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next-autopsy · 5 months

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A/N: Well, hi there! Okay so Joe needs to apologise asap! This is his attempt I guess… idk what’s happening anymore man

Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.

TW: I don’t think there are any…

Tags: @malarkgirlypop, @panzershrike-pretz

Made of Glass

Chapter nineteen: An Itchy, Army Issued Blanket

Their barracks were dark and quiet when the ladies returned. Charlotte was all but dragged to her bed by Connie and Betty, who then immediately started getting ready to pass out on their own cots.

Lucy and Blythe were inseparable, snuggling together on a bed too small for the two of them, by now all the women had noticed the lovey dovey behaviour between them. No one said anything, no one minded.

Bernadette had spent the entire cab ride sniffling and wiping at her face where stray tears fell. No one had mentioned what had happened with Liebgott, though all of them witnessed it, except Charlotte who was in a world of her own and wouldn’t remember anything from this night.

She changed her clothes and brushed out her hair, too tired to walk to the bathroom and finish her nighttime ritual. Before Birdie could climb under the covers of her awaiting bed, Frankie made eye contact with her. She shook her half empty pack of smokes at the mousy haired girl and flicked her head toward the door, a silent invitation.

Bernadette sighed and joined the Italian woman outside. She might feel better if she spoke about what happened. She hadn’t quite figured out why his words got to her so badly, perhaps talking to Francesca could help. They sat on the wooden steps as they usually did. Rossi lit a cigarette and passed it to her friend, then lit her own.

Francesca wouldn’t push, of course she wanted to know exactly what was said and what tone was used, but she wanted to avoid more tears if possible. Seeing Birdie quietly crying and then trying to pretend everything was okay, upset her more than she cared to admit.

“I don’t know why I cried.” Her words were void of emotion. Frankie only hummed in response, waiting for her to share what was on her mind.

“He’s always been kind of mean. I thought he actually hated me…. But then something changed.” Frankie was more than curious, she thought back to the uncomfortable night she watched from the shadows. Rossi liked people watching, she picked up on hidden feelings or underlying vibes easily. Whatever had or hadn't happened between Birdie and Liebgott perplexed her. And apparently, she wasn’t the only one.

“Joe was really… I-I thought maybe, just maybe we could've been friends.”

“But?” Francesca prompted, eager to hear more of this odd dynamic.

“But, he thinks I'm the worst.” The words cracked as the downcast woman spoke them, her eyes focused on the floor, her shoulders sagged in defeat, even her bottom lip protruded in a pout.

“I’m sure that's not true…” The older woman consoled. Bernadette was sweet and witty and an oddly likeable person. Francesca had specifically tried not to make friends with anyone but Birdie managed to wiggle her way into her heart and now she couldn’t imagine not being friends with the little firecracker.

“No, it is. The words he used were: Arrogant, conceited bitch.” She didn’t even have one second to feel sorry for herself as Frankie instantly counter argued.

“Ha. You are the least arrogant, conceited person I've ever met. And you're definitely not a bitch.”

“Not according to him.” Now she was sulking, pouting and feeling sorry for herself. The attitude change was phenomenal. From Francesca’s perspective, Birdie had always been confident. Not overly but enough to tough it out with her self righteous Captain.

“Why do you care what he thinks of you?” Maybe Rossi would have to give the poor girl some hints, she obviously hasn't picked up on her own feelings for the man who bullied her. It would explain her need for his approval and why his comments affected her the way they did.

“I-” She couldn’t answer, she didn’t know how. Why did she care so much about what Joseph Liebgott thought of her? “Because, I- I don’t know.”

“I think I do.” She would have to tell the southern girl, it was her duty as best friend. She couldn’t let her go on like this, it was down right embarrassing.

“Enlighten me.”

“You like him.” The George company woman spoke plainly, no point sugarcoating it.

“What? No, you're way off, he’s so- But he’s- He is a pigheaded jerk. I-I don't like him.” Birdie spluttered, stumbling over her words and giving Frankie an incredulous look.

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? Either way, I don't think it's working.” She paused to let the words sink in, “Come on, you need some sleep.”

————————

Letting go of Birdie’s arm and watching her walk out the door, surrounded by her girlfriends, caused a pang in Joe’s chest.

He was at fault and he knew it. Joe didn’t mean the harsh words and he shouldn’t have said those things about her, whether she was listening or not. And now, he sat at the bar, gulping down whatever alcohol came his way.

“Liebgott?” No answer, he preferred to mope in peace. But Tipper wouldn’t sit by and watch his friend beat himself up over a girl, especially because he had money on the two getting together before they were deployed.

“She’ll come round.” Ed wasn’t really sure what else he could say to soothe the situation. But he had noticed the girl in question harboured feelings for his brooding friend, and he definitely knew Joe felt some type of way about Birdie.

The issue was getting them to recognise their own fondness of each other and stop messing up. It was like the pair were stuck in blatant denial, not even considering the reason why they were always so drawn to one another, constantly needing to make comments to gain the others attention. To Ed it was transparent, which is why he was so confident about the running bet in Easy company, Joe and Birdie; Will they? Won’t they?

“I think she hates me now.”

“What? She didn’t before?” Tip was trying to lighten the mood, but Joe wasn’t having it. He continued to feel sorry for himself, drinking yet another pale yellow beer.

“No… I don't know- she was, we were... It doesn’t matter now.” The alcohol was affecting him, he couldn’t think straight and his words came out as incoherent mumble.

“You should apologise.”

“You think I don't know that?” Joe’s snark was intact regardless of how much he drank.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Ed paused, “If you made a meaningful gesture… something only known between you two…” He trailed off, letting Joe put the rest of the thought together in his mind.

“Yeah? Like what? In case you didn’t notice, we don't exactly have the best track record.” Liebgott was mad, not at his friend, just in general or at himself. His patience with Tipper’s chit chat was running thin.

“Well, what do you have?”

—------------------

While weekend passes were more common now than back in Toccoa, they were still highly sought after. Joe had a plan to smooth over the mishap with Bernadette and it meant spending a precious pass at the library reading, instead of getting shitfaced at a bar.

He prayed it would work, that Bernadette would forgive him and let his unkind words fade away. Joe had already decided on a place and time and now he needed to convince one of her friends to bring her to the spot. She probably wouldn’t meet him there if he asked, so he’d have to be sneaky.

Approaching Francesca Rossi was intimidating. She had a reputation of not taking shit from anyone and Joe had hurt seemingly her only friend. Plus, Birdie most likely told the Italian woman about his colossal fuck up, so he doubted she would be on his side.

“What do you want?” Her eyes narrowed at the man walking toward her.

“I was hoping you would help me with something.” Joe knew he had to be straightforward with the George company woman, put his cards on the table and hope for the best.

“Why?” She hadn’t stopped glaring.

“Look, I’ll be honest. I fucked up, with Birdie. I said some things I’d rather not repeat… And I’m just trying to apologise.”

“What do you need?” He hadn’t expected it to be that easy, so he stood still for a moment processing, before he explained his plan to her. It felt dumb to say it out loud, but when Rossi gave him a nod and a half smile, promising to do her part, he thought: maybe he was doing the right thing.

“One thing before you go…” Francesca called out to him as he turned to leave, he stopped and looked at the woman over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You hurt her again…. I will kill you.” There was no hint of a joke in her tone, no curve of her lips. She meant it and she wanted him to know she would follow through. Birdie meant alot to her, she didn’t have many women friends so she would hold onto the southerner for the rest of her life, kill for her, die for her if necessary.

“I know you will.”

“Good.”

—----------------

The night came. Joe was nervous. He told himself it was due to all the facts he had to memorise and his anxiety was about messing up in front of an expert.

Something in the back of his head said her name and the idea of his nerves coming from his need to impress this specific woman ran through his brain. Maybe it was a little bit about Bernadette, but he couldn’t dwell on it too much. He had places to be and apologies to set up.

—--------------------

Francesca was good at keeping secrets and hiding things. So when the time came, Birdie suspected nothing. Frankie told her friend she needed her help with something and led her outside and into the dark with no explanation. Birdie didn’t question it, Francesca wouldn’t steer her wrong, she trusted the woman with everything she had.

After a few minutes of walking, the two women came upon a clearing with an olive green, Army issued blanket laid down upon the grass. A gas lantern lit up the immediate area.

Just as Bernadette began to wonder what was going on, Liebgott came into view, stepping into the light that shone from the source on the floor. Birdie’s jaw hung, she looked between the man and her friend who had brought her here, feeling somewhat betrayed.

“Frankie? What the hell?” Were the words she finally managed to get out.

“You got two options, Birdie. Stay here and hear him out… or we walk away. I’ll punch him in the throat too, if you want.” All three of them considered the words carefully.

“Fair.” Joe shrugged, knowing he deserved it.

Francesca eyed the younger woman as she pondered her options. She knew the outcome, it was plain to see which one Birdie would go for, the look on her face said it all.

She was curious, Joe intrigued her beyond words and even though he had said some things that hurt Birdie, she still craved his attention, to be around him, to listen to whatever he was about to say.

Bernadette didn’t have to say it, she just gave Frankie a look and the black hair woman was on her way, not before shooting Liebgott a stern glare.

“I didn’t mean it.” Joe broke the silence that was growing between the two.

“But you still said it.” She couldn’t let him get away that easy.

“I know… I shouldn’t’ve. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Birdie had already decided she’d forgive him but she wanted to drag it out, see him sweat. She knew first hand how scary Frankie could be, the fact that he had talked her into this project of his was apology enough in her books.

“I am so sorry, Birdie.” His words were genuine, he truly was sorry. He would have said it a hundred more times if she wanted him too. His pride aside, he wanted her to know it. Talking about her like that was not something that would be repeated. Hurting her had hurt him, maybe Tipper was right, maybe his feelings for her ran deeper than he thought.

He wanted to be her friend of course, she was always so smiley and happy, it was easy to get along with her. Joe enjoyed his time around her, even before, when all the words they said to each other were dipped in sarcasm. He actually enjoyed the witty comebacks she came up with, he liked that she wouldn’t let anyone walk over her. She always had something to say and he found himself wanting to listen more and more as time went on.

“What’s that for?” Birdie nodded her head to the blanket, trying to steer away from acknowledging the apology.

“Huh? Oh..” Lieb looked behind him, “Come here, sit. I want to show you something.” He sat and patted the empty space next to him. Birdie followed instruction and lowered herself onto the itchy blanket.

Joe leaned back, propping himself up with one arm and pointing skyward with the other. Birdie copied his stance, turning her chin up and watching where he pointed to.

“See that? That’s the Little Dipper-“ Birdie’s attention was pulled from the stars above them and to the guy casually dropping constellation names.

“Wait… it actually is… how did you know that?” She imagined Joe, head in a book, studying star clusters so he would have something to talk to her about and it made her stomach flip. Had he really done something like that for her? She was vaguely aware that he didn’t care for studying or reading novels, so if he had done that it was solely for her benefit.

Lieb let his arm drop, turning his head to face her. The eye contact made Birdie want to twirl a strand of hair with her fingers and giggle like a schoolgirl- Damn, maybe Francesca had been right about her liking Joseph Liebgott.

“Magic.” His face was stoic and serious as he whispered the word to her, like it was a secret. Then, his infamous smirk broke onto his face and Bernadette couldn’t help but grin back at him, the butterflies in her tummy were going crazy, but she tried to play it cool.

“Ah okay. I see: This is your apology? Impressing me with your new found knowledge of the stars?” Said with feigned disinterest. Joe hadn’t stopped watching her, her mannerisms were endearing. Yes, he definitely wanted to be friends with this girl.

“It depends.” He broke eye contact, attempting to give his heart a moment to catch up.

“On what?” The country woman had completely forgotten about the twinkly lights above them, something else was far more interesting at this moment.

“Is it impressing you?”

It most definitely was. Joe pointed out several well known constellations and even gave a couple backstories. Birdie already knew everything he was telling her but she humoured him and listened with interest at the tales he told her.

