#and you're stuck in the past grasping at straws | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 2 years

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𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

part one | part two | part three | part four

summary you're a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. queue smiley face oatmeal, grossly misused power tools, desserts on the living room floor, a haircut, and an abundance of nerd metaphors [15k]

warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie's birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie ends up being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general loneliness, mentions of a shitty/traumatic pregnancy, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, you wash eddie's hair!!!! this was low-key requested by anon

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie opens the door and finds a little girl on the steps of his house. Little girl feels generous – she's barely more than a baby. In a set of tiny matching pajamas and white socks stained green from the morning grass, she looks up at him with wide, sad eyes.

"Hey," he says carefully. "Hey, sweetheart."

"Good morning," she says, though it comes out blurry.

"Good morning," he repeats with a breathless laugh, instantly endeared.

He curls his hand around the railing and squats down. She really is very cute and obviously well looked after, although he realises upon closer inspection that she's been crying.

"Where's your mommy?" Eddie feels silly as he asks, but what else do you say when you find kids by themselves?

He's not really expecting her to know the answer. She pouts her small mouth and Eddie freezes up.

"Mommy.” Her breath quivers.

"Don't cry," he says very gently.

It doesn't work, obviously, and she starts whimpering in a way that turns Eddie's heart entirely.

"Let's find mommy, okay? Do you wanna do that? Wanna come and find mommy with me?"

"Yes," she says, though it quickly draws up into a sharp cry.

Eddie treks down the stairs and turns back, waiting. The little girl looks down at the steps and her eyebrows furrow as she places one foot after the other, looking like her socks are stuck to a fly trap.

He holds his hand out. "You got it," he says encouragingly, wiggling his fingers.

Her relief is palpable. Her brows smooth as she takes his hand, so small he can cover her entire palm with the meat of his thumb. She wobbles down the steps and then hesitates at the damp ground awaiting.

Eddie drops his gaze to her wet feet.

She looks up at him. Eddie doesn't think she means to but her eyes are pleading,and he's already moving to pick her up when she lifts her arms into the air.

She's heavier than he anticipates. He quickly gets used to the weight, shifting her against his side with his arm under her butt, her damp foot digging into his abdomen. She rests one hand on his shoulder and the other reaches for his hair. He can't help smiling at her as she pets the dark mess, hand clumsy but well-intentioned.

He walks down past the van and onto dark asphalt, looking up and down the road to see if anyone's around. He figures she has to be a trailer park kid – she can't have walked very far, and she'd been waiting outside. She must've gotten mixed up and thought his trailer was her own, which hopefully means her mom lives close.

The steps up into his trailer are on the right side. Eddie guesses she's come from the right. It's not a great assumption — he's grasping at straws.

"What's your name?" he asks.

She's taken a lock of his hair into her hands. Eddie worries for a second that she's going to try eating it but she only waves it around, looking pleased.

"I'm Eddie."

"Dee," she says.

"Almost. Eh-dee," he spells out, again not actually expecting her to understand what he's saying. He's unsure about kids her age – he's unsure what age she even is.

She babbles something unintelligible and Eddie hikes her higher up his chest. He strides out of the cool shadow and blinks, shielding his eyes against the yellow-white glare of sunshine. The little girl hides her face in his hair.

He hasn't walked very far when he sees you behind the trailer three doors down, pinning clothes that look the same size as the girl's pajamas to a clothesline with unhurried hands. The front door is wide open.

"Your poor mommy," he murmurs as he approaches, "out here doing the laundry by herself and you're halfway to Indianapolis. Musta got turned around, huh?"

You drop a small light blue dress on the floor and cuss just loud enough for Eddie to hear it. You pick it up fast and brush it down, looking over the fabric worriedly.

Eddie cuts over soft grass, giving the baby's waist a pat and holding her ears away from his mouth as he raises his voice. "Hey, is this your kid?" he asks.

You flinch toward him and your eyes go wide – wide, your lips parting and your brows jumping down like you might start yelling.

You're really fucking pretty.

Eddie’s quick to placate you. "She was sitting on my front steps."

