you can’t stop scratching. You can feel him inside of you. You tried everything to get him out… but it’s like he’s a part of you now. 

Maybe that’s why you came back. 

Came back to the asylum… back to him. Even though you hate him, you feel like a part of you is missing when he’s not around. Like you had to get back to him to fill some kind of void. A void that he created, a place in your heart that only he could fit into. 

The marks aren’t gone, the ones that he left for you as a symbol of his ownership. You have to wear a scarf now to cover the bruises. So deep that even after a week they haven’t subsided. And the new ones on your wrists. Though not from him, you made them because of him. Hopefully no one will notice.

.・゜゜・　♰　・゜゜・．

Walking into the asylum for the first time in seven days, it feels strangely inviting, like this is where you belong. It’s early in the morning so you figure that Gyutaro will still be asleep.

The fluorescent lights flicker down the hallway as you make your way to his dimly lit room. Your heart pounds in your chest. Approaching his door feels like signing your soul away to the devil, but at the same time it feels like being embraced by an angel. 

Peeking inside you see that his room is empty. This isn’t right. Why is his room empty? His room is still filled with his stuff so you know they haven’t moved him. 

Going back to the nurses station in this wing, you look through the patient records for today to try and figure out where they took Gyutaro. They always keep track of all of the patient’s information here, like when they are given meals, therapy sessions, family visits, etc. Everything is kept track of.

“Here we go,” you mumble to yourself, finally finding Gyutaro’s file for this week. He was taken to room 44B. You don’t bother reading what for, all that matters is that you get to your patient. 

The room isn’t far, just through the door on the left and at the end of the hallway. 

Leisurely walking through the hall, enjoying the sunlight warming your skin as it shines through the barred windows. 

“HELP ME!!” 

A blood curdling, raspy scream interrupts the pleasant moment. It sends shivers down your spine, and for some reason causes your eyes to well up with tears. 

“GET MY NURSE!! PLEASE!!”

The voice screams in desperation from the end of the hall. You know that voice but you refuse to believe it’s him. He’s never sounded so, so helpless. It’s so jarring that you feel frozen. 

“NURSE Y/N!! HELP ME!! PLEASE!!” 

The voice gets more desperate.

“NO!! NO!! I’M SORRY! PLEASE GET NURSE Y/N!!”

The room rumbles and the lights flicker as your body moves on its own, desperately trying to get to him. 

“Mr. Shabana!” You shout, tears rolling down your cheeks as you open the heavy metal doors at the end of the hall.

The sight before you is straight out of a horror film. 

Lights flickering violently. A high pitched electric ping ringing through your ears.

Gyutaro lays on his back, wrists and ankles strapped to the bed sitting in the middle of the room. Two nurses stand beside him, one to his left, another to his right. And a doctor stands behind his head, holding some strange device to Gyutaro’s temples. 

His eyes stay wide and his body convulses violently as he’s electrocuted. 

A disturbing whine rumbling in his chest, muffled by the cloth in his mouth. 

The sight is so overwhelming that you feel as though you are being electrocuted in place as well. Seeing him in a position of weakness and pain should bring a smile to your face. He does deserve it for what he’s done to you, doesn’t he? That’s how you should feel. 

When the doctor sees you, he removes the device from Gyutaro’s temples. 

“Ah nurse Y/N,” he smiles calmly, “You’re back from your leave I see. Would you like to assist me?”

He narrows his red eyes, and motions for you to come forward. His long black hair held neatly behind him in a ponytail. You’ve seen this doctor around before but you’ve never spoken to him, only heard rumors about his short temper. 

“Oh um… y-yes sir,” mindlessly agreeing and moving beside him. Looking down at Gyutaro, his body is in a state of shock and it seems as though he is in no state to register what’s going on. 

“One more round should be enough to do the trick,” the doctor grins and hands you the metal device, “Just place these pads on his temples and I’ll turn on the switch.” His voice is low as he speaks. 

You nod and hesitantly move the device to Gyutaro’s head. Looking down at him, he looks so pathetic and weak. Just like you had. But you’re the one in control now, and he’s at your mercy. 

Gyutaro’s eyes slowly roll back to look at you, a single tear rolling down his cheek as he whimpers. As if he’s begging to be shown mercy. 

But where was your mercy when he violently assaulted you?

The doctor ups the voltage and flips the switch, sending a powerful electric shock straight through the device and into Gyutaro’s body. 

