#so i can maybe start on one of the other ten ideas i've had because at this point they are haunting me

[howlinchickhowl]

Ristretto - mini update

Hey! So, uh. I've been working on the next chapter of Ristretto for a good long while now. I'm finding it challenging because it's a lot of spice and that's one of the things I find hardest to write well. The next chapter, May, the lusty month of may, is planned as basically a five + 1 of fucking, and I have completed one section! So I have decided what I am doing for this chapter is mini updates by section here on tumblr, and then whenever I have all the sections complete I will update on ao3. In all honesty I just feel like I need the boost of actually posting something right now.

If you remember this fic and want to read the updates separately as they come, great! If you would rather wait and read them all in one go as one whole chapter, also great!

If you have no idea what Ristretto is, it's my coffeeshop AU I have been writing forever and a day and you can read from the beginning here.

And now without further ado!

Chapter 9(a) - rated E

May

By the time Ian closes the store, Mickey has taken to the break room for a nap, and Ian completes all of his nightly cleaning duties to the sounds of him snoring deep and rhythmic. When he’s done Ian shakes him awake and is treated to a full ten minutes of Mickey yawning and squinting like a sleepy baby while they gather their shit and lock up. They walk to the L and it seems to dawn on Mickey just when they’re getting on the train that he doesn’t actually know what Ian has planned, or where they’re going.

He gripes when Ian refuses to tell him, makes a few guesses but doesn’t get anywhere close. When they get to their stop he looks confused, wary, like maybe Ian’s playing some sort of trick on him. But he follows all the same. 

They get off at 47th and cut back across the 90 towards the maze of streets they both sort of call home. Ian leads them through Fuller Park, past the train depot, and the little league field.

“I peed on first base here once.” Mickey tells him, with a childish sort of pride, hooking his fingers into the chain-link fence and stopping to stare out at the spot in question.

“Why?” Ian stops beside him, watching his face as he looks, remembers. Mickey shrugs, like he doesn’t know why, but there is a faraway look in his eyes that suggests that this is not really the case.

“Bet you were a little terror.” Ian jokes, bumping Mickey’s shoulder with his own.

“I was a Milkovich.” Mickey smiles, licks his teeth, kind of feral, and pushes off from the fence. “We got far to go?” He asks, and Ian shakes his head no, pushing off as well and steering them across the little patch of green adjacent to the field so they can hang a right onto Normal.

A couple of blocks and a couple of turns later and they’re there. A road of empty homes, a tiny ghost town in the middle of the night. It’s eerie, actually, Ian thinks as they walk. They reach their destination, two doors down from Lip’s new place, a little square box of a home with faded gray walls, an overgrown front yard, and, crucially, a shitty back door with a broken lock.

Ian leads them through the little wilderness of the yard around to the back, jiggles the handle a little in the way that he has figured out gives him the quickest access, and ushers Mickey inside.

The electricity is out but Ian is prepared, he reaches over to the counter and flips on the camping lantern he had set there for this exact purpose. It’s not bright but it gives off just enough light for Mickey to see the selection of snacks Ian has set out next to the sink, the array of candles he has prepared on most of the other surfaces, ready to light, and through the open door into the next room where he has set up a little nest for them.

Mickey’s back is to him and he hasn’t spoken yet, and it’s making Ian kind of nervous. Was this a weird thing to do? Was it too much? Maybe he should have talked to him about it before? The seconds tick by and neither of them speaks and Ian’s heart starts to pound like that time he and Lip had boosted a car and ended up in front of a cop car at a red light, holding their breaths and hoping like hell that the car hadn’t been reported stolen yet.

Sucking in a deep breath he moves past Mickey and starts to light the candles, just to give himself something to do.

“It’s not much, I don’t know, I thought…”

He trails off, holds his lighter to the wick of a dusty teddy bear shaped candle Debbie had been throwing away and chances a glance at Mickey, nervous, but unable to stop himself from trying to figure out what he’s thinking.

Mickey’s eyes roam around the room, taking in the sight as the newly lit candles cast warm flickering shadows over his impassive face. They land at last on Ian’s, reflections of the flames dancing against the black of his pupils.

“It’s private.” Ian shrugs.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow, drags his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and nods.

“Private, huh?” He asks, stepping closer so their bodies brush against each other. Ian reaches around past him to light another candle, no noise but their breathing and the soft swish of his sleeve against Mickey’s.

He lights the candle, and the one next to it, placing them gently back in place on the counter, and when he turns his head towards Mickey he is right there. Their faces are inches apart, so close he could count the individual freckles on Mickey’s eyelids, could extend his tongue and lick the tip of his nose.

Their eyes lock onto each other’s and his breath is suddenly coming in shallow little huffs that blow the stray hairs hanging over Mickey’s forehead up.

“Tell me Gallagher,” Mickey’s voice is hushed, a low rumble of a thing that gets Ian’s nerves tingling as Mickey squares up to him, getting his body even closer and laying assured hands on Ian’s belt buckle. “What do we need somewhere private for?”

His eyebrows tick up again, suggestive, knowing, and his fingers find stronger purchase on Ian’s belt, the backs of his first knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of Ian’s stomach while his thumbs trace the outline of the buckle. Ian sucks in a sharp breath, Mickey draws in his own, long and slow and he waits.

Ian moves first, slamming his face into Mickey’s with enough force to push him back into the counter and latching his lips onto Mickey’s with almost desperate fervor, and after that it’s pointless trying to say who is kissing or grabbing or undressing whom.

Tongues and lips and teeth all slide and catch and drag, Ian pulls Mickey’s jacket down his shoulders, Mickey gets Ian’s pants open and shoved down over the swell of his ass. They move as one frenzied unit, pulling and grabbing and pushing and shoving, until Ian’s pants are around his ankles and they are tripping and stumbling and laughing into each other’s mouths trying to stay upright.

Mickey grabs a fistful of Ian’s shirt and yanks it up in an entirely ineffective attempt to get it off him, growling when he is unsuccessful.

“Fuckin’, take your fuckin’ shirt off asshole.’ Mickey yanks again and Ian pulls away just enough to get his shirt over his head, tossing it blindly and praying it doesn’t land on a lit candle and start a fire. He should be more careful, he knows, but he can’t focus on anything but Mickey right now, Mickey who is looking him up and down and licking his lips like Ian is a big juicy steak he’s looking to devour.

“Fuck, yeah.” Mickey breathes, getting both his hands on Ian’s traps and sliding them, firmly, down over his chest until just his fingertips are brushing over Ian’s abs. He rests there, and the muscles in Ian’s stomach jerk under his touch.  

“This is the most of you I’ve seen all at once.” Mickey tells him, breathless, giddy, running his eyes up over Ian’s chest and shoulders and then down to where his hands are resting, plucking gently at the elastic waistband of his underwear, index finger rubbing idly over the little thatch of coarse red hairs that line it.

Ian leans in to drop a kiss on his open mouth, slack and wet and eager against Ian’s own. He moves over to leave kisses against his cheek, his jaw, nosing up behind his ear into his hairline and breathing in the scent of his skin, intoxicating and so intense just there that Ian can hardly bear it.

“You want to see more?” He asks, pushing the flat of his tongue against the skin of Mickey’s neck and dragging, slowly, as Mickey shivers against him.

“Wanna see it all.” Mickey’s voice catches as Ian flicks at his earlobe with the tip of his tongue, and he shoves his whole hands down into Ian’s shorts, palms flattening over his hips and fingers digging into the flesh of his ass in retaliation. The movement pulls them right in close, and Ian’s cock ends up shoved right up along the length of Mickey’s where’s it’s hard in his jeans.

It’s like a whole series of flashbulbs go off in Ian’s brain, one after the other. Flash. Flash. Flash. His whole brain lighting up with the contact, a full-body shudder running through him, forcing his breath right out of his chest in short little vocal puffs that he can’t contain. He shoves his forehead into Mickey’s shoulder and breathes there, letting the soft, musty scent of Mickey’s skin soothe him until he has a better hold of himself. 

Mickey’s fingers twitch, urgent, and it is that impatience helps Ian focus, helps him find it in himself to drag his mouth up Mickey’s neck, take his earlobe between his teeth in a sharp tug and then whisper.

“Take them off then.”

That’s all the permission Mickey needs, he shoves Ian’s shorts down and the two of them are off again, hands and tongues and lips everywhere at once. Ian gets distracted running his hands all over Mickey’s back and shoulders and waist, feeling the warmth of his skin seeping into his palms and getting lost in the sensation so much that he barely notices Mickey huffing and puffing about having to take off his own pants, since Ian isn’t gonna do it for him.

They laugh together when he can’t get enough room to open his fly button. Ian leans his hips back to make some space and gets with the program enough to help Mickey get his jeans and underwear down until there is a matching pool of fabric restricting his ankles as much as Ian’s. And then they laugh again.

“Should probably take our shoes off.” Ian murmurs, pressing kisses to Mickey’s lips, pressing the whole length of his body along the whole length of Mickey’s and trying not to hyperventilate at how good it feels to feel him.

“Later.” Mickey grunts, shoving his hand between them and grabbing hold of Ian, firm in the way he’s come to learn that Ian likes best. He slides his tongue sloppily into Ian’s mouth in time with his thumb rubbing over the head and it’s almost  enough to make Ian’s knees buckle.

“Mickey.” He tries to say, muffled against Mickey’s lips, hindered by his seeking tongue and his clever little hand starting to stroke.

“Mickey!” He succeeds this time, firmly, grabbing whole handfuls of Mickey’s ass and pulling him tight to Ian’s body, trapping his hand between them and halting his movement with a grunt. Mickey’s answering huff is petulant and it’s pure instinct that has Ian pulling him in even harder, letting his fingers pull at Mickey’s ass-cheeks so that they part, exposing him to the open air, letting him feel it until his panting breaths turn vocal and he stops trying to move.

Mickey’s eyes catch on his, they’re dark with want, pupils blown wide enough that Ian can barely make out the blue in them. Up to now their encounters have been marked with both an overwhelming intensity of desire and a level of humor Ian never knew could be a part of sex. Sex has never really been fun in this way, before. Fun in the way where you get your rocks off and it feels really fucking good and someone thinks you’re hot and that feels amazing or you’re super high or out of your head and everything you do is fun. But fun like this, stupid fun where you’re held captive by your pants and your lover won’t let you do anything about it kind of fun, that’s a new thing. That’s a Mickey thing. It’s the best thing Ian’s ever had.

But now it feels like they are teetering on the edge of something else, something new. Not wholly new to Ian, he’s dangled his feet in these waters a couple of times before, and the heat in Mickey’s eyes suggests that it’s not his first dip in this particular pool either, but new for them, together, and just the thought that they might be on the same page, compatible in this as well, it’s a whole new thrill. 

 “I had a plan.” He tells Mickey, low and serious, letting his thumb rub over the swell of one ass cheek, feeling the fuzz of the surprisingly light colored hairs that grow there. “Got a mattress all set up in the next room, comfy pillows, soft sheets.”

“Not a fuckin’ princess Gallagher.” Mickey grumbles, and Ian clenches his fingers harder, pulling his cheeks further apart. He can’t see, but from the sharp grunt that Mickey lets out he can tell the tension is starting to stretch his hole open ever so slightly.

“No.” He says, easing up just a little.  “Just thought you might appreciate getting fucked without getting carpet burn on your ass.”

Mickey’s mouth turns up in a smile that is somehow equal parts flirty, filthy, and sweet, and his tongue flicks out over his lips slow, tantalizing.

“Awful thoughtful of you.” He tilts his head up into the space below Ian’s chin and Ian shivers as the flat of his warm, wet, tongue slides over the underside of his jaw.

“Yeah, I’m nice like that.” His focus is split, the sharp spikes of Mickey’s stubble following the path of his tongue like tiny electric shocks against the sensitive skin of his throat, but he manages to loosen his grip and slide the fingers on his right hand all the way into Mickey’s crack and stroke them up and down a couple of times, fingertips catching gently against his rim as they move.

“Hmm.” Mickey sucks in a slow breath, and Ian can feel all the muscles in his ass twitch, uncontrollably. He likes that. “Other ways too.”

“You think I’m nice?” Mickey’s teeth join the party, scraping over the hinge in Ian’s jaw, adding a new sensation to the wet and sharp in a way that makes Ian’s knees threaten to give out. Ian rewards him by allowing the tip of his middle finger to sink in, breeching the tight circle of muscle just enough that it clenches around him. Just enough that he can now officially say he’s been inside Mickey Milkovich.

A soft vocal puff of breath blows out against Ian’s neck, wet with saliva and just a little itchy where Mickey’s been working it over with his lips and tongue and teeth. 

“What’s that?” Ian inclines his head, pushing their temples together. He pushes his finger a little deeper and then pulls it back almost immediately, Mickey’s body moving with him, unconsciously trying to keep him in. Mickey grunts. Ian pushes at his cheek with his nose, lays soft kisses on his cheek, against the corner of his lips. “Say you think I’m nice, Mick.”

He gets at Mickey’s lips, hot and wet, slides his own over them, breathes a hot breath into his mouth, swallows the breath that Mickey gives him back. He lets his finger push back in, as far as it will easily go.

“Mickey.”

Mickey kisses him, one sweaty hand coming up to grip at his shoulder and the other grabbing him at the hip. He kisses him dirty, lips and tongue dragging hot over Ian’s own, slow and wet and it’s so fucking hot Ian makes a sound he’s never heard outside of porn, like a grunt and a moan had a filthy high-pitched baby and it gets Mickey grinning against his mouth until he’s basically kissing teeth.

“Nice guy, huh?” His lips pluck at Ian’s again, nose bashing nose as he draws his head back so their eyes can meet. “That what you think you are?”

“What else?” Ian shrugs, drawing his finger, still resting just inside of Mickey’s ass, in tight little circles, just the tip really, swirling around, feeling his walls, the heat, the jolt of Mickey’s muscles as they pulse at the contact. He could just stay there forever, just rubbing at him, feeling him, but at the same time he’s desperate to get a rhythm going, add more fingers, taste him, get something else inside him, he wants everything all at once and it’s like he’s just feeling too many things, he can’t take it.

He buries his face in Mickey’s neck and clenches his hands, one holding steadfastly to Mickey’s ass-cheek, one spread so that he can keep his finger inside, but still clenching against the sheer strength of what he’s feeling.

It’s a lot, he thinks, as Mickey gasps against his ear, he must be pulling at him pretty hard, dragging him from the inside. He tries to relax, tries to think about releasing his muscles and slowing his breathing, think about things that calm him down. Soft music, going for a run, the sound of Mickey’s voice lately.

“Mick.” He about manages to grind out against the flushed pink skin of Mickey’s shoulder. “What else?”

“What, if you ain’t nice?” Mickey’s voice is soft, kind of high right there against the shell of his ear, soft lips mouthing at his earlobe as small warm hands run up and down his sides in slow, firm strokes. It must be clear to Mickey that Ian is on the brink of falling the fuck to pieces. He manages a juddery kind of nod, face still buried in Mickey’s skin, hands still fighting to tense, and he feels Mickey’s chest rise and fall in a deep breath, feels him relax his body against Ian’s.

The kisses that follow are gentle, soothing, along his hairline, down his forehead, over his cheeks and jaw, and punctuated with that sweet, husky voice, not quite whispering, but not quite talking aloud either, talking him down with each pointed breath.

“Well you’re really fuckin’ hot. So there’s that.” Kiss. “Funny. When you’re not trying to make a dumb pun joke.” Kiss. “Strong.” Kiss. “I like that you’re strong.”

He can feel it working, feel himself settling back into his skin, his heart slowing back to a regular (if aroused) rate. He manages to press a kiss into the ball of Mickey’s shoulder and is rewarded with a questioning “hmm?”

He gulps in a breath and focuses on relaxing his hands, soothing his thumb over Mickey’s almost certainly bruised ass-cheek, retracting his finger in a long, slow, slide that has Mickey’s breaths coming in short sharp vocalisations, almost giggles, like the sensation is more than his body can bear.

He drags his face up to Mickey’s for a kiss, and as he melts into that mouth it’s like he’s fully back inside his body again. He can feel every place where his skin is sticking to Mickey’s, pulling in little painful drags as they move against each other. He is aware once more, of Mickey’s dick, resting, a little twitchily, beside his own, pressed between them both and dribbling into his pubic hair. Ian enjoys how wet he gets, can’t help but reach between them to feel along the sticky length of him and give a couple of short tugs, coating his fingers in pre-come and sucking in the little huffy breaths that Mickey puffs out as he does.

“What else?” He asks, dragging his hand back around and sliding his finger back inside, crooking his knuckle to stretch out the rim a little before diving properly in.

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes against him, and Ian swallows it, his words, his breath, the intoxicating smell of him swirling inside Ian’s mouth and resting against his palate.

“What else?”

“Jesus Christ you uh.” Ian licks at his lips as he is trying to form the thoughts, a little more sensation, wants to see if he can get Mickey to shake out of his skin just the way Ian almost just had. “You kiss good.”

He licks him again, closes his lips over Mickeys in a reward of a kiss, rubbing at his rim with the tip of his ring finger, testing the waters to see if they’re there yet. Mickey’s moan is loud, fills Ian’s mouth with its neediness as he throws his arms around Ian’s shoulders and presses himself as close to Ian’s body as he can get. Second finger it is. On the next draw back, he pushes two in. Mickey’s whole body shudders against him.

“Mickey.” He loves the feel of Mickey’s entire weight hanging off him, pressed against him, clinging to him like he’s a life-raft and Mickey’s adrift at sea. “What else.”

Mickey whines, and it is such a sweet sound. Ian buries his fingers as far as they will go and swallows the noises his lover makes.

“Christ, Ian, I don’t know, if I say you’re nice will you stick your fuckin’ dick in me?”

If he’d thought laughter would break the horny spell he’s under, he would have been wrong. He’s so turned on he’s not quite sure what to do any more. He’s laughing straight into Mickey’s mouth and buzzing with desire and fighting the instinctual thrust of his hips all at the same time, so many sensations warring for attention he hardly knows how he’s still standing up, except that Mickey’s body is supporting his as much as Ian’s own is supporting Mickey’s. And God does he want to stick his dick in Mickey, more than anything he thinks he’s ever wanted. There’s only one thing stopping him.