You still don't look very happy though your suspicion melds to confusion and then a stab of too-late worry. You rush towards them and Eddie turns his body to encourage the girl's gaze to you. His chest warms when she perks up.

She wriggles in his arms impatiently and Eddie's surprised by how quickly she starts to cry, reaching out for you with insistent grabbing hands as he passes her over.

"It's okay," you say softly, tucking her into your chest.

The difference in body language is unmissable. Where she'd been restless (though more than pleasant) in Eddie's arms, she completely melts into yours. Her little face presses into your neck and her legs curl up. You pat her butt soothingly. "It's okay, baby. Where have you been?" You look up at him for an answer with concern lining your pretty features.

"I'm only three down," he says.

"Oh… Thank you," you say roughly.

Your gratitude is unnecessary. "That's okay. She's real sweet. I opened the door and the first thing she said was, 'good morning,'" he recalls with an easy smile.

Joy lightens your entire face. He feels his breath catch in his throat.

"She did? She said that?"

"Yeah, she did.” He tries not to sound as confused as he feels.

Your eyes close with the force of your smile. You encourages your toddler’s face back and drop your chin to plant kisses all over her tiny cheeks. Eddie feels something foreign yawning in his chest as she starts to laugh, a tinkling sound that's sugar sweet.

He scratches his neck and pretends to look over his shoulder, tamping his smile back into a neutral expression.

"She's having trouble talking," you say, lifting your head as the baby's giggles taper off. "She can talk, she says 'mommy' all the time, but she's s'posed to be saying more 'cos she's almost two and I know she can do it, she's so smart, but-" You cut yourself off and laugh all breathless and sheepish. "Sugar, I'm sorry. I mean- Sorry. Thank you," it almost bursts from you, "for bringing her back. I don't know…"

"You just moved in, right?" You nod. "The lock on the front door- they're all exactly the same, you just gotta shake it and it unlocks. Even someone small as her can could get it open with enough determination."

"She can be very determined," you say ruefully, voice hushed. You're still patting her butt, swaying her from side to side. Eddie's in awe at how quickly she's settled, her button features crumpled by a big yawn. "Always gets what she wants."

"I bet she does, she's a total heartbreaker."

You take a step towards him, your beat up sneakers half a foot from his converse. "She can't help it, she was born this pretty," you say. He loves how braggy you sound.

"I can see where she gets it."

As soon as he says it he wishes he could take it back. Not because he doesn't think it's true – you're really something else – but because he doesn't want to creep you out.

Luckily, he's rewarded for his bravery by another beaming smile, your words warm as you tell him, "They said she was the prettiest baby they'd seen in twenty years up in Eskenazi general."

The name pricks his ears. "You're from Indianapolis?"

"Kind of." You tilt your head to the side. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Eddie." He could applaud himself on how normal he sounds and how not normal he feels.

"Eddie, I'm Y/N. D'you wanna come in for coffee? Or I can make you some breakfast? To say thank you for taking care of my Junie."

"Junie," he repeats, surprised.

You shift from foot to foot. "She's a June baby. And she's getting kind of heavy these days, so. Breakfast?"

He follows you up the steps and through the back door.

"You can leave it open," you say over your shoulder.

He catches an eyeful of your bathroom, an organised chaos that smells intoxicating, the rich scent of jasmine heavy in the humidity chased by something softer. Talcum powder, he thinks.

You murmur something to Junie too quiet to hear and she rouses from her dozing, grizzling weakly.

"It's breakfast time! Is that what you tried to come and find me for, some breakfast? So impatient," you scold her lightly, smiling all the while as you set her into a bright blue high chair with a big yellow duck with orange flippers printed on the cushioning.

You squeeze one of her feet and frown. "Your socks are wet. Did you go swimming in the grass?"

Eddie leans against the doorway leading into the kitchen. He doesn't have any experience with kids. You make it look easy, pulling off her stained socks while she wiggles her protest and tickling the soles of her feet with the tip of your finger until she's happy again.

You turn back to him, socks clutched in your hand. "I'm gonna make oatmeal. Is that something you…"

"I'm an oatmeal fiend."