At one point the two lay down for a better view of the starry black sky. Their arms brushed up against one another and neither attempted to move away. They ignored the shared touch, pretending it wasn’t happening but the pair could feel exactly where their bodies met and they revealed in the warmth.

A/N: does his apology suffice? I think stargazing is going to be a Birdie/Lieb thing from now on.

I love hearing from you guys, so please feel free to comment or dm me!

~ next-autopsy ~

Chapter twenty

#band of brothers #easy company #hbo war #joe liebgott #made of glass #band of brothers fanfic #fem oc #oc #next autopsy #made of glass chapter nineteen #ed tipper

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lloydfrontera · 4 months

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theo thinking of winning his father's recognition even before he thinks about winning the position of crown prince and the power it conveys,,, wanting people's admiration,,, one of his motivations to become heir to the throne being sparing his brother's delicate health,,,

he's really just a kid that wants his dad's love and attention, that craves everyone's approval in the face of his father's neglect and who wants to take care of his older brother despite everything and everyone pitting them against each other

and he thinks he can gain all of that if he can just become crown prince.

is it any wonder he was so desperate to win the duel. or that he fell apart apart when the goal he'd worked for his entire life was snatched away from him no matter how much he told himself he was okay with the outcome??

#i talk a lot <3 #crown prince sells medicine #cpsm #theodore magentano #sorry if it seems like i'm just talking about him and not rakiel but this is the last content we're getting of him #for at least a hundred chapters so i need to make the best of it (T▽T)#he's just. a kid. he's just nineteen. he lost his mom. he never had his father's love. his older brother almost certainly resented him #for being the 'perfect' heir and everyone favoring him over him. he must've been very lonely too.#BK MOON WHY DIDN'T YOU FOCUS MORE ON HIM AND HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH RAKIEL IT COULD'VE BEEN SO GOOD #anyway. i'll go back to talking about my other blorbo soon. he's about to meet the man he'll grow hopelessly devoted to #so there'll be a lot to talk about ajdkssjka

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goodfellowe · 8 months

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Everyone she knows has moved on and is well on the route of putting their lives back together, and Kid doesn’t even know where to start on picking up the shattered remnants of her own. Despite everything, she still can’t get herself to fully let go of the past. Most days, being home is enough. More often than not, though, that sentiment never seems to last.

The Way Time Twists (AO3)

Epilogue: Sunrise

Kid reflects on the past few months, and what she's made of it.

Art by @mebssann.

#its over guys. its over. ive been working on this since i was fourteen and im nineteen ad its over #im not emotional youre emotional. shut up T_T #anyways guys u shoud totally reread the first chapter before reading this one pleaaase trust me #a hat in time #hat kid #mustache girl #hat adult #hatstache #fics #the way time twists #twtt au

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redux-iterum · 10 months

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Burning Hearts: Chapter Nineteen

(AO3 counterpart here.)

“So what do you think?”

Fireheart’s tail tapped nervously as Ravenwing, sitting across from him, lowered his chin in thought. He had been the first cat Fireheart had seen upon returning home, and he had quickly pulled his friend outside of camp to explain the sign.

He couldn’t help but admire how calmly Ravenwing was considering the matter. Fireheart had only gotten more and more anxious as this short amount of time had went on, his mind swarming with nasty interpretations of the silver bell and its markings. By the time he’d reached Ravenwing, deaths and disfigurements crowded his vision.

Ravenwing had listened to the entire story in silence, his ears perked and gaze focused, gradually intensifying until the conclusion. Now, his eyes were narrowed, pupils distantly slim as they shifted from side to side, looking at nothing in front of him. He was still quiet, but his mind was clearly hard at work, untangling the knots and matts Fireheart had presented.

“I think…” Ravenwing said slowly, then paused, lifting his head again. His eyes focused again, troubled. “I think you’re right. This is a Greystripe sign.”

This did not relieve Fireheart any. “What does it mean, though?”

Ravenwing grimaced. “A silver thing that’s battered and scratched up? I can’t imagine anything good.” He stood up. “You know what we should do?”

“Find Greystripe and tell him,” Fireheart said.

Ravenwing nodded.

“He’s probably at the border again.” Fireheart stood up too and started off at a trot, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “Hopefully alone. Come on. I’ll do the talking, if you want me to.”

With a sigh, Ravenwing followed after his shorter friend. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to either of us more than the other. You’re better at this stuff than I am, though. We can try both of us, I guess.”

“Works for me,” Fireheart said, and continued through the chilly forest. He could swear there was some frost blooming on a tree to his right.

Ravenwing caught up to Fireheart after a bit, and was silent for a long moment before asking quietly, “What do you think he’ll say?”

“I imagine he’ll be upset,” Fireheart replied, “but that shouldn’t deter us. Even if he refuses to listen, we need to warn him. If for nothing else, just to say we tried.”

Ravenwing said nothing, but he took in a soft breath out of the corner of Fireheart’s eye.

Nothing else was said on the walk. Fireheart was busy silently rehearsing what he was going to say. He was certain Ravenwing was doing the same thing.

Be patient, be careful, be kind, he repeated to himself. All we can do is try.

The night’s chill made Fireheart shiver multiple times on the trek. It was plucking at his hairs and his pawpads themselves seemed to stiffen with every step on the frigid ground. At the very least, it wasn’t raining right now. Not that that provided much comfort for the pair of warriors.

They reached the border alongside Sunningrocks—empty, thankfully, with only the fishy scent of RiverClan’s marks to accompany Fireheart and Ravenwing as they walked.

“Where did we see them last?” Ravenwing whispered, like it was something he didn’t want to be overheard.

“About halfway down, I think,” Fireheart whispered back. He swiveled his ears for the slightest sound and got nothing but the constant, underlying hissing of the river. No scents or sounds of anyone present… their best chance would be now, with only one cat there to be talked with.

Fireheart chanced a dip along the border and poked his head out of the forest, looking from north to south. Nobody in sight. Perfect.

He rejoined Ravenwing, his footsteps subconsciously softening the further down they went. Ravenwing did the same, until they were both hardly even brushing against any fallen leaves.

Finally, they were a patch of bushes away from the meeting place. Curiously, though they seemed alone, a noise like heaving breath reached them. A few steps closer, and they could catch Greystripe’s scent. Fireheart and Ravenwing looked at each other before a panicked gulp pushed them forward.

They stepped through the brush as silently as they had walked here—that quickly proved unnecessary. Only Greystripe was here, but even so, he looked like he’d been stricken in the chest and was fighting to breathe again. His back legs were flopped onto one side of his haunches, with his front legs splayed out, every clawed toe spread, gripping the forest floor like his life depended on it. His yellow eyes were far away and stretched out more than an owl’s. Every single hair on his body stuck out perfectly perpendicular to whatever body part it was attached to.

Fireheart approached, concern stiffening his spine. “Greystripe? Are you okay?”

Greystripe jolted and twisted his head to stare at Fireheart. His mouth opened and shut multiple times, each time failing to get a noise out.

Ravenwing joined Fireheart, his tail puffing out a bit. “What’s wrong?”

A few more attempts to speak, and then Greystripe gulped down air and rasped, “Pr– Privetclaw was just here.”

His friends said nothing, waiting with growing nervousness.

“He said—” Greystripe shuddered with enough violence to almost fall over completely. “He said Silverstream is in the nursery now.”

Fireheart squinted for a moment before realization hit him and his jaw dropped.

“She’s…” Greystripe gulped again. “Kits. She’s pregnant. And… I think I’m the father.”

Complete silence followed this. Each tom was frozen in place. Not even a bird broke the quiet.

In the end, it was Ravenwing that spoke first, and it was with a calm, flat voice that made Fireheart want to take a step away from him in anticipation.

“You ‘think’, or you ‘know’?” he asked, pronouncing each word like a claw-pluck.

Greystripe didn’t hear the danger. His eyes were far away again. “I… I know. I know. Privetclaw knew too. That’s why– that’s why he told me.”

Fireheart chanced a look at Ravenwing and actually stepped to the side, distancing from the burning air coming off his friend’s body. Ravenwing’s fur bristled, starting from the base of his tail and going along his back, almost up onto his head. His pale claws unsheathed and sank into the soil, and his tail twitched, twitched harder, and then swiped side-to-side.

“You,” he said, growing louder and louder with each word, “are. AN. IDIOT.”

Greystripe looked up, shock replacing the terror.

“A complete idiot!” Ravenwing shouted. “Did you just paw sand over your mind?! You knew from jump exactly how these things always go! You knew that cross-Clan relationships never end well! You KNEW that!”

“Yeah…” Greystripe mumbled, looking down now.

“And yet! And yet! You had the gall to yell at us for warning you!” Ravenwing stepped forward, his back arched. “You just refused to listen to reason, and we tried to help you, but you had to insult us, didn’t you, you UTTER krrok*!”

Part of Fireheart wanted to stop Ravenwing’s tirade, but another part (that was admonishing itself a bit) was taking some dark satisfaction in the guilty shame on Greystripe’s face. He elected to say nothing and let Greystripe take his punishment.

“What even compelled you to get with her?!” Ravenwing continued, his voice reaching the open space of Sunningrocks and echoing to the water. “You couldn’t have just left it at meeting up and whispering sweet-nothings?! Did you really think nothing bad could come from this?!”

Greystripe said nothing. His head hung low enough for his nose to almost touch the ground.

“I swear on the Three—” Ravenwing’s tail was a blur now as he shook his head several times. He turned to Fireheart, who leaned away a bit. “So we might be too late!”

Fireheart’s stomach clenched. “You think so?”

“Depending on what it meant, maybe!”

Greystripe dared to look up now. “What meant what?”

“The sign,” Ravenwing growled. “The sign that Fireheart found tonight.”

Greystripe’s eyes, lit with fear again, went to Fireheart.

He spoke quietly and calmly, and not a little unhappily. “Yellowfang and I were near the Houses, and we saw a grey squirrel burying a silver bell—a little round thing. The bell was pretty badly damaged. Yellowfang knew it was a sign, but she didn’t know what for.” His ears folded back. “But I’m sure we can guess.”

Fear returned to terror. Greystripe looked between the pair almost pleadingly, like they could give him reassurances that everything would be fine. Neither of them did. He sunk to his belly, shaking a little.

“I screwed up,” he choked out.

Fireheart nodded sadly.

“You sure did,” Ravenwing snapped. “Now you and Silverstream are going to be in massive trouble, whether or not you get found out. Good job.”

Now was the time to step in. Fireheart reached out with a paw and gently touched Ravenwing’s leg. He looked over in surprise, greeted by Fireheart’s soft warning expression. A blink, a flinch, and his rage dissipated like mist in the sun. He was Ravenwing again, anxious and uncertain, and he now stared at Greystripe in a near-panicked state, his words visibly washing over him.

Greystripe did not appear to notice this change. He just turned his head to gaze out across the river. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

Fireheart cleared his throat quietly. “Well, the first thing is to stop seeing Silverstream.”

To his surprise and immense relief, Greystripe just nodded distantly. “Yeah, that… yeah.” He shuddered out a sigh. “I’m an idiot.”

Fireheart gave Ravenwing a look, but Ravenwing was silent. Like Greystripe before, he was busy just trying to force words out of his mouth to begin with. Fireheart was about to speak instead when Greystripe turned his head back to them, his eyes now dim with defeat.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Ravenwing and Fireheart blinked in unison.

“For– you know.” Greystripe gestured aimlessly. “Being a colossal prick. And a krrok. You were right. Sorry.”

What anger Fireheart had in his system melted away and dispersed from his feet to the leaves below them. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t,” Greystripe said to Fireheart, though his eyes were on Ravenwing. “I ruined everything with Silverstream and I nearly ruined everything with you two because I’m stupid.” His face turned anxious. “Or, I hope it was ‘nearly’.”

Both of them watched Ravenwing now, apprehensively waiting for his deliberation. Ravenwing, eyes distant, set his jaw, took in a deep breath, and relaxed his fur again.

“Just nearly,” he said with a blink.

Greystripe let out a relieved sound that was more of a wheeze than a sigh. Fireheart felt it too.