He pulls his mouth from Mickey’s and unceremoniously drags his fingers out of his ass, grabbing a cheek in both hands and squeezing.

“Not without lube.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, leaning back in, but Ian stops him short with a hard smack and pushes him away.

It’s only when he makes for the little nest he’s set up in the next room that he remembers his pants are still around his ankles and he’s still wearing his boots. It’s Mickey’s turn to laugh as he very narrowly escapes tripping over his own feet.

“Shut up and get your shit off.” Is all Ian says, working on freeing his feet and admiring the lines of Mickey’s body as he hops about pulling his own boots off and shaking his legs out of his pants until at last he’s standing in nothing but his socks, a mile and a half of pale skin lit only by the soft glow of the candles and making Ian’s breath catch in his throat.

He has to kiss him again. His pants have barely hit the floor and he’s got Mickey gripped by the hips and is smashing their lips together even as Mickey’s shit-eating grin gives way to open-mouthed laughter.

He keeps kissing him as he uses his body to move them through to where he has stashed the lube, keeps kissing him as he backs him toward the mattress he has topped with piles of blankets and pillows gathered from every corner of the Gallagher household (and washed on a super high heat to remove any trace of Frank that might have been lingering), keeps kissing him, though not with a whole lot of finesse as he lowers them both down horizontal and reaches blindly around the side of the mattress for his little kit of supplies, and Mickey just keeps kissing him back.

Back when Mickey had first come around the Tamp and Grind, refusing to order his drink the way he wanted and barely looking Ian in the eyes some days, he would never have imagined, in a million years, that Mickey loved kissing as much as he does. But he really fucking does. He’s almost always the first one to lean in, and never the first one to pull away, he leads with his lips, a total kiss slut, and Ian loves it, loves that he is maybe the only person to know it. He kisses him and kisses him and gets hold of the lube and kisses him and vows that he will never deny Mickey a kiss when he wants it. He deserves all the kisses.

Although maybe he needs to take a breath, his thoughts are getting a little loopy.

He gets the lube on his fingers and fumbles around beneath them, sliding two straight back in to Mickey’s hole without much pre-amble and smiles when Mickey gasps beneath him.

“Yeah?” He asks, not really pulling his face back from Mickey’s, their mouths still connected though not quite in a kiss.

“Fuckin’ warn a guy” Mickey murmurs, lipping at Ian’s bottom lip a little, not quite a kiss, not anything really but some contact.

“How’s this for a warning?” He brings his ring finger into play, running it along Mickey’s rim to position it in the sort of ridge formed by his other two fingers and pushing, just a little, before pulling back again.

Mickey sucks in a deep breath, blowing it back out warm over Ian’s mouth as the finger slides in next to the others. There are so many sensations, warm breath on his face, soft hairs against his cheek threatening to tickle, sticky skin pulling against his own wherever they move, and the sucking heat surrounding his fingers, Ian revels in in, how completely physically consumed he is by this man, how absolutely lost he is to anything outside of his body and Mickey’s body right now.

He twists his fingers and pulls out a little before pushing back in, trying to give him a little stretch on every move, he grins at Mickey, thinking about why he needs the stretch, and Mickey’s returning grin is filthy and harsh.

“You gonna fuck me Gallagher?” He grunts as Ian makes his two main fingers into a scissor inside of him.

“Uh-huh.” Another kiss, another thrust, and now Mickey’s hand is worming in between them to grab at Ian’s dick, firm and sure in a way that makes Ian jolt.

“Think you got what it takes?” He starts up a stroke, nice and light, not letting his hand catch where Ian is sticky from pre-come, and Ian gives him a couple of thrusts in time with his fingers and fuck it feels really fucking good.

“Fuckin’ know I do. You’re desperate for it.”

Mickey licks his grinning lips, thumbing at the head of Ian’s dick.

“That right?” He squeezes a little, and Ian jerks.

“Fuckin’ greedy for it, you think you can take it?” He needs a condom, where did he leave them? He knows it was close by. He throws his arm out over their heads, feeling blindly as he sucks on Mickey’s lips. He comes up triumphant, waving it between their faces with a grin which Mickey returns, eyebrow cocking up toward his hairline.

“Only one way to find out man.” Mickey says, and all at once they are moving together, getting the packet open, getting Ian suited up and ready, and then both of their hands are there, covering him together, guiding him together, until he is finally sinking into the sucking heat of Mickey’s body and the both of them stop breathing for a minute as he slides all the way in.

It’s like time stops still. Like the whole world shrinks down to just him and Mickey and the points of contact between them, the heat that surrounds his cock and the light hairs tickling his elbow where it is bracketing Mickey’s arm, the short bursts of air that are passing between them as they kind of gape open-mouthed at each other, adjusting, feeling.

He thinks he could stay there like that forever, just locked inside Mickey for the rest of time, and be perfectly content with his lot in life. Mickey, though, he senses, is about to get restless.

He opens his mouth, no doubt to give Ian some patented Milkovich sass, so Ian takes his moment, right before Mickey speaks, and strikes, pulling out almost all the way in one swift movement, before grinding his way back in, pushing even further when he bottoms out so that Mickey’s hips tilt up off the mattress and a short grunt comes punching out of Mickey’s mouth.

He seems to like that move, so Ian goes with it, adjusting his weight so that he is able to grab hold of a seductively thick thigh in each hand and push upwards, holding Mickey’s weight so he can pull out again and grind back in, using every ounce of muscle control he’s worked so hard for to tilt his hips at just the right angle and push himself forward at just the right pace to get Mickey’s knees to twitch and his thighs to clench around him.

He goes at it like that for as long as he can, sweating and gasping and rolling his hips, rewarded for each thrust with a soft breathy ‘uhn’ from Mickey and the occasional half-hearted bite to his jaw or his ear or, at one point, his nose, though he does wonder if that was just bad aim. He doesn’t know how long he manages, maybe a minute, maybe less, before he starts to get that tight feeling in the base of his spine and his toes start to tingle and clench. His movements grow less smooth, less sure, jerking forcefully instead of gliding with purpose and he hopes he’s done enough to get Mickey there as well because this is apparently going to be a short performance.

‘Mick,’ he manages to gasp, eyes zeroing in for a second on a sweaty lock of hair that’s dangling out of place, ‘Mick, I’m—’, the force of his breaths blows the hair away again and Mickey’s face, flushed and glistening with sweat, comes back into focus.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Mickey says, hushed and dark and right there with him, thank fuck. Glassy eyes lock onto Ian’s for just a second before Mickey’s reaching down between them to get a hold of his own cock and the sensation forces them closed, head tipping back, hips jolting upward with a force that nearly knocks Ian sideways. He pulls back, bringing Mickey with him so that he’s resting back on his knees, Mickey splayed basically in his lap. He does his best to grip Mickey’s hips despite the sweat and his waning co-ordination, juddering through the last thirty seconds of thrusts as Mickey urgently strips his cock, bringing himself to the edge and throwing himself off it seconds after Ian shudders and jolts and grinds to a seizing halt. He empties into the condom with great heaving groans, laughing as Mickey’s face twists up in bemusement at the noises he makes. A whole body shiver runs all the way through him and he leans into it, shaking his shoulders and head like a dog, spraying sweat everywhere and arching his back into a stretch.

It’s only when Mickey grunts and gives him a half-hearted kick against his right side that he realizes all of this movement is probably a bit much for the man he’s still inside of thirty seconds after he’s blown his load.

‘Fuck.’ He breathes, running his hands over Mickey’s hips in a way that he hopes is at least a little soothing. ‘Sorry.’

Mickey’s whole body seems to go limp, legs flopping down, head tipping back onto the mattress as his breathing slows. There is a small bruise starting to come through just beneath his clavicle, a dark blue just beginning to bloom, and Ian is struck with the overwhelming urge to taste it.

He tips forward, softening cock slipping out with the movement and earning another grunt out of Mickey, whose hands are covering his face now but who adjusts his body to the shifting weight of Ian leaning down over him. He brings his arms down around Ian to run light fingers over his back as Ian mouths gently at the darkening mark. They catch their breaths with soft touches and light kisses, Ian can hear the slowing thud of Mickey’s heart beneath his skin and he tries to match his own against it, breathing slow into his chest, contemplating what it might feel like if they were to somehow become one single being.

Mickey’s fingers in his hair tug him back to reality, and his brain suddenly starts whirring in a different direction, one that plants the seed of worry as he goes back over the last half hour, cataloguing everything he could have done different, better.

“Sorry.” He says again, propping his chin up on Mickey’s chest so he can look up at him. “That was—I can do better than that.”

Mickey waves a dismissive hand between them before planting it back in his hair.

“Nah,” He says, twisting a damp curl just starting to form around his middle finger, “you’re a fucking stud Gallagher.”

It’s dumb, and it pulls a groaning laugh out of Ian, but it’s enough to quiet his doubting mind and he buries his face in between Mickey’s pecs as the both of them give in to a few giggles.

“I can do better, though.” He says eventually, “I got a bit overwhelmed but usually I don’t just lose my shit like that.”

Mickey pulls at his hair, forcing him to look back up and meet Mickey’s eyes, cool and sharp, assessing Ian as they look him over.

“Alright,” He says at length, dropping his head back and giving Ian a couple of gentle pats on the shoulder, “well give me a minute to get the feeling back in my legs and you can prove it to me.”

...

part b coming soon??

[alexanderwales]

Book Review: Metropolitan Man

[content warning: sexual violence]

It's been 10 years since I wrote Metropolitan Man, and last night I read it for the first time in almost that long. Since writing it, I've written over 4 million words, and hopefully, grown as a writer. I've also forgotten parts of the story, so was looking at it with as fresh of eyes as possible. These are my overall thoughts.

I should say, before I start, that I've read tons of comments and discussion on this story over the years. I don't know how many of these thoughts are my own, or how much I've internalized things that people have said.

Writing Style

There were lots of changes I thought about making while reading, but people hate change, and this story is about ten years past when I wanted to be making editing passes on it. In many places I kept thinking of little extras I would add, things that would make the dialogue pop a little more, or provide characterization. I had this idea for a line where I describe Lois typing out two letters like she was letting loose with both barrels of a shotgun. There's dialogue to clean just a bit more, a few places where words are repeated or something is just a bit awkward, and where it could have been tighter or more clear.

The biggest thing that stood out to me was how little time got spent on scene setting and how short some of the snippets were, just five paragraphs to get a scene across before we're onto the next thing. I might have webserial brainrot, but those are definitely places where today I would give a little more breathing room and maybe use the same amount of words to describe something in a more oblique and stronger way. One that stood out as a clear example was a private investigator going home with Jimmy Olsen even though she was done pumping him for information, which could have been twice as long and benefitted from it. Another was a brief little thing about a Superman spotter on the roof, where I'd now describe everything he was doing, and only get to the conclusion of "he was a Superman spotter" at the end of the section to let the reader have this mini mystery of what they're being shown and why.

I would describe things more if I was writing this today, trying to get those nicely tight and evocative descriptions and ditch the stuff like "she wore a white blouse", but I often feel that way about stuff that I'm revising from last week, so it's not surprising.

The plot is very tight, which is good. I tend to prefer my plots tight, but it takes work, and webserials aren't conducive to it because it's difficult to know when you're writing a scene whether it's really pulling its weight as far as moving things forward. The initial idea for MM was to move as cleanly as possible through a series of events: Superman -> Superman is invincible -> Superman is Clark Kent -> Clark Kent grew up in Smallville -> the ship is in Smallville -> the ship has a Kryptonite power source -> Kryptonite can kill Superman -> Superman is dead. The only thing that would make it any faster would be if we dropped the Lois Lane subplot, but that's like half the novel.

Superman is OOC

I've gotten tons and tons of comments on this story over the years. If I hated myself, I would go back through my email and count them up, but there are some death threats and "kill yourself"s in there, and I prefer not to reread them. The major thing that people hate is the ending, which I don't care to talk about, but the other major thing is that Superman isn't Superman.

In this, I largely agree, but then, I'm pretty sure I've always agreed. That said, Superman has had a ton of interpretations over the years, and there's a wide range of acceptable behavior from "a Superman", even if we're not counting the really out there variations like Red Son or some of the alternate timelines.

... but I still would probably make him more like a canon Superman if I had to do it all over.

There are a few things that raise red flags at the beginning, which is where I think they're inexpertly placed. Superman takes Lois off the roof and flies her around, making her very afraid, and this is fine, I think, a misunderstanding that might be stronger if we got his insight into what was happening before we got hers to help bridge some of the disconnect there and characterize them both better. But there's a little note after that, where Clark makes a joke about "Superman's girlfriend Lois Lane" that I think is a HUGE red flag, and which probably comes too early in the story. It would be better as a joke someone else made that Clark laughs along with, which raises the red flag to half mast.

The other major moment I would change is when the bombs start going off. Superman pulls back, unsure whether he's actually immune to mustard gas, and I think this is one of the moments that most goes against the character of Superman. Canon Superman would just say "welp, guess I gotta find out whether I'm immune to mustard gas in a hurry". Superman making the argument that he doesn't know the bounds of his powers and so should exercise caution reads as either cowardice or as him being way too bitten by the rationality bug.

This would then obviously have to change the plot of that section a bit, because in the novel as it stands right now, Superman is convinced by Lois Lane that he can't just sit on the sidelines for game theory reasons. Better to either scrap that section or have Lois convince Superman that for game theory reasons he should offer to have testing carried out against him in a way that doesn't harm civilians, which canon Superman might submit to if it saved lives. Then the rest of the plot can proceed as normal, because Superman is immune to everything and that's the whole plot beat anyway.

I'd definitely clean up some of Superman/Clark's dialogue to nail the character voice better, but I don't think it's that bad, and it's mostly a few places where the wording is off. I think in particular the points where he's feeling anger go too far, and are not how someone internally conflicted about the anger might talk.

And then, oh yeah, Superman punches a guy's head clean off, which I think is the biggest sticking point for most people.

I've thought about that scene a lot. I personally like it. But if I were ever trying to sell this story to DC, it's one of the things I would almost certainly change. Superman doesn't kill, except in that one movie that came out just before this story was published where Superman snapped a guy's neck.

The change I am most happy/comfortable with is that Whitman, the governor whose children were [REDACTED], is the one to kill Calhoun. This happens just outside the courthouse with Superman watching and not intervening in the slightest, or maybe catching the bullets as they go through Calhoun so no bypassers get hit.

I don't know, as I type it out, it doesn't have the same weight to it. It's not cool. It's not a watershed moment. Maybe there's a plot thread to pull there, where Superman has tacitly endorsed other vigilantes, and it would be a great time to pull in other mundane street-level heroes ... but that's an entirely different story at that point.

Another option is for Superman to simply fly off with Calhoun and put him away, but that lacks punch too, and gets talky, and ... it's about the rage, right? The feeling of injustice, not just at Calhoun, but at the entire world, and it's not just an unhappy side effect that there's blood everywhere, all over the clamoring press, that's part of the point.

Social Justice

I really enjoy how wide-ranging the novel is, and how many things it touches on. Good job me. There was a line I had completely forgotten about where Lois asks "Why doesn't Superman stop abortions?" that I had completely forgotten I had ever written, and which brought a big smile to my face (but no wonder some Superman fans hate this story).

There are a few other things that I raise my eyebrow at a little bit, at least sitting here in 2024. There's a particular line that Superman gives when talking about this whitewashed mural of the past they're walking by, and he says "It's easy to forget that slavery ever happened, you know?" Now, I will grant you that this is a part of a conversation where he's saying that maybe he should have been a better student of history, and is saying this as a white guy in 1934, but I wanted him or someone else to tear that statement apart. It never really happens.

"It's easy to forget that slavery ever happened [if you and your people have not been affected by slavery]". The novel takes place ~70 years after the end of the Civil War, which means that when Clark was growing up there would have been freed slaves who were in their fifties, probably many of them in Kansas, though Smallville is (notably) small. I don't know, it wouldn't have been historically accurate for them to have a discussion of privilege, but there's way more meat on that bone, and it's all left as subtext.

Also probably the case that if I were writing it now, I would pay more attention to race in general, but that I'm less sure on, because it would mean some major structural changes to be done well. There's a single black guy in the whole thing, who is barely a character and has no speaking lines: the farmhand Ma Kent has before he gets lured away with the promise of being an actor. I have never felt that any novel needs racial balance to it, but if you're going to be talking about slavery and whether Superman would have done anything about it, you start to make black people look like props, which is not a good look.

I mean look, I think it's fine for a given story to not actually take a stance on political issues or have a diverse cast, but this story goes from abortion to the Equal Rights Amendment to Prohibition to Nazis to the death penalty, and then despite being set in 1934 sort of talks around the subject of how shitty race relations were. As a white guy, I never feel comfortable talking about race, but I think it would have been appropriate to have here in more than the cursory way it was handled. But the cast is just not that large, and the way that modern Superman stories handle that is usually making Jimmy Olsen black and then not actually talking about the fact that he's black so it's just a palette swap, which I don't think would work here, especially since Jimmy is such a bit character, and also it's 1934.

Sexual Violence

Alright, I will say it: there's too much sexual violence.

Chapter 7 is when the two Whitman kids get kidnapped. Their driver gets his throat slit, the boy gets dismembered, and the girl gets raped. I knew it was coming and I was still horrified by it.

I would not remove this part. I would foreshadow it better with a few scenes with Calhoun, the brutes, etc., and I might change some of the details to be a bit less awful and gruesome, but I don't think I would remove it. There are a few core ideas here that I think all work:

The better class of criminal has left the city now, and all that are left are the worst of the worst, the people who will not respond to incentives or symbols or rational thought.

If you cannot strike at Superman's physical self, you strike at his mind instead, and one of the ways to do that is psychic damage. In Calhoun's case, this is irrational, a pure desire to hurt Superman in any way possible while his empire collapses.

The amount of evil in the world is enormous. The pain and suffering cannot be comprehended. I love what Superman says, that this isn't really unique, that these things happen to children all the time. He's upset about not being able to save them, but they're a drop in the bucket.

I think you have to be careful with sexual violence, whether it's depicted or hinted at or just briefly mentioned. There are tons of people who are not on board with that in their media, and even of those who are on board, it has to be handled carefully and can feel very cheap, as though you're just going to the worst and most transgressive thing you can think of for the shock value. People will see it as lazy and trivializing and making entertainment out of this horrible thing.