You grin and do a lap to close the front door. "Sit down. I'll get you some coffee? I got milk and brown sugar."

He throws himself into the seat next to the high chair with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Brown sugar? Sweetness, you're spoiling me."

Junie laughs. Eddie pulls himself up into a proper sitting position and gawps at her exaggeratedly. "What's funny, little lady?"

She giggles some more. Eddie leans his elbow on the tray of the high chair and pretends to glare at her. "I can already tell you're trouble."

"She likes you."

"Yeah?" he asks, looking at you over his shoulder.

You're half obscured by cabinets as you poke your head out, an open sack of rolled oats in one hand and a small pan in the other. You nod happily and move to the sink. He can hear the sound of the faucet and the burner clicking on, the saucepan sliding over the stovetop.

"I like you," he says to Junie quietly, rapping his knuckles on the tray. "But don't tell anyone, okay? I have a reputation."

"So, uh, how long have you lived here?" you call, almost smothered by the rushing sound of oats tipping into hot water.

Junie makes a funny face like she might sneeze. Eddie watches. "Since I was a kid." He's smiling as he talks, amazed when Junie starts to smile back. He nods his head gently up and down to encourage her. "Too long. Not that it's not nice here."

Junie looks like she agrees.

"For sure, but.. not always where you picture yourself," you say tentatively.

He hums his agreement. "Whatever though, right? A roof is a roof. Even when the roof is made of cardboard and corrugated metal. I mean, all things considered, this is a well kept vessel."

He's not just trying to make you feel better – you really are making a go of it. There's not nearly as much clutter or decoration as his own home but it's twice as clean and every surface brags a clear affection – you fucking love your daughter. There's a framed photo of her as she looks now at the mantle without a single fingerprint on the glass, baby photos in smaller frames hang on the wall.

Smallest of all, a photo of the two of you together. Your hands on her shoulders, your lips and nose pressed to her forehead. You're not looking at the camera, but Junie is, and she's exuberant.

Toys, though few, are arranged neatly under the TV. It's really the type of clean that takes hours. He wonders how you'd ever make time for it.

"You got a job?"

"Yeah, I'm waitressing at Benny's?" You say it like a question. "The burger place?"

"Yeah, I know the one. Randolph Lane, near the laundromat. Does Junie go with you?" he asks. He cooes Junie's name and feels very happy when the girl in question smiles some more, reaching out with her hands. Eddie offers up the same palm she'd taken before and lets her squeeze his fingers in a surprisingly tight grip. "She looks like a working girl."

"Benny said I could bring her with me until she starts daycare next week, so she really is a working girl." You giggle madly and Junie loves the sound, her chubby cheeks rounding as she smiles.

"I knew it," Eddie whispers conspiringly. "You have the face for it."

Junie laughs like something is truly hysterical and Eddie can't believe it, squeezing the small girl's smaller fingers in his and waving their joined hands together.

"She really likes you," you say, closer now.

You set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He pulls his hand from Junie's and moves the hot mug away from the high chair though she'd never be able to reach it as you set your own mug and a pint of milk half-full across from him, the brown sugar you'd promised in a pink and orange ceramic dish with a lid that clinks as he pulls it off.

You double back into the kitchen. This time you bring a baby bottle full of what he guesses is diluted juice and two teaspoons, handing him one with a quiet, "For you."

"Why thank you," he drawls.

He spoons a generous hill of crumbly brown sugar into his cup and swirls.

"The oatmeal needs to soften. Is there anything you want with it? I've got lots of options," you tell him, pouring milk into your own mug. When you're done you and Eddie swap.

He thinks maybe you sound a little nervous and wonders if he's the first neighbour you've met. Or maybe you're still freaked out about Junie.

He raises his eyebrows but doesn't look at you as he splashes milk into the dark recesses of his coffee, watching as it bursts back up to the surface and turns the drink a more acceptable brown. "What do you usually have?"

"Junie gets peanut butter and blueberries."

He tilts his head toward his shoulder just slightly and plants his elbows on the table, the rim of his mug held in tenuous fingertips.