“You’re still in trouble if those kits look like you,” Ravenwing added, “if she does end up having them at all. She can try sending them back, can’t she?”

The relief left Greystripe’s face, his eyes sagging again. “I don’t know. Is that a thing you can force?”

“What thing?” Fireheart asked. “Isn’t she having kits?”

“Maybe,” Ravenwing said, contemplative now. “Sometimes an expecting queen will stop expecting. The kittens in her just… go away. I’m not sure what the exact cause could be. It just happens sometimes.”

Fireheart frowned. “What happens to their souls, then?”

“They get sent into another body to try again,” Ravenwing said.

“Oh. Is that StarClan’s doing?”

“Could be. The stories on that stuff are pretty vague.” Ravenwing grimaced. “Cats usually don’t like talking about it.”

Fireheart’s thoughts zipped over to the Houses, to Rosy’s house where she no doubt was being kept inside. What if her kits go away too? She’d be devastated. Is StarClan in charge of them?

“I don’t think you can make it happen on purpose,” Greystripe said, shaking Fireheart out of his thoughts. “She’ll probably try, but… I don’t know.” He slowly got to his feet, steadier than before. “All I know is that if they look like me, she’s going to be in a lot of trouble that even Crookedstar couldn’t get her out of.”

Ravenwing’s ears flattened. “And you’ll be in trouble, too.”

“I don’t really care about that part.” Greystripe rolled a shoulder listlessly. “I mean, it won’t be great, but I’m more worried about her and my kits. Stars, I hope they just look like her. They can get away with being big if they just have her colors and face.”

There was a moment of silence, each tom lost in his own worries, before Fireheart spoke up. “What will happen to them if the truth comes out? They won’t be, like, forced out of the Clan or anything, will they?”

“No!” Greystripe balked. “No. No Clan is that cruel. But… she might get shunned for a long time.” He paused, twitching an ear. “Actually, she told me something like this happened before she was born. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she said it eventually worked out for her Clan. Maybe it’ll work out for us, too.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Ravenwing asked quietly.

Greystripe sighed and hung his head again. “No. We’re feather-plucked.”

“Well, let’s not panic,” Fireheart said quickly. “Silverstream’s pregnant, that’s all we have. Does anyone else know about you and her? Are they going to tell on her?”

“A friend or two might know. Privetclaw sounded like he does.” Greystripe’s tail puffed out. “That’s probably why he doesn’t like me. He’s not good at hiding that.”

“And the chances of them saying anything?”

“Low, I think,” Greystripe said. “I hope.”

Ravenwing perked up. “Well, remember, queens don’t have to say who the father of their litter is. Maybe their matriarch will ask, but no one gets to bully her about it.”

“Oh—“ Greystripe looked up and nodded eagerly. “Yes, right. If she keeps it between us, and if StarClan is kind, they can all go without knowing anything.”

“Including the kits?” Fireheart tilted his head. “Shouldn’t they know who they are?”

“Not if it’s going to hurt them,” Ravenwing said.

“Kits go without knowing their father all the time,” Greystripe agreed. “They don’t have to know about anything. Not this whole thing, not me.” His face fell a little. “Though I would like to know them. Someday.”

Fireheart gave him a sympathetic nod. “Well, let’s not focus on the future just yet. Give Silverstream time to… ‘send them back’?” He looked at Ravenwing, who nodded. “Send them back, yeah. And if she has them, then we deal with that later.”

Greystripe’s ears pricked. “‘We’?”

“Well, yeah,” Fireheart said. “We’re not dumping you or anything.” He gave Greystripe a cheeky look. “You did apologize.”

Ravenwing twitched his whiskers. “You did do that.”

If it was possible, Greystripe looked even more relieved than earlier. He gave each of them a grateful look and hesitantly stepped forward, lowering his head submissively. Fireheart met him with a headbump—a very gentle one for Greystripe—and Ravenwing did the same.

“So let’s get out of here before someone finds us,” Fireheart said cheerfully. “We have some hunting to catch up on. And stars know your scent needs to fade.”

Greystripe snorted and Ravenwing purred. Fireheart beckoned with his tail and led the two further into the woods, keeping at a brisk pace until the river could no longer be heard behind them.

*”Krrok”: outrageously stupid cat, an idiot beyond idiots.

#warrior cats #redux iterum #iterum #chapter #chapter nineteen #book two #arc one #burning hearts

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ambitions-of-an-eccedentesiast · 3 months

Text

It's all in good fun

Next->

<-Previous

#the ambitions of an eccedentesiast #dr jekyll and mr hyde #ocs #taoae #chapter one #page nineteen #hhhhhhhh T H E M #also YES BACK TO THE REGULAR OUTFITS!#the fancy outfits are wonderful but a pain to draw over and over TTwTT

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tangledinink · 1 year

Note

sir this is the police, you are under arrest for a climactic cliffhanger >:( /hj

you'll never take me alive

#hehehe #just you guys wait until the NEXT chapter #and then until chapter NINETEEN #you guys are gonna LOOVVEEE chapter nineteen :)#asks #addystuffs

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wwilloww · 2 years

Text

sh. | chapter nineteen | ot7

PAIRING ot7 x reader RATING Explicit. 18+. GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers. SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no? WC 6.6k WARNINGS AND TAGS sexual negotiations. talk of sex. near death experience. allusions to history of suicidal ideation (resources). dry humping.

AN pLEASE read the warnings of this chapter! If you've read the warnings and don't want to read the chapter but still want to know what's going on, message me and I'll provide a little tldr; just for you. This chapter wasn't easy to write, and I learned a lot about myself through writing it. I'd be lying if I said there weren't some tears on the page after writing, but I have the biggest of thank yous to the incredible @hesperantha @thatlongspringnight @miscelunaaa and @sugalaritae who helped me transform this from something I needed to write for me to something that actually fits into the story. I feel hesitant to post this, but I'm trusting you all with this and know you will take care of this story. If you're still here, thank you for reading. You're amazing.

← || series m.list || →

CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE EDGE

“We said we’d wait a few days to talk about this, but it’s clear a conversation needs to happen now,” Jimin begins.

The eight of you are sitting around the dining room table, breakfast hot and steaming in bowls before you, but none of you are eating. As soon as you and Hoseok had entered the room, a swift and chilly tension had settled upon the table. Six pairs of cold eyes had been set upon Hoseok as soon as he entered, and it was clear that the exchange that happened in the kitchen this morning was shared with the entire group. Namjoon’s eyes flicker concernedly down to where your hand is wrapped around Hoseok’s.

“We said, after the other night—” it’s clear which night Jimin’s talking about. “—that things between all of us were casual.” Everyone nods. “But it’s obvious to me that that’s not the case. Not one bit.”

Your chest tightens. Not casual? You’re not in the slightest ready for something serious, for some kind of commitment to these men. That’s, that’s simply not what you agreed to.

“As soon as feelings start getting hurt,” Jimin continues, “this no longer becomes casual. I’ve talked to some of you. I’m worried that there’s jealousy—” His gaze flickers to Jungkook, whose head hangs down. “And I’m worried that we’re not respecting the vulnerability inherent to sex.” His gaze lands on Hoseok. The words on his tongue sound prepared, rehearsed, like Jimin’s been going over them in his head for a while now, or practiced them in the bathroom mirror.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi chimes in, his jaw twitching. “In case you weren’t sure, we’re talking about you.”

Hoseok’s eyes flash up towards Yoongi. His lips move like he wants to say something.

“What happened this morning was unacceptable. It can’t happen again,” Jimin says, before a sound can leave Hoseok. Hoseok shuts his mouth. “Not only that, but pushing one of your closest friends away after having sex with them? It’s just unacceptable.”

Hoseok hangs his head. “I know. I’m sorry, and—”

“I think there’s only one solution. I think we should stop,” Jimin says. “I think we should stop all of this.”

Silence freezes through the room.

“No!” you call out. The response surprises even you. You’re not ready for this to end. You’re not ready to let go of what you’ve received from these seven men in the past several days. Your innards hold onto it like it’s something precious, because, you realize, it is. It’s been so long since you’ve felt so accepted, so seen by so many people. Sure, there is a part of you that feels like there’s an unknown edge to all of this—to all of them—that scares the shit out of you, but not because it’s bad. Only because it’s new, unknown. You’re not ready to let go of this. “I mean—I mean. I think this is something that we can talk through. Hoseok and I talked.” You reach beneath the table to take his hand. “We talked and it’s okay.”

“Is it really okay though?” Namjoon asks, his gaze hard and protective. “Is one little conversation really enough to fix things?”

You look at Hoseok then. Perhaps you had been too quick to accept his apology. But you know this man. You’ve known him for years and understand that an apology from him doesn’t come quickly or easily. He surprises you again by speaking up.

“I fucked up, guys,” Hoseok says. “I don’t know what’s been getting into me. I thought, um, I expected things to be easy. That I wouldn’t, um… want. As much as I do.”

“What does that mean?” you whisper.

“I think we need to expand the meaning of casual,” Hoesok says. “I don’t know if I can do casual.”

“What does that mean?” your voice wavers.

“I don’t think I can pretend that sex doesn’t mean something to me.”

To this, Namjoon nods knowingly, like he understands and agrees. Hoseok catches the gesture and offers Namjoon an unsure smile.

“I was trying to pretend that it doesn’t mean anything to me, that you,” he looks at you, “don’t mean anything to me, that none of you do.” He looks around the table, lingering on each of your friends. “But that’s just not true. I shut down, trying to imagine—

“I get that,” Jungkook interrupts. “I get that a lot.”

“Thanks Jungkook, but yeah. I shut down, trying to imagine that things were nothing more than sex, and that’s just not—that’s just not going to work for me. I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I think we’re all ready for some kind of committed relationship,” Hoseok says. “I know that’s not true, and honestly that’s not what I want. But what I need is to know that this—” He squeezes your hand. “—means something.”

Your chest tightens immeasurably, but at the same time, you know something he’s saying is true.

“I think I understand what he’s saying,” Namjoon adds. “I think there needs to be space for the messy bits. The feelings.”

The feelings? There are feelings?

Suddenly you’re reeling, sucking in a shaky breath. This whole time it’s felt like you've been in a vacuum, alone with your thoughts and feelings. You know you’ve felt things for these men. Unnamable, unknowable things. But them? They’ve been feeling too?

You chide yourself for thinking in such a small sense. How egocentric of you to think that you were the only one with an inner world like this. Of course they’re affected by all of this. Of course they have feelings too. But for you? For each other?

It’s not a new realization, but it is one that strikes you. Makes you look at them through a new lens. The room is silent as each of you take in the others, unspeakable thoughts flashing behind each of your eyes.

“We’re all friends. We’ve been friends forever. I think it’d be stupid to think that adding sex into our dynamic wouldn’t stir things up. From the past. Even new things, too. But we can’t do this if we aren’t on the same page, or at the very least, can’t communicate.” Jimin shoots Hoseok a look at that statement. “We have to be committed to communication, and we have to be committed to making sure each of us are doing okay within this situation.” He looks around at all of you.

“I want this,” you say suddenly. “I’m not ready to give this up, whatever it is.”

Several people around the table nod: Yoongi, Jungkook, and to your surprise, Namjoon.

“I feel like I understand where Hobi is coming from,” Jungkook adds, reaching across the table to take Hoseok’s hand. “I feel messy. On the inside. Like if I ask for what I want I’m going to ruin something.”

Hoseok nods understandingly.

“That’s not an easy thing to say, Kookie,” Jimin says softly. “Thank you for sharing that. And Hoseok—I don’t mean to be so harsh on you. I just… I don’t want to see any of us hurt. And I saw one of our friends hurting.”

Hoseok nods. “I know. And I’m really sorry.”

“I want to stick with this and see what comes out of it,” you say. “Even if it’s difficult. Even if we need to find new ways to communicate with one another.”

“How does everyone feel about this?” Yoongi asks.

Everyone around the table nods in agreement with you.

“Jin, Taehyung, you’ve been awfully silent throughout this conversation,” Yoongi notices.