I think the world is shit. I think terrible things happen. I have always felt both oppressed by the weight of evil in the world and powerless to stop it. I think that's the thing that I'm gesturing at here, and it feels weird to me that sexual violence would get put on a pedestal as the one thing too horrible to mention, even though we're mentioning all the most horrible things.

How do Superman comics and shows and movies deal with this? My impression is that they don't. Surely Superman must be stopping rapes from happening, but I cannot think of a single time I've seen it happen. I'm actually having trouble thinking of a time it was implied to happen. I think this is probably a good idea on the part of the people who make these bits of media, but it's absolutely not realistic if you're thinking about how Superman would operate in the "real world". Sexual violence happens, child abuse happens, and I guess we just sort of assume that these things are dealt with by Superman off-screen.

Though ... I mean it impacts the characters, right? Does Superman not have a trauma response? Does he have a superpower where he can bottle it all up? He's definitely too late to stop certain crimes, and he definitely can't make things better for some of the victims, and I guess in the comics when he shows up to a burning building he generally has a 100% success rate and people come out with only minor injuries, but ... alright, this is definitely the sort of thing that led me to write this fic in the first place.

It's a question that the fic doesn't have an answer for: how do you go on living when you know that there's so much evil in the world?

I think dialing that particular scene back is, maybe, fine. But it's the sort of thing that would feel like I was being less authentic in a way, as though I wanted to grapple with the big questions but not that one, wanted to consider ethics and morality but silo myself away from things that actually are on my mind. I see the point of blunting that scene, and I rebel against it because I don't want to be blunted, I want to be sharp.

I would, however, remove a lot of the earlier references, or blunt those, because they didn't need to be sharp. There are, before the Whitman stuff, about five references to sexual violence, and maybe even just using "sexual violence" would be enough, rather than "rape". One of these references is to what crimes Superman is statistically most likely to stop, another is to a plot to besmirch his name, both can be massaged or they can go.

I don't know if I think about these things differently because time has passed or I've had a bunch of discussions about these issues, or whether it's just having the outside view. It's weird to think about what a conversation with myself would look like, if we were working on the story together.

Retrospective

I understand why Superman fans sometimes hate this story. There's the Superman OOC stuff, sure, but there are also a lot of questions about Superman that apply to canon equally well, and people hate that. Superman is a fantasy, maybe the ultimate comic book fantasy. He stops crimes and bullets bounce off him! You're not supposed to think about his stance on abortion rights. You're not supposed to look at the Clark Kent mask and say 'huh, that's strange'. I mean it's media, you can do whatever the hell you want, but if Superman is a fantasy, then there are a lot of questions that are fantasy-ruining.

I stand by the story as written about 80%, which is higher than I thought it would be, though there are certain things that I stand by more than others. There are certain structural changes and many line-by-line changes, and I'm glad that I didn't have the story open in edit mode, because it would have taken me three times as long to read and when I hit "save changes" people would grumble about archives or bad changes or whatever, because you can't please people.

About five years ago, I started writing A Common Sense Guide to Doing the Most Good, which was meant as a companion piece to MM. It ended up being all mechanics, no plot, and the plot that I wanted it to have was divorced from the center questions it wanted to answer. It didn't feel as grand, I guess, and the cats were out of their bags a little too quickly.

One of the Answers that MM gives is that the thing you should do in the face of overwhelming evil is to grind relentlessly, grind until your bones are scraping the grindstone and there's nothing left of yourself. The story does not believe this answer, but it's one of the places I ended up ten years ago, and am still sort of at now. The other answer is to live as best you can, be aware of the evil and do what you can against it without letting the idea of it (or the battle against it) consume your soul.

When I was finished reading, I kind of wanted to write an uncritical Superman comic. Something where Superman can be as his most loyal fans see him, someone who is Good and doesn't often have to grapple with what Good means, where the thorny edges of moral quandaries never come to light and the hero is always there in the nick of time. Where Clark Kent is a bold and noble expression of humanity rather than a deception and a mask. Maybe I will go do that.

[silasbug]

i am going to work on that damned thing i've been trying to write and actually finish it so HELP ME god. there will be no scribbling. no gaming. no frolicking around on the guitar. no off-key singing and no reading. until it's done.

(i'm exaggerating, but it's a way to get motivated, i guess).

(there will be reading. a lot of it).

(the bug is weak.)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)

For The Weak And Weary

PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?

WORDCOUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.

A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.

And this was entirely new to you.

He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had. 

But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you. 

You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.

But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.

If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.

“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.” 

It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered. 

He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?

“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.” 

Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse. 

Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”

“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”

The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”

“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”

“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!” 

A stiff silence falls.

“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.

“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.

You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains. 

Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest. 

You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away. 

He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you. 

When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive. 

And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours. 

So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second. 

But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds. 

Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood. 

Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through. 

In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did. 

A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.

Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming. 

How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?

Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips. 

All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.

How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.

You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest. 

If only Keegan could see you now.

Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.

Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them. 

“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas. 

You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar. 

“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too. 

Everything would be done if another city fell.  

Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry. 

Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down. 

You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him. 

Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another. 

Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.

Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.

“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm. 

Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.

Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...

When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike. 

—

It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that. 

On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.

Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do. 

Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness. 

“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up. 

The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did. 

Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.

“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”

The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears. 

“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!” 

On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock. 

Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.

And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious. 

With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream. 

You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static. 

I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead. 

While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out. 

It rang a devastating bell.

Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t. 

Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.

The only love of your life. 

“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.” 

Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…

Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile? 

Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky. 

“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him. 

He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine. 

You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.

It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.

“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact. 

Your face gains heat. 

“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment. 

“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.

He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow. 

“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?” 

Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began. 

Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died. 

At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.

So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar. 

“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found. 

“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.” 

The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls. 

You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.” 

Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.

“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around. 

Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more. 

You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.

Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water. 

More than one-thousand miles.

But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering. 

Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet. 

Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important. 

Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.

—

The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything. 

Until you said you were from Dallas, of course. 

But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious. 

But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.

You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years. 

In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place. 

Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet. 

The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds. 

“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?” 

You weren’t going to stop until you found it. 

Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet. 

“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him. 

Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.

“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you. 

“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.” 

You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you. 

“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”

“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard. 

Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?” 

“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it. 

“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”

“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.” 

“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.” 

Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after. 

“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question. 

“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile. 

“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building. 

Yelling is on the other side.

“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told. 

“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.

…Keegan?

“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.

“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”

“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood. 

Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch. 

Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago. 

Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.

Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system. 

The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real. 

Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three. 

“...Sweetheart?”

His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.

You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.

The door shuts, but neither of you notices. 

“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.” 

He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible. 

“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.

Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet. 

“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”

“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?” 

His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years. 

“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?” 

Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh. 

The man forces a weak huff. 

“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you. 

You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.

Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same. 

Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you. 

He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck. 

“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?” 

You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.

“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.” 

You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you. 

The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.

“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”

“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”

You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.

Not to leave again anytime soon. 

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[bittersweet-folder]

♡. Stuck by the glue🎐🍃🌧

Pairing: literature student Wonwoo × literature student gn reader. (University au) ( edit: though I have mentioned "she/her" pronouns once. Sorry about that 😭)

Genre: fluff, lots of fluff and bit of crack lol, established relationship, there's lots of kissing | Word count: 1.5k [ik I went overboard lol] | MASTER LIST

Song rec: tip toe by hybs // glue song by beabadoobee ft clairo // love scene by baekhyun [yes title is inspired by the glue song]

Warning: there's lots of kissing ? And Wonwoo rides a bike.

Summary: you were at your boyfriend's place. you were bored and Wonwoo is reading. So Wonwoo came up with the idea of taking you to a bookstore he came across few days back

Note: here's some oddly specific details🍃 reader is tall but shorter than Wonwoo and wears glasses and even if you dont wear glases that is also okay (This is for all my tall glass girlies and gays out there because I'm one of them as well)

Taglist: @hongmingo , @shuabby1994 , @unlikelysublimekryptonite , @asyre , @yumiyumis-blog @soobunsbun , @nishloves , @aaniag , @sikuthealien , @jespecially , @thepoopdokyeomtouched (girlie lemme know if you were in my taglist 😭 because I've lost track of it😭)

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃

A nice pleasant Sunday afternoon. You came over to Wonwoo's apartment for lunch. You both don't live too far away, barely ten minutes away from each other. After lunch you laid on one side, on the sofa, your head resting on Wonwoo's lap. You were going through random shows on TV. One of Wonwoo's hands was caressing your hair while the other held a book he was reading. To be more accurate, going through the reading material suggested by their professor in class. You were bored. Not because of Wonwoo nor the random tv show displayed in front of you. Wonwoo did notice that. "Are you okay? Or you're bored? Which one?"

"Jeon Wonwoo am I that transparent-" you turned to look at him, your lips pressed in a thin line.

"Well maybe anyone can figure that out because you are going through random tv shows without actually watching them" He said while squeezing your cheeks.

"Okay then what about the book you're reading? Is it doing any better?" You said.

"I am particularly not liking it at all and reading it for the sake of my degree" He said with a forced smile really did explain that he was suffering.

"Wow okay, things we go through as literature students huh, even I hated some reading material from the previous semester. I swear to God they were so sexist and insufferable I don't even want to talk about those anymore" You said mulling over that for a few moments.

"Yeah exactly but I was asking if you're bored baby" He had a soft smile on his lips clearly because he saw that you got distracted from what he asked you previously. You were flustered about the fact that you went a bit off topic.

"Umm well yes I am and what will you do about that?"

"Hmmm lemme think…" he paused to think and then continued "we can go to a bookstore? there's a new one I came across, it also sells second hand books which are cheap"

"What-" you were always over the moon whenever you went book shopping with your boyfriend. "Oh yes we are going to the bookstore now!!"you exclaimed in sheer excitement. One thing Wonwoo knew is that you loved books and anything related to books. Bookstores had a special place in your heart, his too since that's how both meet. In a bookstore. Nearby your university. On a busy rainy monday afternoon.

"Alright sweetheart, wear your shoes and cardigan, I'll go get changed okay?" He said and then pressed a kiss on your cheek. You nodded and then started getting ready and fixed your hair too.

Wonwoo came out of his room after a few minutes in a sap green hoodie and wide legged jeans and… riding gloves?

He walked up to you. "So I'm guessing you're ready let's goo then"

"Umm baby are you gonna give me a ride as well?" you looked at his gloves and then raised your eyebrows.

"What kinda ride exactly are you talking about baby?" Wonwoo smirked.

"Eyyyy shut up you dirty minded weirdo I'm talking about the gloves you're wearing" you smacked his arm while the blush on your cheeks were becoming even more evident.

"Well yes love I'm gonna give you a ride to the bookstore because it's a little far away" Wonwoo squished your cheeks with both of his hands and planted a peck on your lips. You both put on your shoes and walked out of his apartment. Wonwoo locked the door and handed you your helmet. Wonwoo riding a bike was your favorite genre of Wonwoo. You found that really attractive of him for some reason. You also remember him, giving you a ride to your home because it was raining and you weren't carrying an umbrella. As cliche as it sounds like a scene from romantic dramas, that was the first ever time you saw him riding a bike and giving you a ride as well. You liked that feeling of holding someone close and resting your chin on their shoulder. And that someone became Wonwoo.

When you both reached the bookstore you saw it's an old bookstore and is a little dilapidated but it had its own beauty in its way.

"It's quite an old one, you know. I came across this a few days back while the night out with the guys" he said.

"Oh ohhh I see"

You both entered the bookstore and were greeted by an old man.

"Ahh we have a young couple as customers today! Good afternoon to you both. New books are on the ground floor, the second hand ones are upstairs" the old man may have aged a lot but he seemed to be very cheerful for his age which you really liked.

"Good afternoon grandpa and thank you" You both greeted him and went inside the bookstore. You felt a hand around your waist.

"We really do give off couple vibes huh"

"Yes honey we do! now coming to the point on what books we wanna buy"

"I'll guessing it's either a horror or a romantic one"

"No, I mean well yes that would differ if there's any book which grabs my attention and you're gonna follow me and hold the books" you smiled and if anything that made his heart melt.

"Why is she so cute, so enthusiastic about her interests, god I love her so much" He thought to himself.

"Wonu back to earth are you even listening?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Yes I got it I heard what you said" He said.

You both started looking through the romance section first but didn't end up finding anything much interesting. Then you both went through the crime and thriller. It's like that's where the magic happens.

"Wonu wonu! Isn't this the locked room mystery novel you were searching for?" You held a book named "The Village of Eight Murders" by Seishi Yokomizo.

"Oh yess I was. There's also a fourth book, the last book of the series The Inugami Curse" He said and then took the book from your hand going through the pages.

"Found it!" You said after finding the fourth book. He raised his eyebrows and looked at you. "So are we.." you cut him off mid sentence "we're taking these two, hold them baby" you were happy to finally found the book he was searching for. He was happy too.

"Wonwoo?" you called him by his name, your voice was soft.

"Yes love" He said, his fingers still going over the titles of each book on the shelf he's looking through. You turned and looked at him.

"I wanna go upstairs" you said.

"Hmm alright let's go" he said while a soft smile lingered on his lips.

While going upstairs y'all heard the rain suddenly started pouring down.

"See I told you it will rain tomorrow around this time, now I want my kiss baby" Wonwoo said grinning.

"Nope you aren't getting any right now especially not when we are here standing inside a bookstore" You said with a playful smile on your face. The books upstairs were second hand books so it was common to come across the one's which might have damaged covers too. Wonwoo picked out a book for you.

"y/n isn't this the book you were talking about yesterday? Its cover is slightly torn though" Wonwoo handed you the book. It was "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro.

"Oh my God yesss! I'll buy this and we can glue that part you know" you said looking at the torn cover of the book he was holding.

"Yeah it's like how books helped me glue to you and we ended up in a relationship"

"My my aren't you being so cheesy for someone who's standing in the fiction aisle with me" You gave him a coy look and then went back searching through the shelf of books.

"Well then love what about kissing in the bookshops as well, like they do in the romance books"

A blush crept your cheeks and ears. You turned to look at him. He smiled looking at your flustered face, his eyes traveling back and forth on your eyes and then your lips.

"Since when did you become so romantic-" your sentence was cut off by him putting his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to the side slowly. And then he pressed his lips against yours. A soft and warm kiss in the middle of a crispy old bookshop while the euphonious sound of the rain drizzling played outside. He pulled away shortly after but you chased for his lip even more.

"I always was and you're cute when you want more you know" he whispered, his cheeks slightly flushed now as well.

"Yes of course you are" you mumbled and pouted.

"We should check out these books, you know" you said.

"Yes love we will but let's just stay here until the rain slacks off" Wonwoo said as he took you by your hand and made your way to the couch placed on the right side of the room.

"Till then we'll sit here okay?" Wonwoo made himself comfortable sitting beside you.

"Yeah you're right" You said leaning on his shoulder.

Let's just say,he made your day a lot better than before.

🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃

A/n: my exams are finally over so yes I'm back and I'll write more ig. A lotta drafts are piled up literally. Also feedbacks and reblogs are really appreciated. I have proofread once but lemme know if there's any grammatical errors.

ALSO YES I WAS LITERALLY GIVING Y'ALL BOOK RECS THROUGH THIS CUZ DUH I'M AN ENGLISH MAJOR TOO.

[steddieas-shegoes]

you're not jonathan

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'no upside down au' rated t wc: 997 cw: recreational drug use, language tags: meet-ugly turned meet-cute, flirting, somewhat ambiguous ending but we all know what's gonna happen

🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

Steve was not supposed to be the one picking up the drugs for the party.

He wasn't even going to the party.

But Jonathan couldn't get it from his usual guy, said he was back home in California for the summer, and it wasn't like Robin had a hookup.

Eddie Munson didn't technically deal anymore, but he made exceptions for previous customers, and Jonathan had been a regular during high school.

It wasn't shocking news to Steve, but what was shocking was hearing all these stories about how Eddie didn't even usually meet someone during daylight hours. Except today, apparently.

Steve tripped over another branch, barely caught himself before falling on his face.

"I better get so high off this shit," he said to himself.

"I only sell the good shit."

Steve froze.

Somehow, he'd missed a person walking up to him, probably when he nearly ate dirt.

"Is there any reason a hike is required to get some weed?" Steve asked, brushing his hands on his pants to get the remnants of the tree trunk he saved himself on.

Eddie crossed his arms in front of him, raising an unimpressed brow.

"No. Jonathan suggested the place."

Hard to believe the guy who hated being outside for more than a few minutes would have suggested a half mile trek into the woods, but Steve didn't really care to argue.

"O...kay. Well, I've got the cash if you wanna get this over with," Steve said as he reached into his pockets that were..."Fuck."

He started patting his pockets, his shirt, looking around him at the ground to try to find his wallet.

"Everything okay?" Eddie asked, coming closer.

"I lost my wallet. Shit!"

"Alright, I can help you look, man. It's not a big deal. Gotta be somewhere, right?" Eddie started looking around him, though it was half-hearted at best. "What's it look like?"

"It's brown. Um, leather?" Steve suddenly forgot any other details about his wallet. How convenient.

"Okay, so the color of the ground. Should be easy."

Steve snorted.

Eddie was smirking as he walked the way Steve came, checking the ground around him as he did so.

Steve followed behind, but he was pretty certain they wouldn't find it.

After ten minutes of looking, Eddie sighed.

"We should just smoke a bit. Take the edge off. Ya know?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. I can't pay you until I find my wallet," Steve said as he continued looking, bending down to get a closer look at a spot that seemed like the color of his wallet.

"On the house."

Steve stood straight up.

"Really?"

"Can't really kick ya when you're down, can I? Plus, I planned on smoking after you left anyway. We can share," Eddie shrugged, like it was no big deal.

Steve had never gotten high outside of house parties, the comfort of his own home or a friend's home soothing his anxieties about losing his inhibitions.

But out here? With Eddie? It didn't seem like a smart thing to do.

"Alright," Steve shrugged back.

Eddie must have sensed something about him, though, because he didn't let him take more than three puffs of the joint before he put it out and found a collection of boulders for them to sit on.

"You ever think about how trees are alive but they don't have ears?" Steve asked a minute later.

"Oh, you're that kind of high." Eddie poked his hand, making him look over at him. "You eat today?"

"Maybe. I've been busy. Do you think trees get hungry?" Steve replied.