"What do you get?" he asks, thinking that if the baby gets such a sweet treat you must get something equally impressive. He thinks of raspberries and chia seeds, flakey sea salt and bitter dark chocolate.

You blink. "What?"

"What do you have, on your oatmeal?" He punctuates his question with a sip.

"Salt. Sometimes raisins."

You make a nice cup of coffee. Eddie holds it in both hands and leans into the table. "That's it?"

You shrug. Junie starts to whimper about something Eddie doesn't understand. You reach out to hold her hand. "She loves blueberries. Don't you, Junie?"

"Blue," Junie says.

You're smiling as you take another small spoonful of brown sugar. You lick the tip of your finger and dip it into the well of the spoon until a few grains are sticking to you and hold it up to Junie's lips. "She loves sugar, too, but toddlers aren't s'posed to have it. Or so they say." You smile as she sucks the sugar off before wiping your spit wet finger in your pants.

Daughter appeased for a moment, you hold your chin in your palm and turn your attention to him. "Where do you work?"

He imagines this is how a plant feels when the sun comes out. "The Hideout, for now. I'm a very essential and irreplaceable bus boy." He nods very seriously.

"What's after?"

"Music."

Your lips curl into an interested smile. "Music? You a singer?"

"I have a great set of windpipes," he says agreeably, grinning. "But I'm a guitarist."

"And you're in a band?"

"I- I was. Yeah, we were good, too, but everybody graduated and our drummer skipped town. I just sub rhythm guitar for whoever wants me to."

"At the Hideout?"

"At the Hideout." He decides on his next words carefully. You could come see me play. Weak. You're welcome to come see it for yourself. Too strong? You're welcome to come by one night. Bring Junie.

He's not asking you on a date; he's a new acquaintance extending an invitation for you to get out and see a new place. That's all it is.

He opens his mouth to try and suddenly there's a loud clattering. Eddie flinches, blinks, finds that Junie has thrown her bottle of juice across the room.

Eddie waits for you to maybe tell her off like some of the mom's he's seen at Bradley's. A glare, a hissing remark to be good.

You reach over and your shirt rides up your back. Eddie averts his gaze guiltily.

You put the bottle back on the tray, giving him an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, Junie has recently discovered that every time she drops something I'll pick it up for her."

"Smart Junie."

The bottle falls to the floor again. "She's a genius." You don’t sound entirely pleased, picking the bottle up again and holding it just out of Junie's reach. You shake it up and down. "S'juice. You like juice," you try to reason with her.

Junie reaches for it. You purse your lips. "Be good," you say softly.

Junie takes the bottle and shakes it.

It's a small victory and still softens every feature. Your eyes squint, your bottom lip juts out a touch, your nostrils flare with a pleased inhale.

"Thanks, junebug."

"Tanks," Junie says.

"Thanks," you repeat, bubbly baby talk. "Thanks. Say thanks, Junie."

Eddie watches you encourage her over his coffee. It's quiet, peaceful here in a way nowhere else in his life has ever been besides quiet Sunday mornings with his Uncle. There's only the sound of the gas stovetop burning and your happy, patient voice.

Junie says "Tanks," a couple more times. You don't give up. When she finally says something that sounds almost like a "Thanks," you whip your gaze to his.

"Did you hear that?" you ask. Your pride is evident.

He puts down his half empty mug. "She said it."

"She said it," you repeat, your shoulders moving in the tiniest happy dance he's ever seen. You stand up and take her face into delicate hands. "She's my smarty pants. Aren't you, baby?"

You dot a kiss over her head and head back into the kitchenette.

"Tanks," Junie says animatedly, running on an affection high. She accidentally knocks her bottle over.

"Thanks, Junie," Eddie corrects, righting it.

He finds it easier to baby talk than he imagined. Being nice to little kids – that's easy. Especially as he gets older. When they hit the pre-teen mark is when he starts to steer clear, but even then he can't help doting on them sometimes. Like his club – idiots, annoying idiots, but his annoying idiots. He doesn't hold back with them. He doesn't feel like he's holding back now, either, it's just different.