The couple exchanges a look. “I can’t speak for Jin, but I hardly knew any of this was going on,” Taehyung says. “We’ve been a little bit in our own bubble the past couple of days. But I think that speaks to a need for us to be more involved, anyways. More present.” Jin nods, like he agrees.

“That’s probably true,” Yoongi says.

Jin clears his throat. “I’m going to add something. Since we added sex to this relationship, to these relationships, I don’t think we can just assume that sex and the rules of sex only stay within the boundaries of the bedroom. For god's sake, Yoongi sucked Namjoon off in the kitchen.” You and Jungkook exchange a glance and at that moment you know that he too is thinking about all of your shared kitchen escapades.

“And vice versa,” Taehyung corrects.

Jin chuckles. “And vice versa, yes. That means that consent and communication are just as important outside of this metaphorical bedroom as they are inside. If any of you feel like you can’t communicate something, you either need to figure out how to, ask for help, or remove yourself from the situation. We can’t be messing around with that.”

Everyone nods seriously.

“Jungkook, you’ve been quiet too. Do you have anything to add?”

Jungkook smiles sheepishly. “I think I’d just like to be included a little more? I know it’s only been a couple of days but… I felt a little bit like I was forgotten.”

Jin grabs his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We got you.”

Jungkook grins back. “Thanks, hyung.”

“Alright,” Jimin says. “Then we’ll put it to a vote. All in favor of continuing this… thing?”

Everyone around the table raises their hands.

“Then it’s settled.”

A spark of joy lights in your chest. It’s not over. Not yet.

“I think I’m ready for that hike, if you are,” Hoseok says, a smile lighting his eyes, as breakfast finishes up. Someone else is on kitchen duty, thank goodness, and you have the day all to yourself. He takes your hands in his own, gripping your fingers tightly between his. “I mean it when I say it: I’m so sorry. I should have never let the situation get away from me the way I did. But I know what I did wrong now. And I won’t let it happen again.”

You smile up at him, and bring your hand to cup his cheek. It feels easy. Maybe too easy.

“I forgive you. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry for not kissing you.”

“It’s okay.” He turns and begins to make his way towards the door where your shoes are. “You can make it better, anyways.”

“What? Make it better?” You hurry up to him.

“Yeah. Like this.” He captures your lips with his, his hand winding around your back to pull you close. It’s a soft, sweet kiss, and when he pulls away, he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I don’t know if that’s ever going to get old.”

You turn your head only to find Jungkook staring at you guys, jaw hanging open.

“Jungkook—”

“I’m going to find Jin hyung. Take him up on his offer.” Jungkook hurries away.

Hoseok chuckles. “Jungkook’s going to have the ride of his life if Jin is the one he’s searching out.”

“I wonder if it’s not only Jin he’s excited to see though,” you muse. “There was something there with Taehyung that night too.”

At the mention of that night, Hoseok flushes, like an innocent flower.

“Do you get shy when I mention that?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Never thought I’d be talking about that kind of stuff with you.”

You scoff. “We hardly did any talking that night.”

“Talking, or, you know. The other stuff.”

You sidle up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “What other stuff?” you ask innocently, wanting to push him.

He flushes a little. “Um. You know. Sex.”

“Or Jin sucking you off.”

He coughs. “Or, yeah, uh, that.”

You laugh, slip on your shoes, and press out of the side door.

“C’mon loser. Let’s go.”

Winter teases the edge of the mountains, frost coating the ground, an icy chill whispering in the air. But the trees still hang onto their leaves, reds and the burning golds of the aspens making the world look like it’s lit aflame.

Outside, Hoseok seems to come to life again, his body resetting in the chill of the winter air. Born again, even as the plants die. Despite his vigor, you notice a quietness that settles around him as he looks back at the house disappearing behind him.

“Hobi—Are you okay?” you ask, as you begin up the steep trail. The house itself is located at the base of several peaks, and this is one you haven’t trekked up yet.

Hoseok nods, swallowing heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“What’s going on in your head, then?”

He pauses for a moment before answering: “There was one point in the conversation where I was worried that they—Yoongi especially—they were trying to push me out of the group or something, but I realized that they’re just trying to protect you.”

“Hobi. No one wants you out of the group. Especially not me.”

He smiles at you for that, and offers his elbow to you. You slip your hand through.

“Jimin and Yoongi can be so singularly focused sometimes. But I know they were just worried. I know they love you.”

Hoseok nods several times, like he’s processing what you’re saying. “What about you, darling?” Hoseok asks, turning his head to you. “How are you feeling? I know it was your suggestion that we keep this casual.”

Your jaw twitches a little at that. “Um. I...” You trail off, your gaze going blank over the beautiful scenery before you. “In all honesty, Hobi, it makes me a little scared.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand the logic. That we need to broaden the parameters of our relationship. That we already love each other, that we all have expectations and feelings and thoughts about the situation, and that casual sex and all that just don’t work together. But I’m having a hard time not feeling scared of it all.”

Hoseok nods. “What is it that you’re afraid of?”

“I’m afraid if I let go of my feelings that everything will come crashing down,” you whisper, as if by speaking any louder the words themselves will usher ill-will into your world. Your throat is a little tight.

“What are your feelings?” Hoseok asks.

“God, I don’t even know,” you laugh.

“Try.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, your footsteps coming slower as you think hard.

“God, there’s so many.”

“Just one then.”

You look at him. Really look at him. The weariness of his face, the hope fluttering there, in the corner of his eye, the intensity and care with which he gazes at you with. “There’s you. And there’s this knowing that I want to be close to you.” You take a deep breath. “Closer to you.”

Hoseok laughs. “That’s a thought, silly.”

“Alright,” you say determinately. You let loose a long breath. “I feel regret. Regret that I didn’t kiss you the way I wanted to. That I didn’t make you feel wanted in the way that I wanted you. Anyways, that’s all so serious. We don’t have to be so serious.”

Even as you say it though, there’s an underlying sea of tension between you. Because you have talked about the missing kiss, you’ve talked about the sex, you’ve worked that all out. But neither of you are mentioning exactly where it all started: the night you kissed him for the first time. It hangs between you, large and unspoken. And yet all too tender to speak of.

“You could make it up to me, you know.” There’s a devilish glint in his eyes. His hand catches in yours and he tugs you to his chest. “Can I kiss you now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He kisses you soft and slowly, like he’s taking his time with you, like there’s no rush to urge him forward or responsibility waiting on the other side for him. He kisses you like you’re his, like he’s tasting you for the first time, like you’re something sweet and all his to savor.

He’s a fucking good kisser. And truthfully, it’s nothing like your first kiss with him, that awkward, clunking thing.

You pull back and grin at him.

“You’re a good kisser.”

As you smile at him, you realize: It feels normal again. Like old times, the two of you traipsing through the city together, arm in arm, wrecking havoc wherever you go.

“Hobi! Look! The view!” Right over his shoulder lies an incredible overlook, you’re not sure how you didn’t notice it before. Beneath you, the mountains sprawl in valleys and peaks, an ocean aflame. You’ve never seen anything like it. You run up to the edge of the cliff, the gravel beneath your feet slipping a little. You stumble once, but right yourself.

“Hey! Be careful!” Hoseok calls from behind you.

“I am! I am!” you call back, looking over your shoulder at him. He’s grinning at you, taking his time as he picks over the rocks to get to the edge like you are. But with your gaze distracted, as you near the edge of the cliff your foot slips out from under you. You are falling to the ground, feet flailing before you.

You hit the earth with a clunk, an “oof” leaving your chest involuntarily. But your body doesn’t stop. With the slight incline, it continues to slide forward, rolling over the little rocks and dust. You try to grasp onto anything near to you, with no luck, sand, bits of gravel sifting through your fingers, digging underneath your fingernails. The ground rushes past you. You clamber for anything. You’re falling. You’re falling towards the cliff.

Your legs go over first, then your torso. It happens in slow motion, adrenaline spiking fire through your body. That’s when you come alive. You flip over, hands grasping onto the ledge, stopping your fall.

The scattering of rocks falling beneath you is the only sound in the entire world.

“No!” Hoseok screams, his voice still so far away. But the sound of him, the ragged edge of a torn voice—it cuts right through you.

You’re terrified for him, terrified he’s going to slip and fall and go over the edge like you, but you need him. You need him. The wind howls beneath you, your heartbeat stuck in your ears, pounding.

The wall of the cliff retreats slightly beneath the ledge, leaving nothing for you to get a foothold on.

You’re going to die.

For a moment it all flashes before you, Hoseok screaming for help when you go, him sprinting down the trail to the house, your friends faces when they hear. You’re not ready. You’re not ready to go.

Your breath is stuck in your throat. There’s nothing left in you to call his name. But he sees you, he sees you, and he’s tripping over himself to get to you.

“Be careful!” you manage to cry out, and he slows down, picking his way carefully towards you. His hands are clenched into sweaty fists, the terror in his gaze bleeding into yours as he hurries towards you. “But fucking hurry! I can’t—”

Your fingers slip just enough for you to yelp.

“Hobi! Please!”

He reaches you then, bending down. He grips your wrist with one of his hands and with the other, grabs onto a small tree. His hands are shaking, his breath uneven.

“On three, I’m going to lift.” His eyes bore into yours, his voice mysteriously calm. It gives you direction. It gives you hope. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. One. Two. Three.” With a grunt, he uses the leverage of the tree to begin pulling you up.

You kick your legs and the best you can, begin to house yourself up. It’s messy, uncoordinated work, but you manage to hoist an arm over the top, then a knee. With Hoseok’s help you scramble over the ledge, your breath coming hard, your head hanging between your shoulders as you pant on all fours.

He doesn’t let go of you, hand wrapped painfully tight around your wrist. He tugs you forward, away from the edge, and you scuttle after him, pushing as far away as you can. “Come on, come on,” he urges, until you collapse in his arms.

“What the hell just happened?”

You reach for him with the hand he isn’t already holding, grip his hand tightly. With both hands around yours, you feel bound to him physically, even as your body still swings in the sensation of hanging by a thread.

“Fuck.” He wipes his hand over his face, your hand going with it. “I thought you were gone.”

His body shudders beneath yours.

“I’m not though—”

“But I thought you were. I thought you’d fallen. I thought—” His voice chokes up. “And then I saw your hands, grabbing on and oh my god. But I thought you were gone. I really did.” The look in his eyes is one of absolute grief.

“I’m okay, Hoseok,” you say gently.

He shakes his head. “Fuck, I’m the one supposed to be comforting you. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He begins patting you down, looking for injuries.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.” But you’re not. Your throat wells up, closes around you. You grip onto his hand even tighter, stopping his movements. “God,” you hiss, as the tears start to well up in your eyes. You wipe them furiously away with the back of your hand.

“Come here, let's get you away from that edge.”

He pulls you to your feet, nearly dragging you away from where you were sitting three feet away from the edge while your body freezes up. He pulls you all the way to the trail, where the ground is firmer, flatter. You find your footing. You just stand there.

He wraps himself around you. You’re there, wrapped up in him, just breathing. This goes on for you’re not sure how long. And then slowly your body begins to relax. To melt into him. Your fingers come back to life first, flickering, finding purchase in his jacket, tangling in the fabric and pulling him closer. Your breath syncs up with his while you let loose little sobs, your face pressed into the nook between his neck and his shoulder. Slowly, your body feels like your body again.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t wanna lose you either,” you mumble back, taking a big sniff. “God, what the fuck is going on here, first the bear, then the forest, now this?”

“The forest?” Hoseok pulls back just enough to look at you, a puzzled expression settling on his face.

You shake your head. You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to have to explain. You don’t want him to think that you’re crazy.

You bury your face in his neck once more, squeezing him so tight you’re sure it must hurt. But he just squeezes you back. Holds you like you’re the only thing left in the world.

“Do you want to go back now?”

“I need—I need to sit. Just for a little bit.”

He nods and you both settle against the trunk of a very large tree. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though. He keeps it held tight in his lap, both hands surrounding yours. He looks at you, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he does, a look of concern flickering across his face.