Eddie searched his face before letting his pinky rest against Steve's hand on the rock.

It felt like fire.

"They do."

"But they don't have pancakes or cheeseburgers. Like, we can't grind it up and put it in the dirt for them, right?" Steve's jaw dropped. "Can we?"

Eddie watched as Steve looked over at some of the trees surrounding them.

"I don't think we can, no."

"A shame. They're missin' out. You know who else is missin' out? Jonathan! He made me come here and he didn't even tell me you had long hair or like the nicest eyelashes. Which is weird because he didn't shut up about anything else about you but he forgot about the eyelashes!" Steve's hand curled around Eddie's pinky. "And you look warm."

Eddie's brows raised.

He wasn't sure who Steve was. Jonathan had just insisted he was cool.

But Jonathan hadn't mentioned that his hair looked softer than silk, or that his eyes were wide and innocent despite his lip curling up in the corner in annoyance.

Jonathan seemed to have left a lot of things out.

"Well, it is summer. It's pretty warm," Eddie gulped. "But you do look a little cold."

"I get cold easy. Robin says it's because I don't eat enough red meat or something. Low irony or something."

Eddie was so endeared.

"I could help you stay warm? Walk you back to your car if you want?"

Eddie did not want that, but he knew Steve probably needed to walk off some of this high before his friends started to worry about him.

"Don't wanna walk," Steve leaned his head on Eddie's shoulder. "My head is walking."

"Should I try to head back and get one of your friends?"

Steve shook his head.

"Be fine in an hour."

"Okay," Eddie put his arm around Steve's shoulder, surprised to find that Steve was shivering. "Hey, you okay?"

"You do have good shit."

"That's not an answer," Eddie chuckled.

"I'm good. Best."

Eddie let him burrow further into his side and waited for his shivering to subside before he suggested heading back to his car again.

Steve still refused, and Eddie didn't have it in him to push.

Not when they were finding shapes in the clouds and he was holding Steve close.

He'd definitely owe Jonathan a lot of product if this went the way he wanted it to.

[ageingfangirl2]

Are You Flirting With Me? Sanji x Reader (OPLA)

Sanji is a known flirt around all women, but y/n isn't sure if he's flirting with her or not and they confront them. Sanji x Female Reader

Y/N

Sanji was a very confusing man. He was a shameless flirt and ladies' man, fawning over every girl who crossed his path. Nami said he was all over her when they first went to The Baratie and had continued his ways since joining the crew. But when you joined the crew after they beat Arlong Sanji was odd, initially flirting and complimenting you, but after a couple of months, he seemingly stopped but continued with Nami and the other girls.

It didn't bother you at first, it was a nice break. You didn't have body issues, in fact, you liked how you looked and took care of your image, and before you left your island to join Luffy you'd been proposed to twice. But now when you look in a mirror you start to notice small flaws in your appearance. You hated what you were becoming, you had to get off the ship and away from the blonde cook for a bit.

With one last look in the small mirror by your hammock you throw it against the wall and watch it smash into tiny pieces on the floor, 'stupid cook,' you hiss.

Grabbing your jacket you leave the sleeping quarters and head back up onto deck.

'Y\N DINNERS READY!' Usopp calls out from the deck above.

You wave him off, 'I'm not hungry, I'm going to head into town for a bit.'

Before Usopp can say anything you're already walking down the gangplank.

SANJI

'Where's y/n?' Nami asks as Usopp comes back into the kitchen frowining.

I finish plating up y/n's food and put it down in their usual spot next to mine.

'She said she wasn't hungry and was going into town, looked upset,' Usopp answers.

Nami slams her hands down on the table, 'WHICH ONE OF YOU UPSET Y/N?'

The four of us share looks at one another, trying to figure out the answer, but no one comes forward to admit to doing anything wrong. It couldn't possibly be me because y/n and I had developed a close bond, the only girl seemingly immune to my flirting but still played along and gave me compliments when the rest of the crew wouldn't. Maybe I'd check on them after dinner.

TIME SKIP

There weren't many places to go in this town and I found y/n in the first tavern nursing what looked to be their third beer.

'What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?' I joke, and sit down next to them.

y/n doesn't even look at me as they reply, 'Are you...flirting with me?'

'Gods no! What gave you that idea?' I say, a little shocked.

y/n shrugs their shoulders, '...I mean...have you heard yourself talk around girls?'

I order a beer and bump my shoulder with y/n's, 'I've been told, look at you y/n, even with my flirting you looked past that and actually wanted to get to know me.'

y/n's head snaps in my direction their eyes wide, 'so that's why you stopped? You don't think I'm ugly.'

I shake my head, 'You're beautiful y/n. Wait is this why you're upset?'

y/n nods and faceplants the bar top grumbling. After a minute or two y/n explains how they thought they were ugly because I stopped flirting with them while continuing to do it with Nami and other girls around them. y/n was embarrassed, but I had to admit I was also in the wrong for not noticing my actions around them.

'I'm sorry Sanji,' y/n mutters.

I smile and throw an arm around their shoulder, 'I'm sorry to y/n. Trust me you're not ugly, because whenever we dock somewhere the guys and I have to keep guys away from you. Now I managed to save you a plate before Luffy could eat it if you're still hungry.'

y/n leans into me and smiles, 'You are the best cook I know. Thank you for coming after me Sanji, it means a lot.'

The two of us finish our drinks and leave the tavern, y/n holding onto me as they stumble having drunk on an empty stomach.

'On a scale of one to ten, you're a nine, and I'm the one you need,' I say seriously, but wiggle my eyebrows at them.

y/n bursts into laughter, 'Never change Sanji.'

From now on I would try and find the right balance because I never wanted to lose y/n.

[larluce]

Merlin as Arthur's familiar/Arthur's shapeshifter falcon AU

@dsabian , @theroundbartable , @theplatanitosqueal , @stressed-but-chill , this part is quite long.

LINK TO THE OTHER PARTS: PART 1 , PART2 , PART 3 , PART 4 (You're here) , PART5

Morgana, Arthur (with Merlin on his shoulder) and Uther having a family dinner. Gwen and other servants enter to serve the food.

Uther: Does the bird really has to be here?

Morgana: Oh, let him be. He's very well behaved. Even more than Arthur.

Arthur: I'm very flattered you think so highly of my manners, Morgana.

Merlin: (chirps)

Morgana: See? He agrees.

Arthur: Shut up, Merlin.

Uther: (thinking) Am I the only one that thinks is weird they treat this animal like a person?

Arthur: (takes a bite of his food) Hum, what is this? A pigeon?

Merlin: (chirps loudly, horrified, and flies away, leaving the room)

Uther: Arthur, control your bird! He left feathers on my food!

Arthur: Sorry father. (worried) He isn't normally like this, I think something upsetted him.

Morgana: Maybe is because you're eating a bird?

Arthur: No, that have never bothered him before and small birds are part of merlins' diet.

Morgana: Wait... (turns to Gwen) Gwen, what type of bird is that on Arthur's plate.

Gwen: I'm not sure... (turns to other servant girl) Gladys, you were with the cook when they prepared the food right? What kind of bird is that?

Servant girl: I don't know, it kind of looked like a falcon but it was too small too be one.

Morgana: You mean like a merlin?

Arthur: (pales) Fuck! (stands up) I'm sorry father. I need to go (leaves)

Morgana: Yeah, me too. It was a nice dinner, your majesty (leaves too)

Uther: But you barely touched your plates! (sighs, to servants) Take this away, and make sure you don't cook merlins for dinner next time, for gods' sake.

In Arthur's chambers. Merlin is in his human form crying, while Arthur and Morgana try to comfort him.

Merlin: He was just two years old!😭 He was barely starting living.

Arthur: (hugs him close, patting his back) I'm so sorry, Merlin.

Morgana: (puts a hand on his shoulder) Are you sure is Claws?

Merlin: I'll recognise him anywhere. (snifs) He had just started his first nest with his mate.

Arthur: Wait, he had a partner? 😧

Merlin: And five little eggs. (breaks the hug abruptly) OMG! I need to tell Brownie what happened to Claws!

Arthur: Go, meanwhile I'll talk to the hunters so this never happens again.

Merlin: (smiles) Thank you, Arthur.(kisses him on the cheek) I'll be back as soon as I can. (turns into a bird and goes flying through the window).

Arthur: (in shock with a hand on his cheek) 😳😳

Morgana: I'll try to get Claws' rests, so maybe we can do him a proper funeral when Merlin comes back.

Arthur: (snapping out of his trance) Right, good idea, Morgana. I'll meet you at your chambers in an hour.

Later. Arthur shouting at the hunters.

Arthur: What were you thinking?!😡

Hunter1: (scared) Bu-but, sire. You told us to get rid of it.

Arthur: Yes, but you were supposed to bury him somewhere in the woods, not get him cooked!

Hunter2: We were going to, but the cook saw us and thought it was todays dinner-

Arthur: I don't want to hear your excuses! (threathening) No one must know about this, specially Merlin, this stays between us. Do you understand?

Hunter1: Yes, sire!

Hunter1: Yeah, we won't mention this to your.. uh.. pet.

Arthur: Now, get out of my sight!

Hunters: Yes, sire! (leave)

Morgana: (enters, in disbelieve and furious) I can't believe you!

Arthur: (turns to her, nervous) Oh, hi, Morgana! 😅

Morgana: Don't "hi" me. You killed Claws! You murderer!

Arthur: You're talking like I've just killed a person. He was just a bird.

Morgana: He was not just a bird to Merlin and you know it! Did you think about how devastated he would feel?

Arthur: He was never supposed to know he died, just that he disappeared!

Morgana: yeah, because that's ten times better, isn't it? Are you even hearing yourself?

Arthur: Morgana, stop. I feel bad enough already.

Morgana: As you must! 5 merlin chicks are without a father thanks to your sick jealousy!

Arthur: (Guilty) I didn't know he had a family. (thoughtfully) How do you compensate a female bird for killing the father of her eggs?

Morgana: Don't. She'd probably just take your eyes out.

Arthur: (sighs) Will you tell Merlin?

Morgana: No, that would just crush him more. Your secret is safe with me.

Arthur: (relieved) Thank you.

Morgana: But you better start acting on your feelings for Merlin before you start killing the entire merlin race!

Later at Claws funeral in the royal garden. Morgana puts Claws bones in a box and Arthur buries it while Merlin watches in grieve.

Morgana: I'm sorry I could only save the bones. The servants tend to eat the royal leftovers.

Merlin: It's okay. If he wasn't eaten his dead would've been in vain. (turns to Arthur) Was he delicious?

Arthur: Ahm... yeah?

Merlin: (smiles, sadly) I'm glad. He was a nice friend. He didn't care I wasn't enterily a bird though he didn't quite understand it.

Morgana: Did you know Arthur thought he wanted to mate with you?

Arthur: (flustered) Morgana! 😳

Merlin: Oh, he did propose me to mate with him once.

Arthur: What?!

Merlin: Yeah, he did the most beautiful flying dance I've seen, but I just couldn't see him like that. So we stayed friends. It surprised me a lot, normally merlins just leave after I reject them, but he never stopped hanging out with me, even when he found his mate.

Arthur: What a nice friend (thinking) That flirtatious bastard.

Merlin: Anyways, I need to go now. Brownie needs me to hunt her food since she's incubating her eggs still and can't leave her nest.

Arthur: (guilty again) Right, send her my condolences.

Morgana: Mine too.

Merlin: (kisses Arthur's cheek again and leaves in his bird form).

Morgana: Well, that went well.

Arthur: Morgana.

Morgana: Yeah?

Arthur: I need to learn how to fly.

[mossy-rock-in-a-field]

My Elderly Mother Plays Baldur's Gate: Part 4

If you're not up to date on the saga, my mom is having me play Baldur's Gate 3 on her behalf because she has trouble using controllers/keyboards but still wants to "smooch the wizard boy." She is playing a neutral good wood elf druid; this is a detailed account of her crimes. Part 1 & 2 Part 3

Hey, everybody! Thanks to everyone who followed my blog to keep up with my mom's adventures. Also, shout-out to whoever called my mom "Crime Mom" last time I posted about this; she really got a kick out of that. We played for a full day yesterday so we could really get into Act III and make some progress.

Here are the atrocities she committed during yesterday's play session:

My mom is very pissed that she cannot keep Myshka the white cat. When she found Myshka, she told him that she was his mother because of course she did. Naturally, Myshka started following her around the city after that, and she was SO thrilled about it. However, when we went back to camp to trade out a companion and immediately came back to the city, the cat wasn't following her anymore, and my mom was so fucking upset. ("That boy thinks I'm his mother and I LEFT HIM! Why can't I take my son back to my camp with us?") My mom told me to tell my "tumblr friends" that Myshka should be able to join our camp like Scratch and the owlbear cub. So, if any of you guys are from Larian—take notes, I guess. My mother demands a cat son.

Upon seeing Mystra for the first time in the Stormshore Tabernacle cutscene, my mom immediately said in the bitterest voice imaginable, "I'm prettier than her." She is, of course, right. Fuck Mystra, all my homies hate Mystra.

When we found the Hag Survivors Group, my mom asked me if she could try combat for the first time, and she actually started to get the hang of it. ("Left bumper, mom. No, that's the trigger. BUMPER. Other left. There you go.") However, she didn't fully understand what "area of effect" meant and decided to cast Fireball ("Ooh, I've always wanted to use that one!") in an enclosed space before I could stop her. She instantly incinerated Mayrina, the floorboards, and the paladin, Adrielle. I was so fucking proud of her but also laughing so hard I was nearly in tears. She had me reload the save for her.

My mom returned the stolen money to the Counting House's head banker, then asked me to rob the rest of the building on our way out. When I asked her about the logic of this particular decision, she said, "We're saving the city from mind flayers, so these funds are really going back into the local economy when you think about it. We're a great cause!" I have no idea why she didn't just keep the stolen pouch of money in the first place. We wasted so many scrolls and Arrows of Transposition to get everything out of those vaults.

She was FURIOUS when she found out Auntie Ethel wasn't actually dead. My dad called in the middle of the day to check in on dinner plans and mom kept him on the phone for at least ten minutes while she ranted about hags who "should stay dead when they're told to."

My mom adores Jaheira. The two of them are very similar to each other, so I think she gets a kick out of seeing Camp Mom do Camp Mom things that she would do if she were actually in the game. My mom also loves Minsc and Boo. TASTE.

Don't know how soon my mother will come back for another play session, but I'll keep you guys updated whenever I can! She has already asked me if I would DM a D&D session for her retired friends, so I'm trying to find time to do that. Maybe I'll do some updates on that if we get it going.

Thank for everyone's support! Crime Mom and I appreciate it.

[gadriezmannsgirl]

I have this idea for a fic and you are the very best to write it🥰.

Sports journalist reader and Pedri being in a private but no secret relationship, she is ok with it until people start commenting that Pedri surely wants to keep her private bc he wants to keep his image of being single and linked with ig models, and maybe it gets worse whe he fucks it up with a public comment along the lines of him not being in a relationship and she is like "ya basta de estupideces" and we get drama. Here I don't know what could happen but it ends with our beloved reader doing the post match interview with the players, when it's Pedri's turn they do the questions as normal but at the end he knows the mic is on and he says something like: "me esperas para llevarte a casa amor?".

It's Enough -P.G8

Summary: You're tired of people assuming things that are not true while your boyfriend shuts them up

You loved your work, you loved being a sports journalist, you were happy when you got the job at Sport and you loved being able to make people see a different point of view from what other journalist do, make players feel comfortable around you and ask them different questions than: "How was the rival team? Any thoughts on winning a certain trophy this year?"

And that's how you met and eventually make Pedri, your ten months boyfriend, fall in love with you, you being yourself even while working.

You had let people known you were in a relationship together two months ago and while everybody knew that, you both liked your privacy and you both tended to keep things on the low. And mostly, Pedri.

Everything has been great, both of you understanding each other, talking of anything, making time to be together, rarely fought but this one... it was the biggest one, you could ever have.

"I'm sorry"

"You really just think a simple sorry will cut it? I have my best friends asking me if you take this relationship seriously! My mom's calling me like crazy because she saw the video and my co-workers are sending me <<I'm sorry>> kind of texts, my brother wants to hit you in the face and I would gladly let him!" You shook your head "Why did you do that?!"

How on earth will he say "I'm not seeing anyone at the moment" when he clearly has you?!

"Y/N, amor-" You cut him off

"Comments about you with other girls have been going on and on lately, I honestly don't care about them, I know you and I know you wouldn't do that but then, you went ahead and said that shit that sent everyone into madness, it makes me rethink of everything I thought I knew about you once!" You admit with tears at the verge of falling "Did you lie to me? Do you really love me? Or you want me just to keep you company at nights?"

"Hey, no. Please, don't think that" Pedro shook his head "I've never lied to you, I'm in love with you, you are the girl of my dreams and the love of my life"

"Si lo soy, entonces ¿Por qué carajos dijiste eso?" (If so, then why the hell you said that?) Your voice broke lightly and the first tear fell down "You just embarrassed me in front of everyone, Pedri. There's nothing you can do to take it back, people think I'm good with open relationships, with you cheating, people are saying that you are hiding our relationship because you're embarrassed of me, people are saying you broke up with me just because you had what you wanted, people are saying shit about us, about me and it's all thanks to you"

"No, I didn't wanted that. I didn't- I'm not ashamed of us, of you, I just wanted to protect you, I-"

Your phone ringing interrupted him, you looked down at your hand and your boss's name flashed across the screen, you sighed in fear. You were news and bad ones.

"I gotta answer this"

"Please, amor-"

"Don't call me that, Pedro. In fact, don't call me, don't text me, don't even look at me, nothing at all because if you do I will do something I will later regret on"

"Like what?" He asked softly

"Like breaking up with you" You said strongly looking at him "I really can't bear with you right now, Pedro. We'll talk later" You shook your head and answered the phone going upstairs

Pedri felt like crying.

He knew he screwed up the second those words came out of his mouth, but it was as his body just blurted them out before his mind could process it. He just wanted to keep you safe.

But what a way of doing so, right?

He tried to do something else to shift his attention to the small office he set up for you at his house like washing the dishes, play some NBA, laundry and eventually get ready for his match.

He went upstairs with the intention of going straight into his room but his body tricked him and he ended up at your office, his heart breaking up when he heard you sniffing while speaking to your boss.