This should bring you pleasure. It should make you happy! He deserves this doesn’t he? After what he’s done! Feeling sympathy for such a monster would only mean you are just as bad as him. 

The restraints clack against the metal bed frame as his muscles contract from the second electric shock sent through his body. The shock is so strong that even after the doctor ceases his ministrations and you remove the device, Gyutaro’s body is left trembling in place. Contorted and petrified,  eyes wide open, teeth clenched tightly around the gag that muffles the inhuman wail that continues to come from him. It’s eerie how the sound doesn’t falter, continuously leaving him as if his soul is trying to escape the prison of his body. 

“There,” the doctor takes the device from you and pats your back, “Well done Miss Y/N! Mr. Shabana will be on his way to recovery with your help.”

Staring down at Gyutaro’s pained body, you can’t take your eyes off of him. “Y-yes… he will,” your voice cracks as tears roll down your cheeks in unison with the ones rolling down Gyutaro’s.

After the electroshock therapy, Gyutaro is left a lifeless husk. Unable to do anything, move his body, or even speak, you and the doctor have to pick up his body after removing his restraints and put him into a wheelchair.

You cry all the way back to his room. The other nurses give you confused glances as you push the most violent patient through the halls. His body sits limp in the chair, barely able to hold himself up as a continual low moan escapes his lips.

Getting back to his room you quickly close the door, not caring that it’s against protocol, and assist Gyutaro onto the bed. 

He’s heavier than he looks. Propping him up on your shoulder in an attempt to hold him up, but you’re too weak. He falls back into the chair. 

“Mr. Shabana? Can you hear me?” kneeling down in front of him, you hold his cheek in your palm. 

He doesn’t even move his eyes to look at you, his head moves heavily in your hand. Able to maneuver him as if he’s a life sized doll.

“Please Mr. Shabana,” you whimper as you start to break down, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him, you bring him forward in a warm embrace. You sob on your knees, resting your forehead on his chest. He doesn’t react at all, just sits there and lets you use his body for comfort. 

You lose track of time as you cry into his shirt and spew incoherent apologies he doesn’t deserve. 

“Gyutaro,” you look up at him and wipe your eyes. This time his irises move slowly in your direction.

“Y…Y/N,” he groans. You can barely make out the word as drool slips from his mouth and down his chin.

“Yes! That’s it Gyutaro, it’s me,” you smile through your tears, “I’m here, don’t worry.”

Pulling a tissue out of your pocket and using it to wipe his face. You caress his cheek and move his face to look at you, “How are you feeling?”

He stares at you with an unchanging, lifeless expression. It’s terrifying seeing him this way, you rather he be his usual cruel self than be a hollow shell. 

You don’t know what to do. His brain is so fried that he can’t even manage to speak, let alone comprehend the words coming out of your mouth. Occasional spasms tremor through his body, causing his limbs to twitch. 

Deciding that the best thing for him right now would be rest, you put your arms under his armpits and attempt to move him onto the bed again.

“I’m going to move you to the bed, ok? Can you stand for me, sweetie?”

You do most of the work, but he barely holds himself up with trembling legs. This time you’re able to get him onto the bed. Gently laying down his body and sitting beside him.

“I’m going to let you rest now, I’ll come back to check on you in an hour,” you say as you move his hair away from his eyes. 

As soon as you look away and start getting up to leave, you hear a faint whimper. A shaky hand weakly trying to grab your arm.

“D-don’t… leave me…” he croaks, watery eyes spilling tears onto his cheeks, “Please.”

Seeing this man crumble before you should feel good. It was only last week that he had assaulted you, mercilessly taking advantage of your body, showing no mercy. He was so strong back then, and look at him now.

But seeing him in this state doesn’t feel good. The pain you feel is excruciating, almost worse than what he had put you through that day. 

“Oh Gyutaro,” you can’t stop your tears from flowing, “I’ll never leave you.” Sobbing as you crawl into the bed beside him. He latches onto you like a child holding onto its mother. 

Gyutaro wraps his arms and legs around you, clutching onto you like if you left it’d mean he’d die. His only comfort would be gone and he’d lose it. Nuzzling his head into your chest, he soaks in your warmth as he rides out the painful spasms that shake through his body.

“You’re safe with me,” you whisper to him, stroking his hair to comfort him, “I will never abandon you.”

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