Baby's want love. Care and affection.

And to pull Eddie's hair, apparently.

Junie's reaching over the gap with a fierce look on her face. Eddie pulls his chair closer and decides to let her try it out. She hadn't given him any reason to worry before, and she doesn't now as she takes a chunk of his hair into her hand. She pulls very gently, likely more that her fingers have gotten caught in his messy curls than any maliciousness.

"What's your fascination with my hair?" he asks her.

In her own home Junie's very noisy. When he'd found her outside she hadn't done much besides whimper weakly. Now, she's a riot of gurgling and humming.

"Are you a singer, Junie?" he asks.

"She sings all the time! She loves the Muppet Babies on TV, but I- uh, I haven't been able to actually get cable, yet. But when I get paid next week…" You come back into view with two bowls in hand. "She'll be in her oils."

Eddie says thanks as you put a bowl down in front of him. There's a smiley face there made up of berries with banana slices for eyes. He feels something crawling up his throat and has no idea what it is, and then something completely different when he sees your own bowl, a stretch of plain oatmeal with no delicious adornment.

You leave and quickly return with a smaller bowl, a baby spoon and a jar of peanut butter.

"Do you want some?" you ask, opening the jar to push the baby spoon inside. "I would've just put it in anyway but then I worried you were allergic."

You hand it off to Junie and she licks at it happily.

"Sure, I'll have some. Where's your smiley face?" he asks.

Your eyes widen slightly. Eddie's not academically inclined but he's never been stupid, and he sees it for what it is, something he's seen in himself and in every other poor kid who didn't bring lunch to school.

"I don't really like bananas," you say.

Whether you're lying or not isn't something he needs to know.

"Well, you're gonna have to share the blueberries with me, I can't eat this much fruit. I got a hearty diet of chips and microwave oven dinners to uphold."

Eddie shovels half of the smile into your bowl. You clutch your spoon in your hand like you want to protest, but no way is he gonna watch you miss out on nice things in your own home.

You smile and don't say anything for a while, rubbing the edge of the bowl with your spoon, your thoughts somewhere else.

Junie's food sits billowing steam in the middle of the table, which annoys the poor girl endlessly. She wiggles and murmurs and sucks at her empty spoon with a growing line between her brows.

Eddie eats and feels much better when you finally start to eat your own meal, leaning back in his chair heavily to loll his head towards Junie. "Your mom makes amazing oatmeal. You're really missing out."

You choke on a laugh and grab her spoon to load up with another small heap of peanut butter. "That is so cruel to lord over her,” you say. “I can't give it to her yet! It's scorching. She has a fragile mouth."

"I'm sure."

He picks one of his blueberries out of the bowl and offers it to Junie, who takes it slowly despite her previously rabid hunger

More oatmeal eating. Eddie ends up giving the rest of his fruit to Junie, your generous dollops of peanut butter more than enough to enjoy the oatmeal. He might argue it doesn't need any adornment at all.

You stir peanut butter into Junie's bowl and wrestle the baby spoon out of her tight grip.

It's a process to watch. You scoop up oatmeal, blow on it until you're sure it's cool, and push it into Junie's mouth efficiently. There's a method to it, the way you lift the handle of the spoon so oatmeal doesn't drip straight back out of her mouth. When it does you scrape the lip gently against her chin to catch it before it ruins her shirt.

It starts to rain. Hard not to notice, a light drizzle opens and sprays down against the windows and for a moment there's no reaction. Then, gasping, you drop Junie's bowl back onto the table in stress.

"Shit, the laundry. Are you okay to watch her please? Sorry. I'll be five seconds," you say, already heading for the back door.

"Sure.” He sounds about as startled as he feels.

The back door shushes open and your feet dip down the steps. Junie is not very pleased with her breakfast getting put on pause, her face growing as unpleasant as the weather outside.

"Mommy," she says, unhappy and loud.

Eddie doesn't think about it as he picks up her bowl. It's more a pulse of feeling than a thought. Feed her and she won't cry.

He blows on a spoonful of oatmeal with likely too much vigour.