"You're giving us bad reputation with those news, Y/N" He heard your boss say

"I know, sir; my apologies" You said "He must have been really tired, you know he isn't like that"

"Whatever it was, it's done"

Pedri closed his eyes, his hand on top of the doorknob ready to come in and defend you but his phone interrupted him

Tiburón🦈

"Ya vamos a empezar a calentar. ¿Dónde estás?" (We're starting the warm up. Where are you?)

He sighed and went to your chat: "I love you, always have and always will. I'm truly sorry about everything, my love. But I'll make it up for you, I swear to God"

And leaving a kiss on the door, he left the house quickly, his body was on his way to Lluís Companys but his mind and soul stayed with you at his house.

You sighed, coming out of the shower. You had to go to Barcelona's match because you were scheduled for tonight's interviews, looking at the watch on the wall, you saw you were a bit early but still needed to go so you could make it on time.

You weren't in the mood for anything today. From being called names, to have all of your contacts worried about you and your relationship, to have your boss onto your neck wanting for you to dissolve any rumor but won't even knowing how to do so.

You wanted to simply disappear but you never had powers back in high school and you won't grow powers now being an adult. So the only thing you did was buckle your pants up and act as if nothing was affecting you.

Calling a cab, you went to Lluís Companys and with the help of Aaron, the cameraman you started the reportage in which ended up with Barcelona being the winner. 2-0. Both goals from Pedri.

Both goals that were dedicated to you.

Your heart beating incredibly fast at the gesture of your boyfriend who changed his glasses celebration for your name on a personalized Barcelona jersey, still with the 8 number

"Te quiero" he had said before giving the jersey to one member of the staff and return the game.

You felt extremely proud knowing he was the MVP however your happiness slowly turned sour because as he was the MVP of the match you had to interview him, you wanted it or not and you weren't ready to face Pedri yet.

"Buenas noches, Pedri" You said with a small smile, professionalism running through you

"Buenas noches" (Good night) He said softly

"Vamos a ser un poquito rápidos que sabemos que tienes que irte... Enhorabuena por la victoria de esta noche" (Congrats on the win tonight) ", 2-0 against Getafe How do you feel?"

"Well... Good. We played very well, we had control, we managed to knock the rival mostly from the sidelines, we knew we had to be strong since Getafe is a great team as well. And well, it was a very good game which we won and now to focus on the next game"

"Both goals from you with amazing assists of Fermin and Raphinha. They were amazing, by the way"

"Gracias"

"And you are the MVP for tonight's match. Congratulations as well with that, Pedri. How do you feel about that?"

"Good, good. It feels amazing, my goal is to score more and make more assists this season and hopefully I'll be able to help the team in any way I can"

"That's good to hear, Pedri. Once again, congratulations. Have a good night!" You said quickly wanting to get over with everything. "¿Lo agarraste?" (Did you got that?) You ask Aaron who nods and goes to show you a bit of the footage.

"Amor, ¿me esperas para que vayamos a casa?" (Babe, you wait for me so we can go home?) You heard Pedri asks "Por cierto, esto es para ti" (By the way, this is for you) He hands you the jersey

"What? Why?" You receive the jersey looking at it

"I'm dedicating goals to my one and only girl, is it bad?" And as much as you wanted to refuse a smile slowly came up to your face. You shake your head softly coming over to him to hug him "Te amo" (Love you) He said "And I'm sorry" You smiled and kissed his lips before kissing his sweaty, dirty but rosy cheek

"Don't do it again please" You whispered watching his big brown and beautiful eyes

"Never. You're my girlfriend, I'm in love with you and I see the rest of my life with you by my side, amor" He whispered back before pecking your lips softly "Entonces... ¿Me esperas? Voy a bañarme y a cambiarme rápido para que vayamos a casa y descansemos" (So... You wait for me? I'll shower and change really quick so we can go home and rest) You nod softly

"Better be quick, I really want to go home" You smiled untangling yourself from him

"I'm off right now"

"Y/N..." Aaron called you softly with a panicked look to his face

"What?"

"Football players mic was on and that was live" You open your mouth in shock, troubles keep coming at you.

"Don't mind" Pedri said "Let everyone know I'm taken by the best girl ever" You looked at him and he winked at you squeezing your hand.

What a sneaky boy he was.

°°° °°° °°° °°°

Taglist: @gaviymarcsbride @stuckinaf4nfiction @elijahslover @azzpenswrld @http-isabela

[wheels-of-despair]

Heaven and Hell (Or: Eddie and Evil Woman Do… Prom?!) Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie and Evil Woman are *checks notes* going to prom? Like normies?! Contains: A high school prom, two nervous freaks, an ill-fitting wardrobe, an unfortunate zit, dancing, references to other E/EW fics nobody will remember, relentless teasing, a happy ending. Words: 4.5k

"Prom's next month."

You stop playing with Eddie's hair and look down at the head lying in your lap in surprise.

He keeps his eyes on the TV. A blush creeps into his cheeks. Is Eddie Munson seriously thinking about going to prom? You fight a smile and start working your fingers through his hair again.

"Yup… that's what they said on the morning announcements."

Silence. No way he's that interested in the orange juice commercial you've seen ten times today. Eddie Munson is thinking about prom, and he's in the process of chickening out.

"You ever been?" you ask.

"Nah," he says, eyes still on the TV. "You?"

"Nah."

He bites his lip. You can't take it anymore.

"You thinkin' about going?"

He shrugs.

If you were a more patient person, you could poke and prod at him until he finally asked you. However…

"Well, if you were planning on asking me, you're too late."

He finally looks up at you, confusion on his face.

"I've rekindled my romance with Chief Hopper."

A smile spreads across Eddie's face.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," you sigh. "What we had was fun, but you just don't have the stamina. Sometimes a girl just NEEDS full night of porking."

You both snort at the same time, which leads to a fit of giggles.

When you recover, you brush his bangs out of his face. He sighs.

"So, uh…" He licks his lips while he tries to find his words. "If the bacon falls through, would you maybe think about going with me?"

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off. "Because it's kinda my last chance, and I know it's stupid, and it goes against everything I stand for, and it'll probably be miserable, and the music's gonna suck, and you probably have a way better idea of what we could do that night, but… ugh, never mind."

Eddie turns back toward the TV, shaking his head so some of his hair hides his burning face. You gently brush it back behind his ear, looking down at him with all the love in your heart.

"Eddie?"

"Hm."

"You're the only person I'd think about going to prom with."

"Really?" He looks up at you with an uneasy smile.

"Yeah," you answer, tracing the shell of his ear.

"We don't have to."

"I know," you smile. "I want to go with you." He smiles back sleepily. "But if I get Carrie'd, I can't promise I'll spare you."

"Kay," he chuckles.

"Mother?" you ask, hovering in the living room doorway.

"Daughter?" she responds from the couch, without looking up from her book.

You take a deep breath and stare at the floor.

"Ineedapromdress."

"What?"

You sigh and raise your head. "I need a prom dress."

Her book drops to her lap, revealing wide eyes behind her glasses.

"What did you just say to me?"

"I need a prom dress," you repeat with a roll of your eyes.

"Oh my god! I have a child who's voluntarily attending a school function!"

"What's up?" Gareth asks from behind you.

"They're going to the prom!"

You slowly turn and see him looking at you in amusement.

"Shut up," you order before he can even say anything.

"She's even gonna wear a dress!" your mother shrieks.

"Shut up," you repeat, glaring at Gareth's stupid smirky face. "Kay, I'm going to bed, open to shopping suggestions and financial contributions, good night."

You squeeze past him and make a mad dash for your room.

"They're all gonna laugh at you!" Gareth warbles in his best Piper Laurie impression.

"Shut up!" you repeat one last time, then slam your bedroom door.

"He's heeeere," Gareth announces as he passes by your bedroom door.

"You look perfect," your mom assures you.

She's been working on your makeup for fifteen minutes, and it's finally the way she wants it. And you have to admit… you look pretty damn good.

She'd taken you to the city for a day of shopping, and after several hours of hunting, you'd actually found a dress without puffed sleeves, ruffles, or tulle.

"Give me a minute, I want the camera on his face when he sees you," your mom says excitedly.

"Mother, it's a high school prom, it's not our wedding."

"Let me have this!" she whisper-yells. She grabs her camera and leaves the room.

You take one last look at yourself, stand, and slip on your shoes. Heels. You're even wearing fucking heels.

You walk down the hall and turn into the kitchen…

Eddie Munson is wearing a suit.

You'd offered to help him look for one, or find him something in the city, but he said he had it covered. And he did. He's even wearing a tie, and he's tamed his hair somehow. He looks freakishly presentable (for Eddie) and is holding what you imagine is a corsage in a box.

"Hi."

"Hey."

You stand there and stare at each other. Awkward. It's awkward.

"Eddie! Give her the corsage!" Your mom stage-whispers.

He tries to hold it out to you, but fumbles it and drops it on the floor. You both reach down to get it, and you hear a RIIIP tear through the kitchen. You both stand immediately, looking and feeling your outfits.

"Was that you or me?" you ask, trying to feel the back of your dress. You knew this fucker was too tight. But your question is answered when all the blood drains out of Eddie's panicked face.

"Let me see, honey," your mom says gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him. The seam in the back of his jacket has ripped.

"Dude! You Hulked out on prom night," Gareth laughs from his seat at the kitchen table.

You give him a warning shush, and for once, he obeys.

"Slip that off, I'll have it as good as new in no time." Your mom helps Eddie out of his jacket and takes it in the direction of her sewing machine. You carefully retrieve the corsage from the floor and put it on the table.

"Uh… that's for you," he mumbles, the color returning to his face.

"Thank you," you smile, leaving the box closed until your mother can return and witness this sacred and not-at-all stupid prom ritual.

You turn to Eddie and lift a hand to run through his suspiciously tame hair.

"Don't look at it," Eddie mumbles.

"Don't look at what?" you ask.

"His third eye," Gareth supplies helpfully. That's when you notice the zit between his eyes. Eddie's face reddens so much that it almost blends in. Gareth snickers. You pick up a damp kitchen towel, ball it up, and throw it at him. It hits him in the ear.

"Don't you have some place to be?" you ask pointedly.

"Nope," he grins, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Mom's taking me to Jeff's after you leave."

You roll your eyes, reach for Eddie's hand, and pull him to your bedroom.

"Sit," you instruct, pointing at your desk. He drops into the chair with a defeated sigh. You start digging through your extremely elegant shoebox full of makeup, then realize what you need. "I'll be right back," you whisper with a kiss to the top of his head.

You return with a cotton ball.

"What's that?"

"Wite-Out. My make-up's too dark for you," you joke.

Eddie's brow furrows, and you apply a dab of peroxide to his unfortunate growth. When it dries, you reach for the concealer.

"What are you doing?" he asks nervously.

"Covering that up."

He sits silently and watches you reach for this and that to cover his bump, and when you stand back and smile, he frowns.

"What's wrong?" you ask. "I can wipe it off if you want, I thought you wanted it gone."

"I feel like a clown," he grumbles.

"You are a clown."

He pouts. You point at the mirror, and he leans over to see his camouflage… and his jaw drops. You lean down until your head is next to his, so you can see what he sees.

"Witchcraft," he whispers.

"You know it, babe," you wink.

"One freshly tailored suit jacket for the young lad," your mom announces as she steps into the room. Eddie stands, and she helps him into it. She brushes her hand along the seam. "Good as new!" she declares. "But no break-dancing tonight." Eddie laughs.

After the official corsage and boutonniere exchange in the kitchen, you're marched into the living room for pictures. Each pose is goofier than the last, but you aren't allowed to leave until your mom finishes off a roll of film.

You both breathe a sigh of relief when the van doors slam shut.

"You still wanna do this, or do you wanna go get blazed and hide out at my place?" Eddie asks, probably about 40% joking.

"What time is it?" you ask. Eddie consults his watch and reads the time back to you. You pretend to consider it for a second, then shake your head. "Chief Hopper is expecting me in 15 minutes, and my little piggy does not like to be kept waiting."

Eddie snorts and starts the engine. Hawkins High Prom 1986 it is.

"Where'd you get your suit?" you ask a few minutes into the surprisingly awkward drive.

"George. The thrift shop guy. Told him I needed something prom-worthy. This was his grandson's. 'He's a lanky thing, just like you,' he said."

"It's nice," you admire.

"It's a little small, but… y'know." Eddie shrugs. "Price was right."

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"It's… a little tight," he admits.

"Baby, you don't have to wear stuff if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It's fine… as long as I don't have to move my arms much."

"Is it the shirt too, or just the jacket?"

"Mostly the jacket, the shirt's got some stretch to it."

"Ditch it."

"Ticket says jacket and tie required."

"Ditch it as soon as they let us in."

"This is why you're the brains of this operation," he mumbles as he pulls into a parking spot.

"Correct," you grin.

"Stay," Eddie orders, hopping down and scrambling around the front of the van to open your door. You're suddenly reminded of your first official date; he'd tried so hard to be someone else, but you didn't want someone else. You wanted Eddie Munson, and you wanted him just the way he was. You take his hand and slide to the ground, wincing as your heels hit the pavement.

"Is your battle armor in here?" you ask, nodding toward the back.

"Of course."

"Fetch."

Eddie smirks and walks toward the back, and you shut your door and follow him. He grabs his leather jacket and patch-filled vest, and hugs the pair to his chest.

You reach for them, and he hands them over. You separate the pair while he watches nervously, like you're separating conjoined twins that he personally gave birth to.

"Lose the child-sized suit jacket," you instruct. He tries, but gets stuck almost immediately. You muffle a laugh and step behind him to help him out of it, then slide his plain leather jacket on.

He looks more comfortable already. And considerably more Eddie-like. You go to transfer his boutonniere to his jacket pocket… but he doesn't have one. A bit of quick thinking and one rip later, his dumb little flower is attached with a strip of duct tape. You step back to admire him.

"There he is," you smile.

"Now he's gotta find his girl," Eddie says, "and then they can go do this damn prom thing."

You look down at your outfit and back at him, but he's already digging… through your overnight bag?

"Eddie, what--"

He cuts you off by slapping the soles of your favorite sneakers on the floor of his van.

"You've been wincing with every damn step since you walked into the kitchen. Lose the shoes."

You grin and sit down to swap your heels for sneakers. Sneakers that Eddie vandalized during a particularly boring assembly. It was one of the reasons why they were your favorites; the boy's a ballpoint artist. The other was--oh, that's nice. You stand comfortably and breathe a sigh of relief.

"You want a little liquid courage?" Eddie asks, shaking a bottle of liquor at you.

"Sure," you answer. You each take a swig in hopes of making your night a little more bearable. Eddie stashes the bottle in the van and slams the back doors shut.

"M'lady," he says, offering an arm. You take it, and walk toward the Hawkins High gym doors. Any time now, alcohol.

A cheerleader-in-training eyes you warily, but takes your tickets and lets you pass by her table into the gym… decked out in streamers and balloons. Wicked classy, Hawkins High.

"And you say I never take you anywhere nice," Eddie grins.

"I have literally, not once, ever said that."

Eddie laughs and takes your hand.

"Munson?!" a voice shrieks.

"Yeah?" he asks uneasily, turning to see Mrs. O'Donnell.

"What are you doing here?"

You look at each other, and back at her.

"Whatever people usually do at prom, I guess?"

"I'll have no shenanigans from you tonight, Munson."

"Wouldn't dream of it, O'Donnell."

"Don't even think about going near that punch bowl," she warns.

"Why, what's in the punch bowl?" he asks. You try to keep a straight face.

"Just punch, and that's the way it's going to stay. Isn't that right, Mr. Munson?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says innocently.

Mrs. O'Donnell looks you both up and down, sucks her teeth in disapproval, and walks away without another word.

"Like I'd waste good liquor on these ungrateful assholes," he mumbles. "Do have an emergency flask in my pocket, by the way."

"Aww, and I thought you were just happy to see me."

"That's in the other pocket," he winks.

"C'mon," you laugh, pulling him to the other side of the gym. Once you're in a quiet spot, you scan the room for familiar faces. You knew you were pretty much on your own - all of the other Hellfire boys were having a movie marathon and sleepover at Jeff's - but you thought you'd look for potential allies anyway.

"There's Nancy Wheeler," you notice.

"And the Elder Byers," Eddie points out.

"I think we're on our own, babe."

"Just how I like it," he grins.

"You gonna dance with me, or just stand here lookin' pretty all night?" you ask.

Eddie responds by flipping his hair over his shoulder dramatically.

"C'mon," you smile, nodding toward the dance floor. He balks.

"This song sucks."

"Every song's gonna suck," you remind him.

"This one sucks more than average."

"Then how 'bout we visit the snack table and lay a curse on the punch while we wait for something that sucks slightly less?"

"This way, m'lady," he says nerdily, holding out his arm. You roll your eyes and take it anyway, working together to assemble a plate full of cheap snacks and two cups of unspiked punch. You retreat to the bleachers and pick at your bounty.

"So… this is a high school dance," he remarks.

"Yup… imagine, some people's entire high school careers revolve around this thing."

"I'd kinda rather be at home," he confesses.

"In our pajamas," you add.

"Watching shitty movies," he continues.

"Eating shittier pizza."

"Maybe fooling around a little?" He waggles his eyebrows and tilts his head toward the door.

"We went through a lot of trouble to get here, Edward. I went shopping. With my mother. You put on a suit. And a tie. And grew a stress zit."

"Shut up," he grumbles, hand instinctively touching the bump between his eyes. You lean in to kiss his cheek.

"Let's give it an hour. You've gotta dance with me at least once."

"Fine," he pouts. You feed him crackers, and he starts to relax a little.

When the opening chords of "Footloose" blare through the speakers, Eddie cringes. The people on the dance floor go wild.

"C'mon," you order, standing up and reaching for his hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Eddie Munson, you get your spastic ass on this dance floor with your dumb-ass classmates right now."

He whines, and looks… nervous? You sit back down, face full of concern. He scans the crowd, and you look too. Eyes keep darting to you. Not outright staring. Just keeping an eye on you. Like your whereabouts are a matter of public safety. You've been so focused on Eddie, you haven't bothered to pay attention to everyone else.

"It's just…" he starts, and then stops.