“You’re safe now,” he whispers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You close your eyes. Knock your head back against the tree. Stare up at the webbed pattern of the evergreen above you, the way the blue sky flickers through it. That’s when it wells up. That’s when it comes.

Tears, spilling down your face, silently.

It’s like you’ve been cracked open.

Everything comes to the surface.

It washes over you like a stormy ocean, the waves at the surface thrashing, the depths holding a deep, deep chill that you can’t escape.

Sometimes there’s a grief in you that rises to the surface. It comes burbling out of you like a secret pool, hidden away in the vast sprawl of mountains. It comes like the moonlight when the sky is clear, splitting through the night, unjarrable. It comes like poison: green and viscous and spilling out of you. You can’t swipe a hand through it, can’t stop the flow of it when it comes. There’s only one way out: through.

You’ll let the tears sit like window boxes of peonies before they spill out into the yard. But now they’re pouring.

“Hey, hey.” Hoseok repositions himself so that he’s between your legs, hugging you, wrapped around you. “It’s okay to let it out. It's okay.”

You nod into his shoulder, tears streaming down your face.

“I don’t wanna go. Not anymore.”

“I know, I know. It’s not your time. It’s not nearly your time.” And then he pauses at your words, really takes them in. His eyes widen in understanding, noticing the current beneath your words. He whispers your name. “Was there a time when you were? Wanting to go?”

You blink up at him through watery eyes. You nod.

“Shit,” he curses. “I didn’t know.”

“I hardly knew.”

“You didn’t—you wouldn’t—?”

You shake your head.

“No. I wouldn’t. But the thought was there.”

“What happened? When was this?” His whisper tears at the edges, like he’s falling apart with you.

The words come with the tears, tumbling out of you, welling up from that dark, deep place you can’t and won’t name. “I didn’t want to be here any more. There was a part of me that just wanted to disappear. To stop being.” You squeeze your eyes shut, and Hoesok’s grip on you tightens. The tears come quicker with the words, like you’re finally letting the thing out that you have been holding back for so long. That you’ve been too afraid to even admit to yourself. It rises like an interruption to the narrative you’ve built around yourself, but you can’t hold it back. Not anymore. The truth feels rattled from its cage. “Quarantine was harder than I thought it would be. The loneliness. It was so much. Nothing like I ever knew before. I just—” You choke on a sob. “I feel so lucky to be here with you all again. Like there’s light again. Like there’s living again.”

At the very beginning, when everything had come screeching to a halt, you had thought you were fine. But the monotony of life, the ensnaring of your life, the locked door, the world shut down beyond your fingertips—it had left you feeling like nothing more than a wild animal trapped in a cage. It wasn’t just a physical feeling. It was in your head. It settled in your very bones.

You’d begun to spiral. That’s when the thoughts set in, green and dark and deadened, like rotting leaves. They covered the floor of your mind, so that there was no escaping them.

“Shit,” Hoesok curses, and when he says your name, it’s with all the ache in the world. “I wish I had known. I wish you felt safe enough to tell me.”

“I think I needed to put myself away from everyone,” you whisper. “It was so hard to tell anyone. I thought… I thought that you all would see me differently if I told you.” You take in a shaky breath. “But I did get help. I went to the doctors. I went to therapy. Wasn’t an easy fix, but it helped a lot.” It had been a week after the thoughts had set in—just a week, though it had felt like ages longer—before you’d gone to Namjoon. He’d helped you, held you, gotten you to the right doctors and the right therapists. He’d taken all of the work out of your hands so that you hadn’t had to worry about a single thing. All you had to do was show up.

And he hadn’t let it change a thing in your relationship. He was still there, a comforting presence, in your life. He asked you what you needed, but he didn’t treat you like something broken. You especially appreciated this when you arrived at the mountain house, because it felt like you could have a new start, a fresh beginning, where you could leave this safely in the past.

But these things, these things don’t leave a body easily. That much is true. Coming back to an apartment with a lock on the door and a quiet world outside didn’t make things any easier. But things had slowly begun to shift. And ever since you had arrived at Namjoon’s mountain house, things felt like they were catalyzing. Like you were changing, for the better. Like instead of dust, light was coming through your cracks.

Hoseok grips your hands, a look of deep seriousness falling over his face.

“I—I don’t want to do it alone anymore,” you say. You sniffle and pull a hand away from him to wipe at your face. “Can I ask you something? Can I ask a promise of you?”

“Anything,” Hoseok says, and he seems like he means it.

“If it happens again, I want to know that you’ll be there. That you’ll be here for me.”

It’s Hoseok’s turn to choke up. “I’m so sorry I ever made you think I couldn’t be there for you, I’m so sorry—”

“Hoseok, I don’t need you to be sorry, I just need to know.”

He nods, wiping at his eyes. “Of course. Of course I’ll be there for you.” He sniffles. “And we can make it easy too. We can have a code word. If you feel it coming on, you can just text me ‘peanut butter.’ And we’ll take care of you. We’ll get you back.”

You nod, the tears beginning to slow.

“I love you, Hobi. I really do.”

“I know.”

He’s so close to you now, his eyes pressing into yours, a deep look of concern on his face.

You don’t know what comes over you, but you press your lips to his.

He tastes like the sea.

He stills with shock, going still beneath your touch. But then his hands come to your face, fingertips dragging through your tears as he cups your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the wetness. He kisses you back, a slowness to your desperation.

A massive confession, a near death experience—the adrenaline floods through you at a breakneck pace. Your body zings with energy, sparking at the tips of your fingers, and it feels like the only way out is through, well, him.

“I need you,” you say, tears spilling from your eyes. You’re not sure why you’re so emotional, and yet you can’t stop it, can’t stop the small hiccups that wrack your body, can’t stop the yearning that fills your chest, desperate, desperate to be satiated.

His eyes are wet too as he meets your lips, hands cupping your face as he squeezes his eyes closed and kisses you.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been needing you,” you admit, sniffing. “God, I must look so gross right now.”

“No, no, absolutely not.” He pulls away just enough to wipe away the beading tears that are gathering at your water line. The touch is so tender your eyes well up once more. “You don’t look gross. You look human. You look alive. And that’s what matters.”

“I feel like a boulder in athletic clothes.”

He laughs at that. “Then let me make you feel different.”

You sniffle. “Yeah.”

Slowly, he rolls the both of you over so you’re on top of him, straddling him.

“You’re a certain kind of lovely,” he says, whispering your name at the end of the sentence. “A kind of lovely that even with tears all over you and a good bit of dirt on your face, doesn’t disappear.” Your fingers come up to your face, where the dirt must be. He grabs your hands. “Don’t worry about it.” He kisses your lips. “Don’t worry about it.” He kisses your jawline. ”Don’t worry—“ He bites down on your earlobe and you arch into him. He grunts, as your core presses against his length.

A gasp rattles through you as you realize what’s beneath you. Between your legs.

“You’re so hard.”

“Touch it—if you want.”

You reach between your legs, letting your hand rest against him, squeezing, before running your hand up and down the length of him. There’s something about this all, the over-the-clothes setup, the rawness in your chest that makes this feel like you’re much younger, like you’re doing something like this for the first time. Or maybe it’s just Hoseok.

Hoseok takes the opportunity of your distracted mind to bite down on your earlobe again before sucking it into his mouth ever-so gently. You gasp, and your hand slips from him, coming to his neck, tilting his head. You kiss him furiously, angrily even.

How dare he make you feel like this.

You can feel a dampness growing between your legs, knowing it’ll stain the panties that you—against Jimin’s rules—decided to slip on today. And you’re glad you’re wearing them for once, worried you’ll sink through the layers of clothes you have on and onto Hoseok. Though, when you dripped onto Namjoon, he hardly seemed to mind.

Knees pressed into the dirt, your body feels like it begins to come back to you. It’s slow at first. The regaining of feeling in your fingertips, Hoseok’s skin beneath your touch, and then it’s the discomfort of small rocks pressing into your legs, a discomfort which is quickly overridden by the firm pressure of being held by the earth, of being held by Hoseok.

With your center pressed to him, you begin to grind against him, slowly at first, just unhurried dragging against his cock. He moans into your mouth. But today is anything but slow, meandering, and your pace soon quickens into a desperate grind.

His hands come down to your hips, fingers searching through the layers of clothes for your skin.

“N-need you, Hoseok—“ you gasp, as the tip of his cock presses against your clit. It’s a dull pleasure, one that’s building quickly though.

His hands are pulling at your clothes, and your leggings are being pulled down your legs. Your hands drift from his face to his pants, where you unbutton them. There’s an uncoordinated moment as both of you shimmy and jolt, trying to work your pants down. You both get about halfway–one leg out of your leggings, his pants down to his knees–before his lips are on yours again, his hands on your face, pulling you closer.

Not before you catch a glance of the bulge straining against the very limits of his boxer-briefs.

You sink down on top of him, your panties coming into contact with his cock, his hardened length sliding perfectly against your covered cunt.

His hands meet your hips once more. “Move your hips, like this,” he demonstrates, grinding your hips down upon himself. “Back and forth.”

You laugh. “Hobi, I know how to.”

“But don’t you wanna know how I like it?” He smiles up at you, a shit-eating grin on his face. “And then you can show me just how you like it.”

“I like it like…” You’re not entirely sure, trying to think back to the last time you grinded against someone like this, your clothes still on. You think it must have been with Taehyung, in the back of his car, when you were younger, much younger, scrambling your way through college. So you test out several different motions with your hips until you find exactly the one that works for you.

“Like this.”

With the tip of his cock pressing against your clit, it’s not long before a strangled moan makes its way out of your throat. He swallows it up like it’s his own.

There’s a certain kind of power to having Hoseok shuddering beneath you. A kind of thrill. Joy, even.

“F-fuck, Hobi,” you gaps, falling forwards so your lips meet again. As you kiss, his hips begin to buck up against yours. The movement feigns sex, and it feels even more desperate, more depraved than sex itself.

You pull him up so his chest is slotted against yours, your arms wrung around his neck. The both of you are panting in tandem, a breath in with a breath out. You squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm nears.

It’s a kind of warm bleed, golden and burning through your body. You cry out as you come, and he’s not long behind you, gasping into your mouth, hands gripping tightly onto your hips as he holds you against his cock.

The comedown is slow. Foreheads tipped together, you stay like that for who knows how long. That’s when you notice: your tears have dried, leaving your body tired through and through, as if you’ve been wrung out like a wet towel.

“You’re special to me,” Hoseok says. “You’re really special. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

You nod.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

And you know you mean it in all the ways that you could say it.

Hoseok helps you to your feet, personally pulling your leggings up for you, a move which is both sweet and a little funny to you. He does this before fixing himself up. You think he can’t be comfortable like that, come in his underwear, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he just swings an arm over your shoulder and kisses your cheek.

“Let’s get you home. I think there’s a conversation to be had between all of us.”

The hike down to the house is longer than you remembered it. As you step out of the forest, you can’t help but look back over your shoulder.

“Why can’t I go outside and it be normal?” you mumble, more to yourself than to anyone else.

“Hm?” Hoseok hums.

“Nothing.”

As you step into the house, one thing is clear to you: Your tango with death seems to have left you with a new vigor. You’re not giving this up. Not unless God wrangles it personally from your hands. You grip onto Hobi’s hand even tighter.

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cambria-writes · 10 months

Text

i did it. it's finally done. it's over, and i finished it.

thank you so much to everyone who's followed me and this story, who's commented, liked and reblogged. you've all helped give me back something i had lost a long time ago: the ability to write.

i'm so thankful to have found this fandom and the people in it, and i wouldn't change a single thing about the journey that was writing Ravenloft.

some things to know about this chapter:

i only discovered literally two days ago that july 1st is not, in fact, universal moving day. that's apparently something very unique to my part of canada lol, so that's why i had the moving take place that day. might not have even registered for anyone else but me but i felt like i should explain that just in case.

additionally, i don't know fuckall about indiana, never been. the market place arena is no longer there, either, so it took a bit of guesswork to figure out what to do. thank you to @bramblequill for answering my very strange questions. ♥

lastly, i have no idea how school works in the states. i just went with september 2nd as back to school since it was the tuesday right after labour day, and the internet told me that 8:30am as a starting time for classes was reasonable so there we go.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader rating: E, 18+ warnings: SMUT, female anatomy used but otherwise no real physical description, fingering, masturbation (m and f), cum swallowing, so much swearing, Wayne calls Eddie son and reader calls Wayne his father, smoking (cigarettes and weed), alcohol consumption, vague reference to choking, mention of flagging/the hanky code, Eddie doesn't whip out the sadism though, mention of using handcuffs, i guess this is semi-public sex actually, Eddie's a gentleman though, mention of an alternate timeline where Eddie does die, mention of death broadly, reader has anxious responses to shit sometimes, Good Girl is said a few times, god I'm running out of brain RAM please let me know if I should tag anything else! word count: 7,512

thank you again!!