Junie's still complaining as he holds it in front of her face. If she's surprised to be fed by somebody who isn't her mom she doesn't show it, her sticky face growing suddenly slack as she realises her oatmeal is back in play. Her lips part.

He feeds her oatmeal, does a very bad job, and tries to gather what's escaped with the spoon as Junie waves her hands around and pokes at spilled food on the white tray in front of her. By the time you come back damp and breathless with the cold chasing your heels he's successfully managed to feed her what was left of her breakfast. He's embarrassed to be caught but tries not to show it.

"You okay?" he asks, looking you up and down amicably.

"S'only a little rain." You push the laundry basket onto the sofa and smile sheepishly. "You didn't have to do that."

"And have the precious little lady starve?"

"Starve!" you repeat, a feigned incredulousness to your tone.

"She was giving me the puppy dog's," he says, shrugging as he takes the spoon out of Junie's wet fingers.

She whines for a second at his robbery but seems to realise she's full, picking her juice back up to shake some more.

You exhale through an open-mouthed smile.

"Thank you. She's gonna love you now, she loves anyone who gives her food. She's a real cadge at the diner. Never seen so much free cherry pie in my life," you remark, turning to what looks like your diaper station. You wade through a mess of things he doesn't recognise and pull out a packet of baby wipes.

"And her mom? Is her affection so easily garnered?"

"Takes more than a cherry pie to win me over," you joke, sitting down in your chair in front of the high chair with a soft sigh. You pull out one of the wipes and take Junie's wrists into your hand, wiping her fingers clean methodically. "I need at least a squirt of whipped cream on top before I consider any fondness."

He chuckles and you laugh too. It's short-lived, your lips pursed as you wipe Junie's face clean. She hates every second of it, writhing in her chair like she's being tortured as you clean a mess of brown and blue from her round chin.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Done, done," you say, holding your hands up in surrender.

She pouts.

"Don't be like that," you scold her mildly. "Look how lovely and clean you are now! Eddie can see how pretty you look again."

You slide your hands under her armpits and pull her out of the highchair, groaning.

"Oh, there you go. Where's Mr. Bear gone, baby? You can play sticky bricks with him so I can get ready for work."

Work. Work. Where Eddie was going. Where Eddie is very likely supposed to be. He checks the time and his eyes flare, standing up abruptly. You turn toward him with Junie anchored on your hip, both wearing matching expressions of curiosity.

"Sh-“ Don’t swear around babies. “I'm sorry, I got somewhere to be that I totally spaced on."

You blink. "That's okay."

"It was sick to meet you," he says.

You blink some more and walk to the front door, pulling it open as an understanding smile curls your lips. "Super 'sick,'" you say, bemused. "Thank you so much for bringing Junie back. Really, I mean, if anything ever happened to her." You don't finish because it's obvious, your bright tone underlain with a burning fear.

He walks sideways out of the door and down one step, knowing he's super fucking late but not caring too much as he says, "Listen, I can bring you a deadbolt."

"You could?"

"Sure thing. Make sure this little lady," and he says it chidingly, directing his gaze at Junie who goes all shy and smiley from the attention, "doesn't go on anymore morning adventures. Especially without her shoes."

"That would be… that would be awesome, Eddie. Thank you."

He waves his hand and descends the last of the steps. "I'll come around tomorrow?"

It's a Saturday today. He's not surprised that you're both working the weekend, but he is surprised that you're working Sunday too when you say, "Would after five be okay?"

"That's more than okay. Bye, trouble," he says to Junie, bringing a hand up to shield his hair from the drizzling rain.

You look lovely on the stoop, fresh-faced and in your lounge clothes. You tug Junie up your chest and take her hand into yours. "Say 'bye', Junie," you tell her, waving her hand. "Bye! Bye-bye, Eddie."

"Bye Junie!" he calls, waving at the little girl with great fervour.

"Bye!" Junie calls back.

You both grin.

You're super tired from work and exhausted from an upset daughter. Even now Junie fusses. She hasn't been getting her naps because you can't set her down anywhere that isn't the wooden high chair in Benny's restaurant, which is months of a routine disrupted.