"Eddie?" you ask quietly, turning your head back to him. "This is our prom, too." You slide a little closer to him and hold his hand. "And I'm glad I'm here with you."

Eddie leans his forehead against yours and squeezes your hand.

"You think they're upset that we had the nerve to show up?" you smirk.

"Probably ruined their whole night," he grins. "Dear Diary, the freaks crashed prom."

"And ate all the fucking snacks," you laugh.

A flash makes you both jump.

"Sorry," Jonathan Byers smiles apologetically from behind his camera. "You guys were being cute, and Nancy demanded a photo for the yearbook."

"It's cool, man," Eddie grins. "Can we get a copy of that?"

"Sure," Jonathan nods. "They hired a professional photographer for portraits, by the way. Over in the corner. It's included in the ticket price."

"Cool," Eddie says.

"Anddd Nancy's waving me back," Jonathan groans. "You guys have fun tonight. At least some of the freaks should."

You and Eddie both chuckle as Jonathan goes back to Nancy for his next assignment, hearts in his eyes completely undermining his complaints.

"Well…" Eddie puffs his cheeks and blows out a breath of air. He's experienced all that prom has to offer, and is clearly not impressed.

"One picture, one dance, and we're the fuck outta here," you propose.

"Deal," he agrees.

You walk, hand-in-hand, over to the photographer's corner and get in line behind three other couples. Well, two. Kimmy Little sees you standing in line behind her, and drags her date off in the other direction. You and Eddie share a knowing look, but say nothing.

When the time comes, the photographer instructs you to assume the traditional prom photo position, and you do. You let Eddie hold you around the waist and smile like a total fucking jackass for several seconds while you wait for the flash. You and Eddie stumble away with spotty vision and hands tightly clasped. He's your lifeline, and you're not letting him go.

When your vision returns, you look from the bleachers to the exit. Is it really worth walking all the way back over there to sit and be bored, when you could just leave and have this lame night be over with?

Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" starts playing through the gym's shitty speakers, and you smile. You're a sucker for this one. Eddie looks at you with dread. He knows what's coming.

Silently, you slip backward into the crowd and pull him with you. He doesn't protest this time. He follows, eyes not leaving yours. The crowd must have parted for you. Perhaps there are advantages to loving the resident freak. You stand close and put his hands where they belong, and then yours. You stare into Eddie Munson's eyes and sway slowly to a song he tolerates, only for you.

You're glad you came. You're glad you're with him. You're glad this is the song you got to dance to. You're glad he made you swap your heels for sneakers.

But mostly, you're glad when the song is over, because you come together for a quick kiss and make a mad dash toward the exit.

"You son of a bitch," Eddie growls, trying to force his suit onto a hanger.

"Leave it, gremlin, I'll do it."

"Thank you," Eddie grins, throwing his suit on the bed and kissing your freshly scrubbed cheek. You'd washed off all your makeup and hair products together, had a little fun in the shower, put on pajamas, and smoked a joint to wind down. You were thrilled to look and feel like yourselves again. "I'm gonna go pop a pizza in the oven. Put something good on, I need to cleanse my poor ears of the top 40 garbage they were subjected to tonight."

"Yes, dear," you deadpan, hanging up your dress as he exits the room.

"Music!" he whines from the hallway.

"FINE!" you yell back. You pop in the first mix tape you find and turn up the volume. You force Eddie's suit on a hanger, put the formal-wear in the hall closet, and join him in the kitchen.

He's sitting on the counter, watching the clock and drinking directly out of a nearly empty two-liter pop bottle.

"You really know how to treat a girl," you smirk.

He burps in response.

You feel like you should roll your eyes or pretend to be annoyed, but you're so in love with this fucker, you find every dumb thing he does to be charming. You lean on the counter next to him, and he hands you the bottle. You take a swig, then pretend it's a microphone.

"I'm here with Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin, who has just been to his first and last school dance! Tell us, Eddie, how was the Hawkins High prom?" you ask, placing the open bottle by his mouth.

"Sucked dick, thanks for asking!"

"It did not suck dick!" you protest, slamming the bottle on the counter with a slosh.

"It sucked some pretty major dick," he argues.

"You got to spend time with the woman you love! In a formal setting! She wore a damn dress for you!"

"I like her better in pajamas."

"Only because I'm not wearing a bra," you scoff.

"Well… I mean, yeah," he says, hopping off the counter and taking your hands in his. "Don't get me wrong, the dress was great. Have deposited the cleavage situation in the spank bank, so thanks for that. But this is just… better. 'Cause this is us."

When you're right, you're right.

The opening chords of Black Sabbath's "Heaven and Hell" play through Eddie's bedroom speakers, and a wave of appreciation for where you are and who you're with washes over you.

"No bowtie-wearing jocks or frilly little bitches staring at us," you smile, sliding your hands to his shoulders and pulling him close.

"No restrictive clothing," he smirks, letting his eyes linger on your chest as he settles his hands on your waist.

"Eyes are up here, Munson," you remind him as you begin to sway subtly.

He looks up and grins. "Those are pretty okay, too, I guess."

You smack him in the chest, and he laughs.. and then his face falls.

"You tricked me," he accuses.

"How did I trick you?"

"This is our second dance!"

"Yes, but its to our music, so it's counteracting the pop-adjacent one at the actual dance."

"Ugh, fine," he pretends to cave with a roll of his eyes.

You keep dancing until the song starts to pick up, and Eddie looks at you with his eyes full of mischief. He starts moving just a little faster from side to side, swaying with the music as it builds. Before you know it, those spastic moves you tried to coax out of him at prom were coming out in his kitchen. You would have been perfectly satisfied to just watch him dance like a dweeb, but he grabs both of your hands and forces you to join him. You do so happily.

You dance, you spin, and you laugh together in the Munson's kitchen to a mixtape of Eddie's own making. It's the most fun you've had in weeks. Why did you spend so long stressing over prom? Prom was nothing. Prom was a bunch of rich kids in tacky, overpriced clothes that you'd be laughing at in twenty years. This is real. This is what you should be living for.

When the song begins to wind down, you and Eddie are nearly out of breath from all the head-banging and jumping around. The slow dancing resumes without complaint.

"I think this is the Heaven part," you observe.

"Huh?"

"Heaven and Hell," you say, looking up into his beautiful red face. His bangs are stuck to his sweaty forehead. His zit has lessened in intensity after a post-shower application of peroxide. His eyes are big and round and curious. This boy is perfect, and he's all yours. "Prom was Hell. Other people are Hell. This, right here? Me and you? This is the Heaven part."

Eddie's eyes crinkle as he smiles. He pulls you in close and crushes you in a hug. You squeeze him back and breathe in the calming, familiar scent of him. You love this boy more than anything.

"I love you," you mumble into his shoulder.

"I love you too," he responds. "Even if you did make me go to prom."

"This was your idea, fool," you laugh, giving him a backwards shove.

"Not how I remember it," he grins. He laces his fingers and holds them under his chin, bats his eyelashes, and continues in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like you: "'Oh Eddie my love, please, won't you take me to prom? It would be the highlight of my life!' Pretty sure you begged. Groveled, even."

"You are insufferable," you laugh, pushing him away from you.

"You're the one who made me go to prom!"

"You know, Munson, according to the pamphlets that everyone's been throwing at me all week, most teenagers have sex on prom night. But I think you're gonna have to get your ass kicked instead. C'mere."

"No!" he yelps, backing into a corner. "Please! I have children!"

"We don't have to share our pizza with them, do we?" you laugh, too lazy to engage in a play-fight with him.

"Pfft. No." He relaxes. "I wouldn't even share with you if I didn't have to."

Your jaw drops.

"I'm kidding!" he insists, coming forward to envelop you in a hug. You go rigid and refuse to hug him back. "I'm kidding. You know I'd save my last Fudge Round for you."

"Oh, really?" you smile, looking up at him.

"Eh… Nutty Buddy, maybe?" He screws up his face in concentration. "Nah. Oatmeal Creme Pie?"

"You are unbelievable," you scoff with a shake of your head.

"You love me anyway."

"Yeah, I guess," you sigh in defeat. "But please don't tell Chief Hopper. It would break his heart."

"Oh my God," Eddie groans, pushing you away and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

You cackle, and the oven timer dings.

This is definitely Heaven, but you've still gotta give him a little Hell.

[simpforpeterp]

lucifer morningstar x oc

ONLY ANGEL

summary: A story in which the King of Hell falls in love with a fallen angel who became the most powerful overlord in Hell, the owner of millions of souls, in less than a year. (She obtained them all on accident) (Yes, she accidentally became the most powerful overlord in Hell)

warnings: no specific warnings other than the fact that it's hazbin so (hopefully?) you know what you're getting yourself into

word count: 2.7k

author's note: this is the first chapter of ten uploaded on ao3 and wattpad so far!!!! if you like this chapter please go read the rest on there or ask and i can upload more chapters on here!! :)

Chapter 1: The Fall

no one warns you before the fall

"So," Lucifer began his voice a low murmur, placing his hand on his forehead. "Do you wanna tell me your deal? I've gone through hell and back, pun intended, to track you down."

  "Are you implying I owe you an explanation? Because if that's the case, honesty is key here, right?" She smiles.

  "I- maybe? You know what, sure. Let's run with that," He lets out a dry chuckle. "Spill it, sister. How...how did you become a fallen angel?"

  "This is stupid."

  "It's not stupid, I know that better than anyone." He tries.

  "No, no, no, I don't mean it like I'm ashamed to tell you. I mean...how it happened. I'm fully aware of how stupid this is about to sound but everything that's happened to me, how I got here and became one of the most powerful people in hell within months...it was a complete accident. A series of unforeseen accidents." She tells him, leaning back further in her chair.

  "Are you bullshitting me?"

  "No, okay, listen. I'm not gonna go at this saying I'm completely innocent. Did I sneak into Earth multiple times and do a lot of horrible things like drugs, become the lead singer in one of the biggest bands in existence, and live multiple lifetimes over the decades on Earth? Yes. But that's surprisingly not what got me kicked out. But it did get me 100 hours of heaven's version of court-mandated community service. I had to lead tours of the biggest museum in Heaven. The Museum of Other Religions."

-

  "And here on your left, you'll see a pair of horns from a real-life minotaur. This museum was built centuries ago to show amazing things from our neighbors. With the rule that you have to have at least three people to form a religion, a lot of religions have formed, a lot of them with an afterlife similar to ours. We share these skies with hundreds of others! Even...some bullshit like religions like those who follow the Sonic Bible. Yes, the Hedgehog. And that leads us to...ten golden rings." She sighs, absolutely tired of this work.

  "What's that?" A child points to a large Norse weapon.

  "That's a spear. It looks like a cane, but it's a spear. This famous weapon actually has a name. Gungir is the famous spear of Odin, the King of Asgardian Gods. Actually-" She starts before a loud noise starts next door. It's only her second month of volunteering, she's never heard anything like that.

  "What is that?" A concerned mother asks.

  "Ah...I'm not entirely sure. Everyone, please wait here, I'll go check it out." She says, awkwardly scooting away from the tour group until she reaches the door.

  The air reverberated with deafening screeches, assaulting her ears as she stumbled upon the source of the commotion. A putrid stench, like sulfur mixed with decay, took over her senses, causing bile to rise in her throat.

  The building next door has always had no name and no one was ever allowed in there except for very special people. So, entering the alley between the two buildings probably wasn't a good idea but that's where the noise was coming from.

  That's when she sees a big glowing portal. With a perfect view of hell and angels who definitely do not belong there. Angels who were doing something they shouldn't have been. She shuts the door to the alley and stumbles backwards quickly. A conveniently placed rock causes her to fall backwards, still trying to back away as the portal radiates heat.

  "Watching these stupid fucks die never gets old!" Adam laughs as he watches other angels do their killing. He steps backwards into the portal, watching proudly. That stupid son of a bitch.

  She tries her best to be quiet, not letting him hear even a breath. He sighs and begins to walk into the adjacent building before turning back around and seeing the other angel on the floor, a look of horror on her face.

  "Of course, my fucking luck. Listen here, you little bitch. What you saw? Never happened. Got it? 'Kay, thanks! Bye!" He throws a smoke bomb on the floor, filling her lungs and making her cough relentlessly.

  It leaves a hollow feeling in her chest as she tries to hit it out of her lungs with her wrist. The portal is gone when the smoke clears up. Well, mostly. The thick black smoke is slowly rising, just barely out of her face.

  "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" The head Seraphim comes out from the museum.

  "Oh, f- my group. I'll head back in n-"

  "Christy took your group. You're coming with me." Sera says coldly before leading the way to the heavenly court.

  They appear there within seconds. The room is almost empty. Just Sera, Emily, and a few others who are usually involved in the proceedings. And it's horrifying. It's a known fact, a joke in Heaven, about how the only other time this room was like this was when Lucifer fell.

  "L-look, if this is about Lute, she only hates me because I tried to tell her to stop yelling at the first graders whenever she passes by." The Angel tries to deflect.

  "I have heard much about you, Eleanor." Sera begins.

  "Really? That's- that's uh- really dedicated," She clears her throat awkwardly. "You can call me Ellie though."

  "Eleanor, we have let a lot of things slide with you. You've broken over fifty cardinal rules. We've only punished you for five. We thought your volunteer work would help you but then I find you away from your group, smoking in the alley?"

  "Woah, woah, woah, smoking? Me? I haven't smoked since the sixties!" She puts her hands up in defense before mumbling. "Cigarettes, anyway."

  The people in the room begin whispering and it's overwhelming.

  "Look, please, you've gotta believe me. I know I've messed up in the past but I can explain myself. I was with my group, okay? And then we heard this noise and I decided to go check it out and it was horrible! I saw this big portal and- and- it was to Hell!" She starts frantically explaining before everyone's faces change quickly. "Angels were there, they were killing those poor souls in hell! Adam! You were there, you saw it." She points to the man sitting.

  "Huh? Oh, yeah, I don't know what you're talking about." He shrugs.

  "What? No- but I saw it! I was there, I know it was Hell and I know they were killing sinners. They were wielding angelic weapons and- and-" She tries.

  "Enough," Sera holds her hand up and everything falls silent. "The court stands firm in this decision, you were supposed to stay with your tour group, you barely had half your hours done. This was your final warning-"

  "But it wasn't my fault! There were these loud screams and explosions and this horrible smell, I wasn't trying to be irresponsible and leave my tour group. I was trying to comfort them and let them know the noise was nothing more than something normal but I couldn't do that because apparently angels can be murderers!" Ellie raises her voice.

  "We've never allowed anything of the sort to happen. You must be making this up. But perhaps this is for the best, this was never the place for you. It was only a matter of time before we had to do this." Sera sighs.

  "Before I got kicked out? You all think I'm trouble just like everyone else here." She shakes her head, trying to step back but she can't. She's frozen.

  "Lute?" Sera calls. "Get her wings and halo, now."

-

  "But the exterminations are real, they do happen. They just- they lied to you and said you were the liar? That's...fucked up." He breathes out.

  "I learned that the hard way when I saw the big countdown on that big white tower. But I couldn't just sit around and lick my wounds. So, I got up and held onto the walls to make sure I didn't lose my balance without my wings. I was bleeding down the entire back of my shirt but I didn't want anyone to think I was dead and eat me. I had no idea where I was but then I started meeting all kinds of new people." She shrugs.

  "And so you just randomly turned evil and started taking souls?" He asks.

  "I'm not evil, dude. I'm an idiot, sure, but I'm not evil." She tries.

  "You own millions of souls by yourself. You've been here for a year."

  "Okay, this is about to look like a lie because of, again, how stupid this is. But that was also an accident."

  "Come on!" He laughs loudly, literally slapping his knee.

  "What? It was!" She manages a giggle too, leaning slightly forward.

   "I- oh, hold on. I have to call my daughter really quick, I'm not making it to this meeting. Sorry, Darlin'." He winks with a wide grin.

  "No, god bless you, baby." She smirks as he stands up, keeping his eyes on her as his smile never drops.

 

-

  Ellie breezed into the crowded bar, her presence drawing curious gazes from the denizens of Hell. With a nonchalant smile, she approached the overlord seated at the center of the room, his imposing figure exuding an aura of dominance. The demon, adorned in extravagant robes adorned with glistening jewels, regarded her with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

  By then, rumors had begun to spread about her rise to power. Her presence immediately commanded attention despite her seemingly unassuming appearance. Her light brown wavy hair cascaded over her shoulders in her white sundress. She looked utterly angelic, standing out like a sore thumb.

  "What's your deal, babe? You dealin' in souls looking like that?" The demon chuckles.

"That's usually how it goes. Usually, I say, 'If I win in a game of tic-tac-toe, I get your soul,' and then you say-" Eleanor chirped, her tone playful and carefree.

The overlord's laughter rumbled through the room, a deep and menacing sound that reverberated off the walls.

  "You? Win my soul? That's funny, little angel. But very well, indulge me," he chuckled, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

With a snap of his fingers, a makeshift tic-tac-toe grid materialized before them, the lines etched in crimson fire against the darkened backdrop of the bar. Eleanor's grin widened as she accepted the challenge, her fingers tracing the X's and O's with childish delight.

  She plays the game and everyone around can smell off of her that she has no idea the power she holds. People don't treat souls like a big deal unless you're dealing with them. How was she supposed to know if she had no friends in hell?

  As the game unfolded, Ellie approached it with the same innocence and naivety that had defined her existence thus far. Each move she made was guided by whimsy rather than strategy, her laughter filling the air as she reveled in the simplicity of the game. Her having learned the trick to win almost every time years ago gave her the unearned confidence of a white man.

  But to the overlord's growing horror, Eleanor's seemingly random moves began to form a pattern—a pattern that ultimately led to her victory. With a triumphant giggle, she declared her win, completely unaware of the gravity of her actions.

  The overlord's expression darkened, his features twisted in rage as he realized the consequences of his defeat. "No...this can't be!" he growled, his voice filled with anger.

  But Ellie just shrugged, her carefree demeanor undiminished. As the overlord begrudgingly handed over his soul, the realization dawned on him that Eleanor's ascent to power in Hell was not the result of cunning or calculation, but sheer innocence and luck—a fact that made her all the more dangerous. She has no idea what kind of power she holds.

-

  "No, no way, you're telling me that's how you got all those souls? A children's game? And no one owns your soul? You've won every time?" Lucifer laughs even louder than before.