Previous Masterlist

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: 𝔓𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔢𝔯𝔰 ℌ𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨

July 2nd, 19863:27AM

You don’t know where you are when you first wake up. There are no lights on, there’s a familiar but distant sound, and it’s too fucking warm. After a few seconds of tensely paying attention, you realize that the familiar sound is the compressor in the fridge.

Right. You moved yesterday.

When you bother to open your eyes and look around, you realize why it’s so dark. You never bothered to plug in your alarm clock and you can’t see the time on the stove from here, but it’s definitely still night. Quiet enough that it’s probably not even 4am yet.

You roll to turn around, but promptly end up yelping and falling right on your ass. The vague but bitter thought crosses your mind that you’ve somehow developed a habit of falling and injuring yourself in whatever bedroom you occupy.

Said bedroom door cracks open slowly. From your spot on the floor, you get to see a very tired Eddie—is he even actually awake?—slowly emerge from the opening door.

“Fuck was that,” he mutters, right before unhinging his jaw to yawn. You sigh and let yourself fall back on the floor, limp, staring up at a ceiling fan that refuses to work.

“Forgot where I was,” you say quietly, throwing an arm over your eyes. “Go back to bed dude.”

Eddie grunts, but you don’t hear the tell-tale squeaking and creaking of floorboards. Instead, when you move your arm out of the way just enough to see, you catch Eddie scratching the back of his head and looking back to the hallway. He clears his throat, and you cover your eyes again before he catches you staring.

He probably caught you staring way too much yesterday, so you’re not sure why it matters. It’s not like he’d make a big deal out of it anyways—not the way Steve and Robin did when they were helping you carry the sectional couch Mrs Henderson insisted you take from her basement.

(It’s fine, she had said, I can’t really look at that old thing anymore, she said. You didn’t ask, but you’d assumed that it was the same as everyone in Hawkins; just trying to get rid of all the leftovers from The Earthquake and what had preceded it.)

You’re jostled out of your thoughts when you feel Eddie’s shoulder—bare, from the cut-out Black Sabbath shirt he’s warning—against yours. He feels cool and clammy, like he’d been tossing and turning around in the heat, too.

“Ahh,” he sighs, folding his hands over his chest. “You had the right idea. Floor’s cold. Fuck this heat.”

You hum in agreement, and turn your head to properly look at Eddie.

“You could go back home,” you say quietly. When you don’t get an answer after a few seconds, you scoff lightly and turn to stare back at the ceiling. “At least he wouldn’t be boiling alive.”

You nearly squawk when you feel a hand taping on your hip. When you turn to look at Eddie again, his eyes are closed, still, but he’s very clearly frowning.

“Y’r being stupid,” he mutters, taking a deep breath before forcing himself to sit up, leaning back on his hands. He rotates his shoulders and—and he’s saying something else, you know he is. But there’s... there’s something about his shoulders.

Have they always been that wide?

You know your mouth is hanging open when Eddie turns to look back at you, and you only snap it shut with a click when you see him grinning.

“Didn’t catch a word I just said, huh.”

You try to speak a first time, but your voice cracks on the first syllable. Clear your throat and cough once or twice before trying again. This time you get yourself up on your feet and head for the door.

“Not a word. Too tired. Want a beer?”

Eddie blinks at you owlishly for a second before letting himself fall back to the floor. You’re about to take that as a silent refusal when he grumbles.

“Do you even know what time it is? Beer?”

You scoff again and cross your arms from your place at the door.

“What, like you do?”

Eddie simply raises an arm in response. You frown, open your mouth to ask why the fuck he’s raising his hand in your damn house, when you notice the watch still on his wrist.

(You try not to remember a very different, broken watch keeping time for the dead.)

“Right, well,” you dither, clearing your throat again. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Do you want a beer or not?”

Eddie sighs, putting on a show about being put out and disappointed and too tired, but the hand he rests low on your back to herd you out of the room is gentle. The quiet ‘sure’ he whispers also sounds far too caring and indulgent.

You practically inhale half of the first beer you pull from the fridge. If Eddie’s got any thoughts about that, he keeps them to himself. You sit down at the table—square, angular, nothing like the one that was in your hideout—and lean back in a chair that still smells like sawdust and campfire.

Leaning back in his own chair across from you, Eddie takes a slow look around. You see him pause to look at what you’ve already put up on the fridge. There’s a character sheet, a small pebble that’s been glued to a magnet, a note from your parents and a small magnetic photo frame. You can already feel your face heat up when Eddie points at it.

“That wasn’t there when we had pizza,” he says, slowly and a bit incredulously. You can only hold his gaze for a second or two when he turns to you for answers.

“I, uh,” you stutter, biting your lip and picking at the label of the bottle in your hands. “That’s—my mom, uh.”

It’s a polaroid.

By any other metric, completely unremarkable. Unnoticeable, probably, to anyone whose face isn’t actually on the damn thing. And if your mother hadn’t taken you aside yesterday morning to hand you a small, old and beaten-up looking shoebox, you probably wouldn’t ever have remembered that photo exists.

It’s Eddie, surrounded by trees, and wearing a cloak that had definitely been about twelve sizes too big. The hood swallows most of his head; the only thing that’s really visible is his smile. Honestly, most people probably wouldn’t even be able to tell that that’s Eddie Munson, in that photo.

But you remember taking that. Remember flapping the polaroid around madly while running away.

You shake your head against the memory. Those times are long gone, now. So why...

“Yeah,” you end up whispering, before taking a deep breath and letting out a deeper sigh. “I’unno. When my mom gave me an old box of pictures from middle school, I kind of...” You look over at the fridge and take another, albeit significantly more moderate, drag of your beer. “Dunno. Felt like it.”

Eddie slowly stands and walks over to the fridge. Takes a sip of his beer while he looks at the photo. Takes a quick look at you before taking a step back from the fridge to look at what all else you’ve put up there so far.

“You still got that box?” And bless him, you know he’s trying to be nonchalant about it, but there’s an anxious tone undercutting his voice clear as day. You chuckle and make your way back to your room and to your closet.

It’s only when you pull the small shoebox out and you’ve got it cradled in your arms do you realize the significance of this.

Almost everything that was in the trailer was lost; it’s honestly a miracle anything survived at all. But among the losses, you remember Wayne bemoaning the loss of the few pictures that he’d been able to take of Eddie over the years.

You look down at the box a bit more misty-eyed. You hope that there’s something helpful in here. Something nicer.

When you make it back to the living room, Eddie’s still standing in front of the fridge. His brows are pulled together and the sip he takes of his beer nearly dribbles down his chin. You hold the box a bit closer to your stomach when you move to stand next to him.

“What are we looking at?” you ask, and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin. You put a hand on his arm and laugh. “Hey there, have a nice time up in the clouds?”

Eddie laughs a bit thinly, points up at the fridge. “I was just. You kept the—the lyrics. From middle school?”

You stare up at the piece of turns, crumpled up ruled paper. You remember carrying that everywhere with you, in middle school and high school. Carried it in your wallet for a while, too, though...

You turn back to the table to gently put the shoebox down. “I didn’t think you’d remember writing that,” you say quietly, pulling up one small stack of photos neatly held together with a rubber band.

Eddie scoffs. “Are you kidding me? You basically whined at me for weeks to come up with a love song for... what was—”

“Shanon,” you add quickly, blindly reaching for your beer bottle while sorting through photos. “Blonde, grey eyes. You were infatuated.”

You don’t see the sad, self-deprecating grin on Eddie’s face.

“Shanon... yeah, no, didn’t write that for her.”

You take a second to bring the bottle down from your mouth. Turn around to look at Eddie, but he’s still resolutely looking at the paper haphazardly stuck to the fridge. It’s at an angle. It’s starting to drive you crazy. Eddie chugs the rest of his beer, puts the empty bottle on the counter by the fridge, and turns around.

“Woah there pal,” you start, chugging your own beer with a wince. You put the bottle back on the table behind you. “What’s that look for?”

You feel like your heart’s beating a frenzy in your throat. You’re pretty sure you just felt a heart palpitation. The look on Eddie’s face is intense in a way you don’t recognize. Not like when he's DMing and he’s about to throw a real wrench in everyone’s plans, and not like in the Upside Down.

No, it feels a lot like how he looks at you out in the fields by the junkyard.

You would take a step back when Eddie starts walking toward you, but you’re already leaning against the table behind you. You try to straighten up to maybe attempt to look less frazzled than you feel.

The beer’s already making your head feel fuzzy and your lips feel numb.

Eddie stops about a foot away from you, and you’re not sure how to feel about the fact that you have to crane your neck up to actually look at him. He opens his mouth, looking down at your with a frown. He tries a few times like this, before sighing and just.

Letting himself slump over to rest his head on your right shoulder.

You stay like that for a bit. You can hear the hitch in Eddie’s breath when he tries, again, to say something. After the third or fourth time, it feels like something’s squeezing your chest. He’s clearly got something on his chest he wants to get off—something heavy—and you know how that feels. How that goes.

Your left hand comes up to brace the back of his head before you can think of the implications.

Whatever. Fuck the implications.

“You can take your time, y’know,” you whisper, slowly slumping back to lean against the table behind you, forcing Eddie to take a step forward if he wants to stay in his spot.

“I can’t, I really can’t.” His voice sounds strained, and you flounder. You’ve never really had to struggle to get people to talk to you—not the people who actually give a fuck about you, anyways. And you can’t think of a single time, barring the obvious fuckery of the Upside Down, when Eddie was hesitant to talk to you.

He gently grabs the hand in his hair and pulls it away to straight himself out again. His eyes are closed when you can see his face again. He takes a deep breath and squeezes your hand.

“Listen—“

The phone rings.

You haven’t even put it up on the wall by the doorway yet. It’s still on the counter, where you’ve left it, right by the fridge.

The shock of it in the quiet of the dining room makes you trip over yourself. Eddie catches you and, practically in the same motion, spins to direct you to the phone. Out of breath, you pick up.

“Ye—hello?”

“Hey, hon,” comes Wayne’s tired greeting. “Sorry if I woke you up, but is Eddie still with you?”

You blink a few times, staring out into nothing. You only wonder for a second why he’d call so late when you’d likely be out cold, but when you turn to face Eddie—now leaning back against the table—the realization comes all at once.

“Ed—yes, oh my god, Wayne, I’m so sorry,” you rush to say, turning back to the counter and cradling the receiver. “Yeah, he helped me unpack and we kind of crashed, I should have had him call—”

“Hey, hey,” Wayne chuckles, and the lightness of the tone helps you breathe a bit easier. “It’s fine. Sorry I woke ya up.”

“Please don’t worry about it,” you reply quickly. “We’ve been up for a bit going through some stuff.”

“I won’t keep you then. Just tell that idiot son of mine to call next time.”

You let out a quiet bark of laughter and promise you will. You don’t think you’ve ever referred to Eddie as his son before. Guess the whole town going to shit changed a few things. Said idiot son has the decency to look a bit ashamed when you turn around and lean back against the counter.

“Probably shoulda called before we called it a night, huh,” Eddie says with a wince.

There’s a beat of silence that’s almost awkward before you clear your throat to speak.

“You uh, you were going to tell me something?”

Eddie stands there, expression not unlike shock on his face. He opens his mouth two or three times but eventually settles on a shrug.