You're not mad at her – the opposite, you feel awful to mess her up like this, awful that she's so upset. Trying your very best to calm her down, you're swaying her from side to side in the middle of your messy living room with your hand patting a steady rhythm into the narrow breadth of her back.

"I know, baby, I know. I'm sorry. You'll get your nap tomorrow, I promise," you say, trying for softness and missing, desperation eating at your tone.

You try not to have a heart attack at the thought of her first day at the new daycare. I can't think about it, you tell yourself, moving your thoughts onto the Sunday checklist.

Junie's been fed. Unfortunately, she's the kind of wound up where the only solution you can think of is to get her in bed. If you can get her down soon she'll sleep until maybe 4AM. Not ideal; you'd prefer she slept later tonight and woke up at a healthier 6AM with you. When she does wake, no matter the time, you'll have her eat something substantial for breakfast and take a much needed bath.

Laundry, bills, cleaning, it all runs through your head. Junie's hair, her snacks for daycare, her clothes. Does she have clean socks for the week? Does she have a vest top for tomorrow?

Her crying grows loud and you can't think of anything except how overwhelmed you feel.

"It's okay, baby, just go to sleep." You shush her softly.

Somebody knocks the door.

You and Junie are similarly nonplussed. Her crying ceases for a second and her head turns in tandem with yours.

"Oh. Oh, you know who that is, huh?" you ask her, making for the door while her cries are still on pause. "That's our new friend Eddie. You remember Eddie?"

You pull open the door. There he is on the porch with a bag and a plastic case, wearing a shirt with short sleeves. You realise for the first time that he has tattoos.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi. Hi, Junie," he adds, looking at her tear-stained face. "Have I come at a bad time?"

"No, you're good. You're great, thank you for doing this." You lean back against the door and Eddie skirts past you. That close, you can smell the heavy sage and sandalwood of his cologne and see the beauty mark under his ear, dark hair tucked behind the shell.

He stops in the middle of the room and puts down the plastic case. "I'm gonna try to do it. Try being the essential word, and I make absolutely no promises." He makes a small cross with his hands leading out and the bag falls from the crook of his elbow to his wrist.

It sounds like more than a deadbolt. Eddie sees your gaze and jumps into theatrics that hook Junie's attention straight away, ruffling through the bag. He pulls out a VHS tape and then a second, one old and one newer.

"For your consideration." He presents them grandly against his check, his eyes flitting from your daughter to the tapes in wait of her reaction.

Junie has no clue what a VHS is. She thinks the TV is magic.

You swoop in and gasp loudly for Junie's sake, having identified his proffered tapes immediately.

"You know what that is?" you ask her, pointing at the slipcover. "Muppet Babies! There's Kermit and Fozzy and Rowlf and Gonzo." You touch your finger to each puppet in turn as you reel off their names.

Junie looks up at you like maybe she remembers, so you start to sing the theme tune for her. "Muppet Babies, they make their dreams come true. Muppet Babies, they'll do the same for you!"

The song jogs her memory. She starts her nonsense singing in a valiant but juvenile effort to recreate the music, dancing in your arms.

You sing it again for her as you lower her to the floor. She doesn't whine to be picked back up, a great sign that her mood has turned, instead walking to the TV, a small silver combi with a bubble screen. She raises her arms up high and starts hitting the TV stand with her palms flat.

Eddie looks to you as if he's checking that it's alright before crossing the small space and turning on the TV, your relieved smile more than enough encouragement. He's careful not to step on Junie's feet, surprised when she walks into his leg. She grabs onto his jeans and looks up at him with wide eyes.

Eddie visibly softens.

It's kind of crazy to see him, this metalhead dude covered in dark tattoos and wearing safety pinned jeans looking down at a toddler with nothing but patience in his eyes.

He drops his hand very lightly to her tiny back and pushes in the tape. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," Junie says.

She doesn't let him touch her for very long, falling to her knees to pull out the bin of stickle bricks hiding underneath as Eddie fast forwards through the adverts and then turns up the volume until the Muppet Babies theme is echoing against the wood panelled walls..