  "I mean, yeah! Maybe I'll show you how sometime." She laughs with him.

  "So, were you just doing this to millions of people, thinking it was a fun game for almost a year?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. Well, not necessarily to millions. As I played with more people, I would joke that if I won I would get their soul and every other soul they own. That kind of picked up my numbers. Fun fact, I only found out that it indeed was not a joke last week. Only after I became the owner of millions of souls. But it was never in a malicious way. I was just trying to make friends. It always struck me as weird that I would find decent enough people and after we played tic-tac-toe they would be scared or wouldn't want to be around me anymore. It never occurred to me that I was and was not the problem at the same time." She explains.

  "So, you're really not evil, huh?" He smiles at her again.

  "Unfortunately, I'm not evil. But I've only been here for a year." She gives him a smile that grabs his attention. A cute smile.

  "Ellie?" He hums.

  "Your Highness." She hums back.

  "Please, call me Lucifer. Anything else is too fancy. Unless you want to call me baby again." He leans the slightest bit closer to her with a smile.

  "What were you saying, baby?" She says in the same flirtatious way she did before.

  "Is your place around here? I don't have anything else to ask you, you don't seem to be as big of a threat as I thought. You are insanely powerful and own the most souls but without the malicious intent, we should be good to go, darlin'." He chuckles.

  "My place is an idea, a concept. My place is a thought. I go where I want, basically." She shrugs.

  "You don't have a home?" He asks.

  "Nah, when I found out this is where I'm gonna be forever, I wanted to explore everything. But now I think I've explored everything so I should probably get on that. You know, find a place fit for an overlord. If I was scary enough to strike your fancy, I should have somewhere to fit that, right?" She shrugs.

  "Come home with me." He sits up straighter.

  His voice carries a hint of vulnerability, his gaze showing a flicker of loneliness. He extended the invitation to Ellie not just out of duty as the King of Hell, but because he could see right through her. She brushes everything about it heaven off. The way she fell, the way she had to find her way in this awful place, she made it seem like no big deal. But he knows it's not. This place is scary, especially to outsiders.

  And maybe he does have slightly ulterior motives. Everything about her is so familiar. The way she held herself, her feet quickly tapping on the floor, the way everything went down. He's been so in need of companionship and he can't help but want to know her better.

  "You know...I would, but I um, have something to do later, not that it's more important than you, the king of hell, but I-" She starts to nervously make an excuse.

  "No, sorry! I meant, come stay with me. For now. You're an angel, a fallen angel, just like me. I- I know what it's like to be just...cast out like nothing. I can't just throw you back into hell like I never met you. I want you to come stay with me," He throws in a small smile at the end. "I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine. I can't force you. But I think I'm a pretty good roommate."

  "Did I also accidentally find the King of Hell's soft spot?" She giggles and gets one out of him too.

  "I guess you did, Ellie. So...what do you say?" He asks, slightly nervous and not sure why.

  "You know what...sure. Why not?"

[steviewashere]

Want to Go Home With You (Bring Me a Home)

Rating: Teen and Up (May Change With Future Chapters) CW: None, at least for now Tags: Alternate Universe - Mermaids, Hurt/Comfort, Dialogue Heavy, Took Canon Out Back And Pulled an Old Yeller, Mer!Steve Harrington, Fisherman!Eddie Munson, Soft Steve Harrington, Confused Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Wants to be Loved, Mermaids with Animal Like Instincts, Future Propositioning, Lowkey Might Involve Some Omegaverse Aspects in the Future (Not Sorry)

This is chapter one of ????. Also this takes place in Oregon because that's what I know and the idea of a merman living in an Indiana lake-beach is odd to me. So...bear with me. This is my first like actual alternate universe, completely separate from Stranger Things, so be nice.

Also, I've written Steve here as a merman who's had no contacts with humans—his English is choppy and his understanding of basic human communication is weird. If that's a turn-off for you, turn back now.

Read Part Two Here

Can also be read on AO3

🧜‍♂️—————🧜‍♂️ Fishing wasn’t the ideal career to be going into after high school, but Eddie had to do something while he waited for his dreams to kickstart. Granted, going into this business was easy because his uncle owned the local bait shack. But it didn’t make the job any more appealing in the end. Not even the many beaches he had the chance to truck out to. There was Cannon Beach and Seaside’s, but he stayed close to home in Newport’s.

The beach wasn’t anything super spectacular. Sure, there were parts of it inhabited by the native seal population, some of the areas overloaded with crab shells. And it was damn near majestic during the summertime. Eddie, however, didn’t see the gist of spending time there, though. Maybe it had to do with how every single one of his work days would go, the hours spent sitting in the serene stretches of water. But nothing was intriguing or worthwhile about spending his time there.

That is, until one particular early summer day.

June isn’t a busy summer month for Eddie and his uncle. It was the right temperature, but there was still the risk of storms. Heavy duty kind of storms. Business didn’t stop, though. He woke up at 5:30am, when the sun was still acclimating to the baby blue sky, and readied himself in coveralls, thick and tall rubber boots, and a bucket hat that protected his lopsided mop of curls. His hair remained back in a bun and his skin was doused with paste-like sunscreen. In one hand he carried a red fishing rod and in the other, an old black lunchbox transformed for tackle.

He went out to the docks. To the few run down boats. And climbed aboard his uncle’s tried and true, S.S. Lenore—a tiny thing, made for up to four people, overrun with nets and crusted muddy footprints, and equipped with a singular cooler. The engine always took a few pulls to start up, jostling and crunching like food run through a garbage disposal, but it did the trick. And then he was off.

Eddie always took the chance to float out for a handful of minutes. Sometimes fifteen. Sometimes ten. Set himself up stagnant in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nobody, with no chance in hell he’ll be interrupted. Today he just needed to get a cooler full of trout. Rainbow trout, to be more exact. They’re easy fish to gut and debone, good for baking in the oven, and stuffing full of herbs for marinated fish stew. He’d gone out previously to hoist in mackerels and herrings. This was the last trip he’d need to take for a good two weeks, but he was going to do a damn great amount of work for it.

“This should be good,” he mumbles to himself, just barely breeching the edge of his boat. The ocean underneath him moves in subtle pushes, rocking him lightly against itself. Its color is bright and shining—bluer, somehow, than the last time he visited just a few days ago. He can see schools of trout idling underneath the sheen of the water. And so he rigs one of his nets, tosses it over the side of his boat, and slowly sinks it into the water.

And he waits.

It isn’t until half past when he came out that the net begins to rustle. Tugging and splashing, but it doesn’t settle the way it does when it’s some regular trout. No, this threatens to topple Eddie straight into the cold depths of the water below. To sink his boat and turn it over of all its resources.

He grips to the ropes holding the damned thing up. Pulling at it hard enough to give him the starts of burns on his soft palms. And he heaves. Groaning with it. Panting unrelenting in the face of this thing trapped inside his net. Whatever he caught is surely not some common fish for his soup, this is something more—maybe even more dangerous. And he hadn’t thought to bring anything with him to ward off danger.

There had been one time where a shark got caught. Eddie happened to have a knife on him that time. He gave in, cut the ropes on the net, and let it free—which cost him the equipment, but luckily saved his life.

This is a time where having that knife would be spectacular. But as he hefts the net, he realizes that this creature caught is no ordinary thing. It’s not a shark. Not a seal. Not a school of fish. However, through the floundering waves around him, he catches on a fish-esque glimmer. Scales of some sort shifting with the catch of light breaking through.

He wrestles with the net for a few minutes more before eventually getting a good enough grasp to tie it down. Pulling up the rest with his hands, he’s met face to…tail with this creature. It has scales—pearl white and baby pink and pastel yellows—they shine iridescent in the high rise of sunlight. The end of the tail sports two fins, both of them crescent shaped, thicker towards the base of the tail, and spindly where it faces Eddie. Before he can stop himself, he’s poking at the scales, where they taper into absence at the creature’s fins. It’s then that the creature really notices him.

In one fell motion, grand and heaving, the boat rocks. Teetering into flipping. The creature turns its head to him and…hisses. Like the guttural bubbling hiss of a harbor seal. It rocks in the net again, as it lunges towards Eddie.

Immediately, Eddie pulls his hands away and steps as far back as the boat will allow him. Granted, it’s only four feet in width, but that puts space between him and this thing. The thing that he calculates slowly with his eyes. Tail—yeah, he already knew about that. But then he rakes up to the torso of the fish like creature, where his tail is ombre with the glistening, golden skin of a nude torso.

“That—That isn’t right,” Eddie finds himself stuttering, surveying the torso once again. Sure enough, there’s skin. Dotted with moles and freckles. Dark brunette chest hair that could almost be mistaken as black. Toned arms and big, veiny hands. At the ends of this creature’s fingertips are short, curved towards the palms, white claws. Gills where its ribs are. And then Eddie goes to its head. Square-ish jaw, more freckles and moles, smile lines and baby crows feet. Thick eyebrows, triangular nose with a bridge that angles slightly to the left. Ears that threaten to point at the tops. Brunette hair that swoops to the right, falls to its collarbones, wavy and stringy with saltwater.

And its eyes.

Human eyes. Hazel, glowing honey in the sun. Long eyelashes. Drooping eyelids. Pupils that are pinpoint small, dilating with every hiss that leaves the creature’s throat.

A mermaid.

Eddie Munson is looking at a fucking mermaid.

Or…merman? It doesn’t have the seashell bra like all the mermaids he’s heard tales about, but maybe that’s just fable. He’s played all kinds of fantasy games, but he never thought what he described would be looking at him. Wild eyes and baby shark-like teeth, though without the second row. Hissing.

It struggles in the net again, lunging. Wrapping its hands on the edge of Eddie’s boat, squeezing at the metal material. The force of this merman’s grip enough to cause the edge to creak. Eddie’s stomach drops.

“Woah! Alright, okay!” He exclaims, hands up and placating. Briefly, he wonders if it has a good sense of smell and hearing. Like it can scent the excretion of his sweat even in the cold air. Or how his heart beats like the galloping of a race horse. “Easy! I ain’t—I’ve got no reason to hurt you!”

It seems to know what he’s saying, as it relaxes in the net for the first time. But it shoots him a pitiful, pleading look. Petulantly whining at him, though the sound is gargled.

Eddie wipes his sweating palms on his coveralls and takes a tentative step forward. “Easy,” he murmurs, “I’ll free you, but you have to stay calm.”

But the merman shakes its head. “No,” it croaks, “No free.”

Okay, so the guy speaks. It knows English. Even as choppy and awkward as it sounds.

“No free?” Eddie questions, “You don’t want me to free you?”

It shakes its head again. Whines, gargling again in the back of its throat. Its hands grip to the boat again, this time lugging some of its weight. As if it’s trying to…climb in.

Eddie startles back once more. “Hey, no,” he barks, “no climbing in. You can’t come onto my boat.” Though he wants to take it all back the moment he locks eyes again. If it didn’t have scales and gills, Eddie would almost think it was a sad puppy hybrid. He can almost imagine the droopy tail paired with the glistening, fearful, and pleading eyes. “Why shouldn’t I free you? My boat isn’t your home and I can’t take you back with me. You belong in the water.”

“Home,” the merman echoes, croaking. “Your home…warm?”

“Uh—“ What the fuck, he can’t help but think, exasperated. “—uh, sure. Home is warm. My, uh, home is warm. I live by the sand with my uncle, selling worms and cooking fish. The sun hits my skin every morning.” He doesn’t know why he’s answering the guy, but something in its stare, the broken words—Eddie’s allured. “Can you please answer my question? I’d like to go home. So, why shouldn’t I free you?”

The merman points a clawed finger at itself. “My home not warm. Cold.” Eddie nods along because—of course, duh, the ocean is cold. But it murmurs, “Love.” And now Eddie’s confused all over again.

“Love?”

Its voice is soft and sweet, curious. “You have love?”

Eddie shouldn’t be indulging this. He shouldn’t. But maybe the merman is a siren with how he’s drawn to answer. “I don’t have a partner, if that’s what you’re asking. But my uncle loves me. And I love him. That’s—I have love like that.”

It nods like it understands. Looks away over its shoulder, to the cold, salty water. And visibly shudders before facing Eddie again. “No love,” it says, pointing at itself again. “I no have love. No warm.” It tries to climb in again, even as Eddie’s moving to pry its hands away, but it holds tight and hisses again. “Want warm. Go with. Want to go. Go now,” it demands in a low timber.

And even as pretty as this merman is, Eddie has to refuse. He shakes his head softly. Gently, he says, “You can’t. I—I don’t know you. And…I don’t have an ocean in my house. You’ll die if you come with me.”

“Steven,” it mutters.

What? “What.”

“Know me—Steven,” it says. “Know you? Name?”

Tentatively, Eddie relaxes again. Realizes that this won’t be an end all conversation. “My name is Eddie. It’s short for Edward,” he answers, “but I like Eddie more.”

It hums, observing. “Eh-die,” it sounds out. “Eddie,” it whispers. Without warning, it trills at him. High pitched, chirping and bubbling from the back of its throat. Smiling with the sound, squinting its pretty honey eyes. Something in Eddie stirs. “Like that,” it chirps. “Short and easy. I want.”

“You want a short and easy name, too?” Eddie clarifies. It nods at him, squeaking an affirmative thing. “How about…Hm, what’s a good name for Steven?” He ponders as the merman continues to look on at him, eyes bright and curious. “How about Steve? Is that good enough for you?”

“Steve!” It crows. Trilling again, higher pitched than the last, squirming again in the net, closer and closer to heaving itself into the boat. “Easy, easy, easy,” it says at him.

Eddie can’t help but chuckle. “So…Steve, am I able to call you a he? Like…His name is Steve?”

He nods at Eddie. Wriggling again as if he can’t contain his excitement.

“Well, now I know you, huh? It’s a shame I still can’t take you to my home.”

And now Steve frowns, eyes saddening again. “But…My home is cold. You have warm,” he says solemnly.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, “but I don’t have space for you, Steve. Your home is in the water. If I take you out of the water for too long, you’ll die. You need the water.”

“I will see you again?”

Eddie shrugs. “If you see my boat again, you can visit me. How about that? And…what’s special about that, is that I can bring you things that aren’t in the ocean.”

“Man’s stuff?”

Befuddled, Eddie asks, “What are man’s stuff?”

“Stuff I see from up here. From Eddie’s home,” Steve answers. “I find and I keep and I hide. Nobody knows. Just Eddie. Eddie is nice, though. You make me happy.”

Humming, Eddie assesses Steve again. Smiles softly. “You’re nice, too, Steve. Even though you scared me earlier. But you were scared, too, huh? Caught in my stupid net.” He takes a careful step closer, standing over where Steve rests in the net still. He places a hand on one of Steve’s, tentatively, but purposefully. “But if you see my boat again, you can come visit. Maybe next time I’ll bring some fish soup? Do you eat fish?”

“Fish are tasty,” Steve says as a response.

Eddie chuckles again. “Okay, Steve. I’ll bring you fish soup. Tomorrow, though. I have to free you and go home, okay?” He reaches down for the ropes that he tied down earlier. Tugs on one of the knots and frees one side. Steve yelps.

“Promise you come back?” Steve meekly asks.

“Promise,” Eddie murmurs intensely, unraveling the last of the rope. “Look for Lenore. She’ll bring you back to me.”

🧜‍♂️—————🧜‍♂️ If you'd like to be tagged in future updates, let me know. Taglist for this is open <3

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

i don't know how to sum this up. i haven't slept in four days.

...this is gonna be a long one and im sorry. also literally every fucking one in this whole thing minus V is autistic, i don't know how, but them's the facts.

background info: around... some 8 years ago maybe, my truly BELOVED friend M (today 31F) started hanging out with a new friend group her then-friend S (31F now) had introduced her to.

(i (31 genderqueer) didn't know M then. i do know she was very lonely.)

so. S has introduced M to her friend group, and M hangs out with them for about... two years?, but, as far as i understand, S is the go-between here. M asks S what plans they have on weekends, S calls M when there's plans on weekends, that sort of thing.

what happens is: at one point S's girlfriend, V, starts flirting with M. heavily. in front of S. S VERY MATURELY decides that the solution to this is obviously to start telling M there's never plans on weekends while telling the friend group M is never free on weekends. shitty move, i think we can all agree.

and M ends up alone. she's never heard from a single one of any of those other people ever again. ever.

now. M, OBVIOUSLY and i think with good enough reason, HATES S.

but.

1) it's not S's fault M is no longer friends with the whole group, like M thinks it is. it's just not. if they had wanted to keep hanging out with her, very simply, they would have. S didn't even explicitly ask or tell them not to hang out with M, nor did she talk shit about M to get them to leave her out. and want to know why we know all this? it's because after (AFTER!) S and V broke up, M and V dated for like, three months, and V told M. what S did was shit and immature, but not like. extreme.

2) we don't know if S even knew how lonely M was/was gonna be. in my understanding of what's right or wrong, this is KIND OF REALLY important. the intention, the meanness, the ability to knowingly isolate someone to that degree. jealousy is one thing, being genuinely mean is another.

3) all of this happened 10 years ago. TEN. YEARS. they were like, 20. fetuses. we're all queer, they were all navigating the first romantic experiences, shit happens. S was shit but S also could have become a better person in these TEN YEARS. we just don't know.

OTHER background info: ive known S for like, 10 years, and she's someone VERY interesting who i've always liked (not romantically), but she's not my friend.

ok, and now. fast forward to last week. M & i & F1 (27F, my bestie, M's friend) go to a pub. S is there, says hi to me, hi to M (which. like at least apologize or something. but ok) (at this point i have no idea they even knew each other btw), S & i talk a bit like we always do, M goes home (i suspect nothing), S & F1 & i hang out, next thing u know F1 and S start to date and S and i become better friends.

(where i absolutely am the A: apparently, at some point M told me what S did to her. before we met S at the pub? after? i have NO memory of any of this.)