“Don’t worry about it, I can’t even remember what I was going to say.” The end of his sentence almost trails off its so quiet. It’s clearly a lie, but you’re too fuzzy from the beer and fatigue from moving to push the issue any further.

You push yourself off the kitchen counter and brush your hands off on your thighs.

“Well,” you start, feeling a bit awkward while you amble toward the hallway. “I need to go back to bed. Let me know if...” It’s your turn to trail off, because you’re not sure how to end that sentence. Let you know if what, a demodog comes bursting in through the window?

You look anxiously over your shoulder at the window over the sink. It’s fine. It’s nothing, nothing’s there, you’re good. You clear your throat.

“Right, so. I’ll just.”

Eddie nods but doesn’t look at you. Your room is bright with birdsong and the rising sun by the time you fall asleep.

17 July 19861:37AM

You’re not entirely sure what motivated you to get out of bed, climb into your car, and make it to the Munsons’. It’s not like you couldn’t have just grabbed the phone and dialed Eddie’s shiny separate number. (You’re beginning to think the hush money bit was real.) You’ve called each other at the worst times of night and day for dumber shit.

This time, though, the nightmare felt a little too real to ignore and sleep off. Like you usually would have done.

It was like you had never existed; like everyone had gone into the Upside Down without you, without an extraction team, without a backup plan. And you had to watch while Eddie sliced the blanket rope. Horrified, you watched Dustin sprain his ankle in his rush to get back.

Eddie, gasping and choking on his own blood, saying he hadn’t run away this time. Eddie, glassy-eyed and gone, torn to shreds by bats left motionless by what you now know to have been Chief Hopper’s own attack all the way in Russia.

You take a second to control your breathing once you’re at the squat triplex. Eventually you uncurl your stiff and sore fingers from the steering wheel and force yourself out of the car. Your legs feel like jello and your head like lead.

You consider trying to climb up to the third floor, somehow, if only for a second. You know Wayne’s likely to be up so you shouldn’t worry too much about either ringing or knocking but... Shake your head and hit the button for the third floor before you can think more about it and chicken out.

You’re let in surprisingly quickly. When you make it up to door number 3, Wayne’s leaning against the doorway.

“Bit early,” he says, uncrossing his arms once you’re near. Puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes. “Everything okay?”

“Nightmares,” you answer quietly. You curl and uncurl your fists at your sides.

“Come on,” Wayne says after a beat of silence. “He’s in his room. Coffee?”

You shake your head. With one last squeeze of your shoulder. Wayne wanders back inside, and you aim straight for Eddie’s bedroom door. Your fist is up to knock when Eddie opens the door, looking disheveled but extremely awake.

“Hey,” he says airily, out of breath as he pulls his hair back into a low ponytail. “I was about to head out—you weren’t answering your phone so.”

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything or explain before pulling you in and shutting the door behind you. He throws his jacket—leather only, sans denim, as it has been for a few months now—over the back of the chair as his desk.

Nothing much else is said, which is how these nights usually go. Neither of you need to be rehashing what happened in the Upside Down, the earthquake, your constant passing out. Tonight, though, there is one thing that eats at you. Eddie has to nudge you, sitting next to him on his bed beneath the window, to pass the joint over. When you take it, he makes a point to lean forward to try and get a good look at your face.

“Did... did something happen? Before you got here?” he asks, and the concern in his voice twists your gut unpleasantly.

“It’s just—it’s nightmares. You know how it is.” You make a point not to take too deep of a toke of the joint before passing it back over, turning your head to blow the smoke out through the open window.

You can just barely see Eddie narrowing his eyes at you in your periphery. For a second, when he straightens up and leans back against the wall next to you, you think he’s dropped it.

“If it was just nightmares, you would’ve called.”

You snort and look the other way. Again, though, Eddie nudges you to turn around and take the joint. Carefully and, thankfully, not too quickly, he grabs your wrist as you grab the joint.

“Hey. Come on. Talk to me, please.”

Your eyes burn and you can already feel your nose getting red and itchy. Your whole face feels warm. Either to spare you the embarrassment of it or a second, secret reason, Eddie pulls you into his chest and you just start crying.

You’ve dreamt of people dying before. Tons of times. Even before El tore a massive hole through reality in Hawkins. But that—feeling powerless in a situation you know could’ve happened if you hadn’t just been around and stuck your nose where it arguably shouldn’t have been—and seeing Eddie die in a way you just couldn’t help?

That was brutal.

17 July 19869:12AM

You have no idea when you fell asleep. Your eyes feel sore and dry, your throat feels strange and your neck hurts. You’re cursorily aware that you’re in Eddie’s room—the smell of weed, incense and whatever cologne he wears usually gives it away.

Very quickly, you realize that you’ve fallen asleep on Eddie’s chest at an awkward angle. You’re both barely sitting up, still leaning back against the wall underneath the window. God, you drool on him. Fuck.

Okay, this is fine. You’ve literally had worse.

You take a deep breath and, as smoothly and quickly as you can, roll off the bed and onto your knees. It’s not graceful, but when you look back, Eddie still seems to be sound asleep. You pray to whatever’s out there that he stays that way until his shirt’s dry.

You tiptoe out of the room and turn the knob before shutting the door behind you. The rest of the apartment is empty, and with how late you heard Wayne ambling about, you’re sure he’s not ready to get up any time soon, either.

By the time you leave, there’s breakfast ready to be reheated in the oven and you’ve left a note on the coffee maker saying to just turn it on.

When you walk outside to your car, though the sun’s been up for a while, the fog still clings to the ground. You sit in your car for a few minutes, staring at the water droplets slowly evaporating on the windshield. When your heart rate has gone back down to something human and manageable, you start the car and head home.

13 August 198612:07AM

If you were bubbling with excitement before the concert, now you feel like soda that’s been left out for a few hours. Flat, maybe, but still just as sweet as it was before, if not moreso. You still feel all the enthrallment that you did before and during the concert, but now you feel...

Well, post-concert blues. That satisfied feeling of having witnessed something amazing, but the accompanying sadness and mourning knowing that you’ll never be able to relive this same experience again. It’s come and gone and now all you can do is remember it.

You slap your thighs to bring you out of your own head. This is going to be a good fucking night. Eddie literally bought you tickets to see Judas Priest and drove you both all the way out here. Refused to let you drive for a singular second, too.

“You still that hyped?” Eddie asks, laughing, holding his lighter out to you. You light up your own smoke and laugh.

“Nah, just trying to get my head back in the game. Too much shit rattling around in here.” You tap your head with the lighter before handing it back. Eddie takes a second before grabbing it, though, and you have to wave your other hand in front of him to snap him out of it.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s out of it,” you laugh, bumping his shoulder with yours when he finally takes the damn lighter back.

Quietly, from inside the van, you can hear the opening bars for Wild Nights.

“Yeah, well,” Eddie grunts, crouching down to tie the messy laces of his right shoe. “I’m the one who drove three hours to get here, and had to convince your parents that I wouldn’t murder you and dump your body in the river.”

You can’t help but cackle. You know for a fact that neither of your parents called the Munson household, but you also know that it’s something that they very easily could have done. Looking out at the White river from your little spot at the state park, you open your mouth to say something about how overprotective Wayne can be, but then something catches your eye.

“They literally,” you start, reaching over to pluck the scarf from Eddie’s back pocket. “Did not do that.” You twist the scarf around in your hands a bit before trying to whip it at his ass. You miss horribly and end up snapping the tip of the scarf on his thigh.

You burst out in laughter, full bellied and unrestrained, when Eddie yelps and topples over to the right. You try to apologize and ask if he’s okay, but you doubt that anything intelligible makes it past you wheezing, squeaking laughter.

“Alright, that’s it,” Eddie grumbles, tossing his half-smoke cigarette into the gravel before stalking towards you. He’s clearly not upset, but you make a mad dash for the riverbank anyways.

The toes of your shoes have just barely touched water before Eddie’s arms wrap around your torso and pull you back. You shriek and kick once or twice before letting yourself go limp.

Half an hour later finds you in some park along the 36, hair and clothes still damp and cheeks sore. You’re both sitting in the back of the van, doors open, passing a joint between you and looking out onto the park.

“I like what you’ve done with this old bitch,” you comment, tapping the plush—carpeting? blanket?—that Eddie’s laid down in the back. “Is there a camping mat under this or something?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, been going out in the woods after work sometimes just to like... relax, y’know?” You nod; you ran to the woods a lot as a kid, too. “Right, so I kinda made it more comfy to get high in. That’s it.”

When he passes you the joint, you look back at the front where you’d left the scarf. Handkerchief? You’ve had the question in mind ever since March: is he the S or is he the M?

“Seriously?” Eddie balks. “That’s what’s been on your mind this whole time?”

You turn to look at him and blink owlishly.

“Oh. Oh god, please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

Eddie laughs, and it almost sounds a little mean. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck and making its way to your face. Your cheeks itch with it.

“Right, you’re too baked and tired for this,” Eddie declares, and even to your ears he sounds way too composed and, frankly, sober. Though you guess he’s maybe had a bit more time to get used to smoking weed than you have.

“What, no!” You whine, trying to reach across him to snag the joint out of his left hand. Unfortunately, the best that’s done for you is get you splayed across Eddie’s lap once you inevitably lose your balance. “Fuck you.”

Eddie’s almost unnaturally still beneath you. And you’d look up at him, if you could, but even fucking cooked, you’re very aware that you’re laid across a man’s lap.

Your throat feels too tight when you swallow. You move to brace an arm on Eddie’s thigh to prop yourself up, but his hand on the back of your head has you freezing in place. When the hand starts petting down your head, your neck and your spine, only to start again at the top, you start to go limp. This isn’t so bad.

“Yeah,” Eddie scoffs, and you get the feeling you’ve spoken out loud again. “You would think that.” The embarrassment is enough to make your eyes sting. There’s a beat of silence, and then Eddie leans over to whisper in your ear, “Good girl.”

You swallow thickly. You had intended to follow-up by asking whether or not Eddie was even interested in the opposite gender. But you suppose that answers that.

There’s a tension in your gut and shoulders that makes you second guess yourself. You get the words out before you can think too much about it.

“What do I have to do for you to say that again?”

The hand petting you takes its time reaching the bottom of your spine, and then stays there. Warm against your lower back, and just high enough to say he’s not actually touching your ass. Awfully cordial.

“Depends,” Eddie hums, and you hear him take another toke of the joint before crushing the tip of it between his fingers and chucking the extinguished butt somewhere you can’t see. “Why?”

This time, you do prop yourself up, both hands on Eddie’s thigh. If it had been anyone else, the distance between your faces would have been the epitome of discomfort.

“I want you to say it again,” you answer quietly. It’s getting harder to keep your eyes on his and not let them drift down.

“Say what again?” Eddie asks, and you don’t know if you love or hate the shit eating grin on his face. You should have expected this, though; putting you on the spot was part of the whole point, wasn’t it?

“I-I want you to...” you start, but your throat feels too small for the words that are trying to come out. Eddie’s hand at your lower back comes up to rub comforting circles between your shoulder blades. Your face and neck are on fire and everything feels itchy.

“Come on,” Eddie whispers. You realize that you’ve been staring at his mouth, and when you look, he is very much looking down at your mouth. “Won’t laugh. Promise.”

The sigh that leaves you almost surprises you.

“I-I want you to—I want you to call me a good girl. Again. Please.”

The hand between your shoulders makes its way forward to cup your jaw.

“Good girl,” Eddie breathes, and it’s like your whole body vibrates, shudders with the satisfaction of it. “Fuck,” he chuckles, swiping his thumb across your cheekbone. “You’re really into that.”

You want to say that you shrugged, but the reality is that the sound that comes out of your mouth couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a whimper.

“Can I—” Eddie starts asking, but you cut him off nearly right away.

“Yes.”

You would think kissing your childhood best friend, whom you’d lost touch with for several years and had recently gone through several traumatic events with, would be somewhat awkward and clumsy. But, unlike when you were teenagers, you and Eddie both, clearly, had the advantage of some gained experience in the meanwhile.

There’s no chastity in the kiss; from the moment his mouth locks with yours, it’s open-mouthed and breathless. Eddie pulls you closer, helps you sit across his lap properly, and you fist your hands in his shirt. In his brand new Judas Priest shirt. You know he doesn’t even particularly like Turbo, as an album. Almost none of it is his preferred style.

You whine into the kiss, and you chase Eddie’s lips when he pulls away. He helps shift you off his lap and quickly instructs you to move back and lie down. The van is plunged into near pitch-black. You move back until you feel what you think is the back of the driver’s seat. You don’t lie back yet, instead reaching out for Eddie.

Your hand knocks into what’s apparently his arm. His mouth finds your again in the dark as your fingers find their way into his hair. You gasp when Eddie roughly pulls you down, firmly gripping your hips one second and cradling your head to make sure you don’t hit it the next.

“You sure this is fine?” Eddie asks, though his lips are moving down to your neck, teeth nipping at the skin.

“It’s fine, this is fine,” you rush to say, letting your hands wander up under Eddie’s shirt. You’re sure to keep your touch light when you come across the scars. “This is so fucking fine,” you breathe.

Eddie’s shirt rises with your wandering hands, and he gives you a second to pull it over his head. You have no idea where you toss it and you honestly couldn’t care less. His hands, in return, take the opportunity to make their way under your shirt, and you want to scream. Your entire body feels like a coil being wound tighter.

It’s unfamiliar, how intense it is. You don’t think you mind.

Eddie knocks your knees open to settle between your legs rather than straddling you, though you’re more preoccupied by your shirt—identical to Eddie’s, because you couldn’t help yourself—being peeled off and thrown into an equally unknowable direction. His hands on your ribs feel like irons smoothing out the trembling wrinkles of them, and the shuddering sigh that you let out makes Eddie chuckle.

“Poor thing,” he laments, one hand at your waist prompting you to arch your back, the other sliding up your back to somehow expertly undo the clasp of your bra. “Been holding out for a while, huh.”

It’s not a question. You twitch, about to bring your hands up to hide your face, but—there’s no real point, is there? In this kind of darkness, it’s not like he’d be able to see how red your face is. You have a feeling he’d reprimand you for trying to hide, anyways.

“Didn’t think you’d wanna look at me,” you breathe into his mouth. Saying it out loud makes it feel silly, especially here and now. You don’t hold it against him when Eddie laughs. You can hear the shock in it.

“We’re both idiots,” he mutters, trailing kisses from the corner of your mouth, down your neck, nipping at the collarbone on the way. He presses his lips to your sternum, hands gliding up your sides to palm at your breasts. Nothing like the fumbling messes of your first adult years; Eddie’s hands are slow and deliberate. He’s not feeling you up for his own sake—though you don’t doubt that it in no small way contributes to the hardening length you feel growing at the junction of your thigh—but for yours. This feels entirely like a massage for your benefit.

To his credit, it’s working. Whatever tension you were holding in your shoulders is slowly melting away under his hands.

His mouth continues its trail down, licking a stripe up your navel before he stops at the button of your shorts. You don’t let him ask, you just unbutton them for him. He doesn’t move until he hears you start to pull at the zipper. He doesn’t leave you time to pull it down all the way before he’s tugging your shorts off like they’ve personally offended him.

The cold air makes you realize he’s taken your underwear with them. He lightly rests his forehead on your stomach and breathes in. It almost makes you choke.

“God you smell good,” he growls against your skin. While his mouth trails kisses back up your torso, you feel one hand sliding gently up your chest to rest at the base of your throat. The other slides two fingers through your slit.

Eddie groans like he’s in pain.

“I won’t—not here, fuck,” Eddie mutters, nuzzling between your breasts, and you buck your hips into his hands when one of his slicked fingers finds your clit. “First time we gotta do it right but this, we can—I can give you this,” he whispers, so low you figure he must be talking to himself more than he is to you.

One finger prods at your entrance, and then he’s got two fingers inside of you. The first few pumps, though heaven, don’t do much. But then Eddie curls his fingers, and it’s like he’s a puppeteer who’s pulled on all of your strings all at once. He exhales sharply and sounds entirely too pleased with himself when he speaks.

“There she is,” he whispers, mouthing at the spot on your neck just below your ear. The warmth makes you shiver and clamp down on his finger. “Fuck, that’s it.”

Eddie’s hand practically turns into a machine. You don’t think you’ve ever been able to get yourself so close to cumming in less than a minute. The hand at the base of your neck creeps just a little bit higher. When you gasp at the pressure his fingers apply, you have to grab at Eddie’s wrist to keep his hand there.

“You’re perfect,” Eddie sighs, and you can feel more than see him toss his head back. “Fuck, wish I could see your face right now.”

“Next time,” you reply quickly. “Please, fuck, I’m so close, please please please,” you whine, reaching your other hand down to rub at your clit.

“Holy shit that’s so fucking hot,” Eddie groans, and bites down on your neck, just above where his hand collars it nicely.

The sting is what sends you careening over the edge, cumming with a drawn-out moan. Your hips jerk erratically in spite of yourself, chasing Eddie’s fingers as he fucks you through your orgasm. When your arms go limp, you distantly register the sound of his belt coming undone and the distinct sound of him spitting. There’s a slick sound and it doesn’t take long for you to realize that.

That Eddie Munson is jerking off over your naked body.

“Fucking christ,” you whisper, out of breath, and force yourself to sit up.

“Fuck,” Eddie moans, and you blindly reach out for him. He grabs one of your hands on his chest, laces his fingers tightly through yours. Your other hand, however, makes it down to his, wrapped around and pump his cock.

You shimmy back just enough to be able to lean down to lick the tip.

“Jesus f—I’m gonna,” Eddie chokes out. He doesn’t finish his sentence when you bat his hand away and wrap your lips around the tip of his cock and suck.

You swallow more of him down as he cums, swallowing around him once or twice before he brushes a hand up your forehead and lightly pushes you back and away. You kiss his navel, instead, then his sternum, until he pulls you up with two hands cupping your face, and makes you kiss him, instead.

You didn’t think you’d be turned on by a guy kissing you after you’ve just swallowed his load, but there are apparently a lot of things you’ve yet to discover about yourself.

Carefully, mouths still touching but not quite kissing, Eddie maneuvers you both so that he can lie down on his back, and you can lay your head on his chest.

You throw a leg over his for good measure.

“I’m not moving anymore,” you groan, burrowing your face into his chest.

“Can’t blame ya,” Eddie says, breathless, and you can’t help but laugh.

There’s a moment of silence, and then both of you start laughing. The bouncing of his chest makes it hard to stop laughing. Your gut hurts, your cheeks hurt, and you are entirely too sweaty. You could not care less.

“So,” Eddie starts, once you’ve both been able to calm down and breathe like normal people again. “You mentioned a next time?”

You hum and close your eyes against the darkness in the back of the van.

“Mm, it did not escape my notice that the handcuffs were something you managed to rescue from the trailer,” you mumble, throwing an arm over Eddie’s chest and squeezing.

“...I don’t think I hate the idea of you in chains, actually.”

September 2nd, 19867:58AM

You’re woken up entirely too early by your phone ringing. You don’t need to look at the time to know it’s too early; if you can’t hear cars driving around yet, it’s too fucking early.

“Mmn, gmorning, what,” you slur, wedging the phone between your chin and shoulder and rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Morning to you too, sunshine,” Eddie greets you brightly, and the warmth that bubbles up in your chest at the sound of his voice feels almost euphoric.

“You’re a weapon,” you say fondly, moving from where you’ve finally wall-mounted the phone to the wall by the fridge and making your way to the kitchen counter, which you promptly hop up on. “Wait,” you whisper, leaning forward to look at the calendar you’ve stuck to the fridge. “It’s September 2nd.”

“Mhm, congratulations, you can correctly identify the date.”

You ignore the snark.

You have entirely forgotten to ask Eddie whether or not he’d been made to repeat his senior year—again—despite everything that had happened over spring break. It felt awkward to ask now, though.

“You, uh,” you stutter instead, trying to find the least offensive way to go about finding out. “You’re calling, uh, early. Special occasion?”

“Of course,” Eddie says haughtily, and you can almost imagine the expression on his face. The kind that says ‘I know something you don’t and I know you’re too much of a coward to ask about it’.

“Come on just say it man,” you plead, letting your head fall back and reaching up to keep the receiver in place.

“My lady, I’m sure I don’t know what you speak of.”

“Fucking dick,” you say under your breath. Take a deep breath, bring your head back up and square your shoulder. “Edward Munson, did they or did they not let you graduate?”

Eddie lets out a bark of laughter so loud you have to pull the receiver away from your ear for a second. His tone and demeanor make you want to believe that he’s finally been cut some slack, but...

You manage to get a single sound out before there’s a knock at your door. You hold the phone away from yourself again, narrow your eyes at it like it’s Eddie in your hands instead of the receiver, and put it back to your ear. You cut off whatever he was saying when you speak again.

“You wouldn’t happen to know why there’s someone knocking on my door at,” you pause, turning to look at the time on the stove. “One past eight in the fucking morning?”

“Dunno, sounds important if it’s this early though,” Eddie replies, a bit too easily, and you sigh.

“Whatever, I’m putting the phone down. Don’t hang up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You huff and put the phone down on the counter, making sure it won’t fall off. By the time you make it to your front door, whoever’s there has decided that knocking nonstop is clearly the best way to get your attention.

You honestly should have expected Dustin Henderson at your doorstep at eight in the morning on back to school day. He’s suspiciously got an arm behind his back. You sigh, again, and unlock the deadbolt and undo the latch before opening the door.

“Alright,” you say, one hand on your hip and the other hand held out. “Fork it over.”

“I have no idea—” Dustin starts to say, but the deadpan stare you level at him makes him clear his throat instead. “Right! Here you go.”

“Thank you kindly, now hold up,” you say, holding a finger up and quickly walking over to your fridge to pull a bottle of water out. When you’re halfway back to the door, you call out, “Heads up!” and toss the bottle over.

Dustin barely manages to catch the thing, but doesn’t do so without a comical amount of fumbling.

“Awesome, now that you’ve done your Dungeon Master’s bidding, go the fuck to school, nerd,” you chastise, flicking the bill of Dustin’s cap.

“Man, you’re mean, you know that?”

“Sure, that’s why I’m making sure you’re staying hydrated on that damn bike,” you retort, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Go on now, shoo. Go get an education.”

You wait until you can’t see Dustin down the road anymore before closing and locking the door, and wandering back over to the phone.

“Alright,” you say, wedging the receiver under your chin again and tearing open the envelope you’d been handed. “This better be worth it. I was up until 3am and I’m fucking beat.”

Eddie stays quiet, but you can practically feel the frantic energy of him through the phone. You pull the paper—papers, it’s a whole damn stack of them—and then promptly drop them all on the kitchen floor when you catch the title on the first page.

“Edward,” you start, tone harsh.

“Hey, woah, okay,” Eddie rushes to start. “Okay, I graduated, right? Like, everyone was let through because of all the bullshit. That’s not really important right now though?”

“Ed,” you start again, lower and calmer. “That thing said ‘Thrasher Records’. I don’t fucking know who they are but there’s fucking record in the name, babe.”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes. You can hear the face-splitting smile. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper, and you know he can hear the smile splitting your face, too.

You don’t change out of your sleep shorts and Judas Priest shirt. You’re at the Munsons’ in just under five minutes—which, yes, is probably a little bit criminally fast, but it’s not like Hopper’s gonna care—only to find out that Edward fucking Munson hadn’t even told his own damn father.

You give your boyfriend just enough shit for him to want to make up for it.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

@bramblequill @storiesbyrhi @averagestudent03 @alovesongtheywrote @doratheignora @fnlyroe

#ravenloft #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #slow burn #smut #THIS ONE HAS SMUT #NINETEEN CHAPTER SLOW BURN BABY LETS FUCKING GO #nineteen fucking chapters man #anyways #mild d/s if you squint #this is my baby man #my magnum opus #until i make another one anyways

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