M wants nothing to do with S, as is her right. but at this point F1 is dating her and im making plans to like, watch clone wars with her. M tells me & F1 the whole story (tells again, in my case), tells us she has no problems with us hanging out with S but again, please can we not force them together, which, ofc, i tell her about our star wars plans and like, she's chill, she says yeah sure go for it, she jokes around about how S knows lots of people and we gotta use her to get another friend a girlfriend, shit like that.

forward again. one sunday morning, M asks me to hang out. that sunday just so happens to be clone wars day with S & F1. i tell her. she goes BALLISTIC. like, tachycardia, tunnel vision, palpitations, she's fully ready to never talk to me again because "i can't ask [me] to not hang out with S because that would be toxic, but i just CAN'T be around S, so here we go again, she's gonna steal my friend [me] (...i don't think M cares too much about losing F1, they're not that close), im losing control of the situation, the only way for me to stay in control is to choose to cut off [me] right here and now, so that's what ill do, goodbye forever". and she spends the WHOLE DAY in this frenzy (completely unbeknownst to me!), with multiple people trying to calm her down and like, get her to talk to me. (which OF COURSE the next day she ends up doing, because she loves me, she's just. very autistic.) anyway, at this point (sunday evening) ive been made aware of the situation with M, so i had F2 (F31, she's a mutual close friend who was acting as a kinda peacemaker) tell M i was there for her & ready to talk whenever, and we meet up on monday evening, i get apologized to (M had like, blocked me on all social media 😂) for the whole... overreaction, especially after id been told it was ok to see S, and M officially asks me to stop hanging out with S. i try to tell her "can i ask S about, idk, what was going on in her brain back then". she starts to hedgehog up on me so i shut tf up.

here i am the A again: i know M very well. i should have known it would not actually be okay to see S. i just should have. i do know her.

here i... can't tell how much of an A i might be: i don't want to tell S to fuck off. i WANT to talk to S, figure out how much of an actual irredeemable asshole she is, and only in that case tell her to fuck off. the 3 points i made at the start of this papyrus are still valid. also i think it's kind of fair to give her the right to like, defend herself? explain herself? before i go full ghost on her

... its like this. it's not like i care about S. not to be mean but she's no one to me. i just would like her to BE someone to me, cause she seems cool.

i have few friends. i would like one more friend.

i also made friends with a friend of S, T (can't remember age NB). they're the only other genderqueer person i know irl. id like to get to know them. (also they're kind of cute but that's genuinely not that important lol, i just like to make this post Even Longer). i wouldn't get to know T if i did what M wants (needs?) me to.

and let's not forget S is currently dating my close friend F1. just to put icing on the cake.

then again, i adore M. my loyalty to her SHOULD be more important than two people who are, again, no one to me. i should just tell F1, sorry, i won't hang out with ur gf, like ill be civil to her but i won't pursue a friendship with her. because i don't NEED to. i don't NEED these friendships. i would just LIKE them.

if S turns out to BE an asshole who hurt M on purpose, it's great, it's golden. problem solved. ill tell her she's shit and, i mean, F1 will probably break up with her too. no one gained or lost anything from a whole shebang were i haven't slept in like 4 days and got a stress herpes or whatever it's called, it's cool, it happens, go us.

but if S is... justifiable? understandable? NOT a dick? i don't feel i have an actual reason to delete her number. would i, for M? probably, yeah, but i don't WANT to.

F1 says im a doormat. F2 says im basically a monster and how could i do this to M when there's plant of other friendly fish in the sea.

AITA?

and while we're at it, if someone feels like giving advice... what do i do?

What are these acronyms?

[jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear]

Why do we gatekeep comics?

Seriously. I've been in this fandom (well, the batman rogues side of it) for years, since '15 actually. It's crazy how often I run across a post that basically says "fandom has bad reading comprehension and valid interpretations of these characters come from me"

Do ya'll realize how snobby that sounds?

Let me tell ya, comics are NOT an easy medium to get into. I'm going to be using Jonathan Crane as my example, because that's my blog's whole thing. Speaking him alone, there's at least eight origins, dozens of verses, multiple versions and stories -- and yes, some do contradict each other. And that's a medium popularity rogue, what if we're talking Jason Todd or Joker? Even Bruce Wayne's set in stone origin can vary from comic to comic.

While I understand comics need to be read to understand a character to it's fullest, and in no way am I arguing that you SHOULDN'T read comics. What I am saying is, there's more than just the fandom popular ones, and comics are not a cheap medium to get into. (and yes, you can 'yo ho ho' comics if you catch my drift, but finding the obscure issues can someone be impossible even taking that route) Comics costs add up quickly if you want to collect, ranging from two to six dollars an issue and god forbid you wanna collect something out of print that never had a big release to begin with. eBay prices can get crazy, and not everyone lives near a comic book store.

I get asks all the time asking me where to start with Jonathan Crane and reading, but really....does it matter? Pick an origin, pick a handful of stories that may interest you and with maaaybe six to ten comics you'll have a solid understanding of the character. This works for any character btw, you don't have nor should you have to read everything or whatever the fandom considers "the most correct"

ALSO! There's more than just comics, maybe you watched the animated series as a kid and that's all you know! That doesn't mean your thoughts are lesser than someone whose read hundreds of comics!! You're allowed to stick with the meidum you like best, like the Arkhamverse video games or Teen Titans cartoon.

Why do we even push the idea that you gotta research comics for years before you can have an "acceptable opinion" on these characters? Comics are a special medium, they can tell multiple stories from multiple artists and writers. No one comic is above the rest, no matter what the fandom tries to tell you

Just. Have fun with it. Make your headcanons. Read the story everyone hates. Take the horrible canon (Jervis Tetch being a predator, for example) and throw it out the window!!

Do what makes YOU happy. I promise, you're never going to be alone in a fandom like the comics fandom. You're allowed to do what you want, I mean--half the time the professionals wing it and bullshit it, so why can't you???

Anyway, I'm getting off my soapbox for today.

[icallhimjoey]

To Have And To Scold

♥ ♥  Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your best friends are getting married, and who else can they ask to be their best man and maid of honour but you and Joe? It's just that... you don't really get along all that well, do you? At least, that's what you think.

CW / disclaimer: sort of enemies to sort of lovers (very vague, im sorry, but you'll see), language, drinking, rpf, fem!reader

Author’s note: I know this trope is overdone, but, I wanted to do it a little... idk, different, I suppose. I've never written Joe like this either, so we'll see how this is going to go. This is part one (of five, you know me) and I hope you enjoy!

Wordcount: 2.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten - epilogue

Oh no.

Joe was going to royally fuck everything up. There was no question about it. You were one hundred per cent absolutely convinced that Joe was going to do a bad job. So, so bad. The flat out worst, actually.

Joe hadn’t the faintest idea of where to begin, of how to go about it, of what it all entailed.

It made you feel a little superior, which was nice. This felt like a competition you were going to win, even though you understood none of this was meant to be competitive. In fact, it would actually be considered to be bad taste and maybe a little tacky to even pretend like it was a fight for you to win, but you couldn’t help it.

“Are you sure, Poppy... I don’t want to, like, but... are you sure? Joe?”

Poppy laughed, said, “He’ll do fine,” and Mark followed up by slapping a firm palm to his shoulder, saying, “He’ll figure it out, just like you will,”

“Oh no need to worry about me, I got this,” and you couldn’t help but look at Joe, sharp and focussed. Almost challenging, in a way, but you meant it jokingly. Hoped that maybe Joe would soften a little because he never really seemed to let his guard down. Not around you, anyway.

But Joe just shrugged, kept his face entirely neutral, and your jokes fell flat which immediately made everyone feel awkwardly tense.

It wasn’t a huge secret that you and Joe didn’t really get along all that great, but Jesus, could this man be any stiffer in this moment of joy? This evening of good news and important questions and celebrations? The inner peacekeeper within you couldn’t stand it. You just wanted everyone to get along and be on the same page, but the distance Joe somehow seemed to really force in between you kind of ruined all of that every single time that you’d all hang out together.

When you’d be in larger companies, it’d be easy. You could stay at opposite ends of the room and sort of ignore each other. You’d say hi, you’d be cordial and polite, but you just... weren’t each other’s people. Which made no sense. Mark was your best friend and his fiancé Poppy had naturally become such a good friend of yours too, so why was her best friend this... big old awkward weirdo?

What a stupid way to end the evening, and one that started so blissfully pleasant. When you’d walked into Mark and Poppy’s place around dinner time, you could’ve never predicted the outcome of it all. Though, in hindsight, you didn’t know why you hadn’t expected it, because it made total sense. It really did. Mark and Poppy were going to tell their families about this, and you knew they wouldn’t ask any questions because, this obviously was inevitably going to be the way it was going to go.

“Won’t Poppy be joining us?” you let your coat slide from your shoulders before you hung it over the back of a dining chair as you looked around the place. The table was set for two, not three.

“Pop’s taken Joe out for a meal,” Mark said from the kitchen, and you felt a little guilty at the little marble of relief that reared its little head up. You loved Poppy, honestly you did. She was the perfect girl for Mark, they were the perfect couple. Two peas in a pod. Fucking gorgeous and so, so sweet... but you were too alike in all the wrong ways. Both unbelievably stubborn and potentially hot-headed in the wrong moments, so sometimes you’d butt heads with each other. You held strong opinions and there would be times where you’d find yourselves at the exact opposite ends of a spectrum, willing to die in the battle of trying to convince the other that you had it at the right end.

There had been many nights where you would practically be screaming over the kitchen table about something so fantastically meaningless with Mark in between you, silently eating his meal, not even really paying attention to what either of you were going on about.

Mark sort of loved it. Loved you. But really loved Poppy. Said he found the version of you that wanted to sleep with him which he claimed was all he’d ever wanted. That always made you cringe; made you tell him to fuck off and stop pretending that you weren’t practically siblings at this point.

Having dinner with just Mark at their place wasn’t what you’d expected when Mark had invited you ‘round, but it was so welcome.

Whenever it was you and Mark by yourselves, you’d start the evening like the adults you were, would complain about work, talk about all sorts of civilized things, have a glass or sensible slightly more expensive wine, and ask how each other’s parents were doing.

But by the end of the night, you’d feel like you were 17 at a house party where the one 18-year-old brought a bunch of shitty piss-coloured liquor, room temp cider in plastic 2 litre bottles and blue WKD that would leave everyone’s mouth stained. There’d be an urge to fucking trash the place like the place didn’t actually belong to either one of you, and you’d rummage through kitchen cabinets to make stupid meals at midnight after whatever vegan bullshit Mark cooked up for dinner that hadn’t filled you properly. Suddenly, Mark would forget he hadn’t eaten meat in years and go for a kebab with you.

You loved those nights.

Poppy hated those nights, because that was the Mark she didn’t know or understand. She’d find you both drunk of your tits, flinging Wii remotes dangerously close to expensive furniture pieces (where the fuck did you even find a Wii, Mark?!) grunting like you were the Williams sisters playing Wembley.

Whenever Poppy would try to tell Mark off for sort of letting go for a hot second, Mark would throw it right back in her face and go, “Pop, go have your fancy martinis with Joe – go eat a million oysters with him, us peasants here will be fine with our grey meats and questionable white sauce,” and you’d go, “Ew, shut up,” and apologise to Poppy through a mouthful of cheap fast food, and Mark would be giggling like a little school girl.

Poppy didn’t like that version of Mark, but that was the Mark that you loved and even though you knew this evening was just meant to be a quick catch-up on a work-night, you hoped you’d get to see at least a little of your Mark.

"She's taken him to Bob Bob Ricard to ask him an important question," Mark said as he set down filled plates full of beautiful colourful vegetables that honestly smelled amazing.

"I thought you guys were already engaged? You know, to each other?" you joked and made Mark snort.

"It's got to do with that though,"

"Oh no, is this, are you going to become a throuple? God," you slumped your shoulders. "I should've totally seen this coming," and before you could carry on Mark punched you in the arm with far too much force.

"No, you dick, she's asking him to be her maid of honour... sort of, but like, man of honour, I guess,"

"Oh my God," you pouted because honestly, that was kind of adorable. "Will he be, like, her little pageboy?"

You envisioned Joe in tails walking behind Poppy down the isle, holding the train of her dress or whatever pageboys actually did at weddings.

"Little more sophisticated than that, I think," Mark said before raising his full wine glass, prompting you to raise yours too.

"And you're here because I have a question for you too,"

Your eyes grew as you bit your lips slowly into your mouth when you realised where this was going.

"Oh... oh fuck, Mark, wait, this is a big deal," you put your glass down and jokingly fanned your face with your hands.

"Yes. Now, shut the fuck up and let me actually ask it,"

"No, what about your brother?" you interjected.

"My brother's a lazy sod who is not to be trusted,"

"He's going to murder me,"

"He won't," Mark grew more and more annoyed as you stalled him.

"He absolutely will,"

"Would you just..." Mark sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Let me please just fucking ask the question, all right? Jesus,"

You shuffled in your seat and sat up, batted your eyelashes and pursed your lips into a smile because this really was a big moment.

"Will you," Mark started, and then paused for a second before he finished, "be my best man - woman... person?"

"Oh my God. Yes."

You cheersed and just, couldn't stop cackling for a moment. What a bizarre moment in your friendship, it was all kinds of fantastic and lovely and so weird. You loved it.

You questioned what it even really meant to be someone's best man, and over dinner you both googled all the things that best men usually did. For the groom, but also, for the whole wedding. You were to give a speech, would look after the wedding rings, would have to make sure all the groomsmen - and obviously the groom himself - were all dressed and ready in time for the actual ceremony and, last but not least... the stag do.

You were so up for the job.

Deep diving into this project was the perfect distraction from the mundane boring structured routine your life had fallen into.

Halfway through dinner Mark received a text from Poppy, saying that Joe had said yes. She sent a picture of Joe with a cute pursed smile and crinkly eyes, holding up a beautiful blush pink card that read the question, "Will you be my Honour Attendant?" in one hand, and a flute of bubbly champagne in the other.

"Oh," you frowned at your friend. "Why didn't I get a fancy card? Or a fancy dinner?"

Mark put his phone down and and shrugged, just said, "That's not our style," and dismissed you completely.

It was the beginning of what started with you dramatically exclaiming, "Do I not deserve a little luxury?" and ended with you doing tequila shots by the sink in the kitchen.

Yea, Mark was right. This was more your style.

It was just after 10 when the front door opened and Poppy walked in, closely followed by Joe.

A small moment of heys and hellos, followed, and then welcome-home kisses from Mark and Poppy, and slightly awkward eye-contact between you and Joe.

Joe looked sort of stupidly well put together. All polished. He looked wildly overdressed next to you, and it made you feel like a slob. And you knew you were older, not by much, but you were definitely older than Joe was, which really should mean something, but Joe was taller, and definitely richer, and... all of it made you feel like a child.

"You're gonna be Mark's maid of honour?" Poppy squealed, all excited, practically bouncing on her feet after she'd hugged you.

"Nope," you smiled widely, "You're looking at Mark's best man,"

Poppy grinned and shot eyes towards Joe.

"See? I told you. You kind of have to go by Maid of Honour," and Joe laughed before scrunching up his nose in defeated, going, "Yea, well..." and you saw Joe look at his best friend and just turn so incredibly soft for her. Like she was the only good thing in his life, like he truly, really truly, loved her with all his might.

It was almost disgustingly sweet, and you wondered if there was ever going to be a line Joe could cross with Mark.

You could easily cross the line with Poppy. You would never forget the look in her eye when you'd fallen asleep on Mark and he'd just hugged you for a little bit. It was the hard way to learn that Poppy was a normal person with normal boundaries and you totally understood. Of course. You wouldn't want anyone just falling asleep on your boyfriend - not that you had one - either.

But when it came to Mark, he was just very.... whatever, about Joe.

You were so sure that, if Poppy were to fall asleep in Joe's arms, and Joe would cuddle her for a second, Mark would just be like, "Are you having a good nap, babe?"

Sometimes Joe would invite Poppy to go to insane award shows over seas and Mark wouldn't even care that they'd share a hotel room.

Mark was made of trust. It was a little wild, you thought. Especially when, look! Look at those eyes! Look at what Joe's eyes were doing! He was literally turning into a puddle in front of everyone as he looked at his best friend.

"Fine, I guess," Joe comically rolled his eyes at his new title. Maid of Honour Joe Quinn, who hadn't yet taken his coat off which was weird because you were all stood around the kitchen island and he was still in his coat. What a way to keep the yea-I-don't-want-to-be-here vibes alive. Felt real great, this.

The defeated acceptance of Joe to whatever was happening made you jokingly ask Poppy if she was sure having Joe as her maid of honour was the best idea.

The joke had fallen flat, but Poppy erased it immediately by clapping her hands together right in front of her face, all erratic and excited, her grin quite literally splitting her whole face open.

"Oh my God, it's gonna be so fun," Poppy predicted as she shook tensed fists in celebration and you couldn't help but smile at her.

"It's brilliant actually, you won't need to worry about the stag do at all, I'm sorry, but Mark, I won't be taking you to a strip club,"

Joe scoffed loudly, which... rubbed you a little wrong. Mark however, was about to argue you on it.

"I will, however" you quickly added as you laid a hand on Mark's shoulder, "get you so unbelievably wankered, you won't even fucking remember if we went to one in the first place," and that got him laughing loudly, head thrown back, showing off all his molars.

"Oh no, you're going to be bad at this," Mark then winced and made you gasp.

"No I won't be!"

"Maybe," Poppy started, then looked at Joe, "you could get together and help each other out?"

And Joe's eyes shot to you, and you saw every fiber in his being hesitate and think of a way to polite tell you no, that's all right actually.

"Listen," you started, and hoped to keep the atmosphere light and jokey, like it had been, even though neither you or Joe had joked or laughed together at all. You never did.

"I don't need Joe to keep me from losing the wedding rings," you helped Joe out. "I think we'll do just fine on our own – you wouldn't have asked us if you thought we were going to be shit at our jobs,"

Ever the mediator, you.

"Oh fuck," Mark squeezed his eyes shut, and tipped his head back a little.

"You just jinxed it!" Poppy said with huge eyes, but a secret smile playing underneath.

"What?"

"You're going to lose the wedding rings," Joe said.

"No I won't–"

"She's going to lose the wedding rings," Mark said to Poppy.

"If you fucking lose our wedding rings," Poppy spoke through her teeth with a threatening finger pointed at you, but couldn't keep her giggles in.

"Stop it, I'm not! I'm not going to lose your wedding rings!"

You wouldn't. Because you were going to beat Joe at this. You were going to do a better job, have more fun doing it and, you just decided, look better doing it too. And Joe was really fucking good looking, so that was really saying something.

And you wouldn't lose the wedding rings.

You wouldn't.

---

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