Junie's eyes dart up the screen, two bricks held in her hands and a great smile on her face.

"Where did you find that?" you ask, in awe.

He steps over her and comes back to your side, crossing his arms over his stomach with a smug smile. "Not telling. Ruins the magic. Got The Bugs Bunny Show for when she gets bored of Miss Piggy."

You smooth down your rumpled black work skirt and smile shyly. "I can pay you back… Next week."

He looks lost for words for a split-second. It clears fast, and he says, "Tell you a secret. I have a friend down at good old Family Video that let me have 'em for nothing."

"Yeah?" you ask, unsure. You worry he's lying to make you feel better.

"Uh-huh. Friends in high places," he brags sarcastically.

You turn to watch Junie smile for the first time in hours and have to scrub your face to hide how shattered you feel. It's been a really long week. Your relief is a physical thing, a hand on your shoulder. You feel yourself deflate.

"You okay?" Eddie asks.

You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks. "Thank you. Really. You saved me."

"Yeah?" he asks, dialling up the drama. He lifts his chin high. "Would you say, oh, I don't know, that I'm your hero?"

It's his clear joking tone that saves him. If you'd detected even a smidge of genuine expectancy from him you likely would've shoved him out the door.

"Mm-hm. My hero," you croon, both of you grinning.

He turns back to the grocery bag and pulls out a bottle of juice. "I was gonna bring coke but I didn't want Junie to feel left out."

You move to the cabinets and can't believe how nice he is. You get a little warning stab, that feeling of if it's too good to be true… and shake it off. Maybe it'll turn out that way and you're not gonna do anything stupid to chance it, but he seems like a normal guy. A good neighbour who wants to be your friend.

You're in dire need of one of those.

"What was wrong with the little lady?"

You pour juice into a glass for him, less into a glass for you, and a half-inch into a clean baby bottle. "I can't get her down for a nap when she's with me at work and it really caught up to her today. She-" You yawn so wide it hurts your cheeks, covering your face with your arm.

Eddie looks up from where he's kneeling in front of the open plastic case he'd brought with him. "Caught up to you too, I think."

"A little." You smile ruefully.

He holds something red and black in the air. "This'll wake you up," he says.

It's a small hand drill. He presses down on the trigger twice in quick succession and Junie lies down on the floor to look backwards at him.

“Woah,” you say.

Junie rolls onto her knees and then stands. She's in that stage of walking where she can mostly do it but has a great tendency to trip over anything that might be in her way, and she stumbles as she approaches. Eddie moves the drill away from her and opens the case wide to show her his array of drill bits.

"How'd you like them, Junie?" he asks. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"What do they all do?" you ask.

"I don't have the foggiest," he says, grinning up at you. "And I really wanted to be cool and pretend that I did. I was going to, but you asked me that and now we're sunk."

Junie pokes at all the silver metal and turns away, bored, to return to her cartoons.

"I'm sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

"You should be." He shakes his hair out. "Can't say woodshop was something I ever paid much attention to in school."

You squat down beside him where he's counting the screws out for the deadbolt he'd acquired for you, your small cup of juice in hand. The deadbolt isn't new but it's clean of rust and that's all you care about. It doesn't need to do anything besides work.

"It can't be too hard though, right?" you ask quietly. There isn't any need to talk loudly this close to him and your head is starting to hurt from a long day.

"I hope not." He passes you the drill. "Hold onto that?"

He stands and you follow, the deadbolt frame in hand. He turns to your front door and holds it up to the frame, far from the door knob. "Where'd you want this thing?"

"Wherever you think is best," you say quickly.

"Got a pencil?"

You don't. You're ashamed to offer him a cyan blue crayon from Junie's arts and crafts. He takes it with a gleeful smile and uses it to draw a line under the deadbolt's two parts to make sure they fit together once they've been drilled in.

Junie starts fussing and you squint at her, trying to guess what's wrong. You leave the drill on the small table by the door.

"Junie, you want some dinner?" you ask, walking up behind her where she's stood watching TV. You rub her shoulder and lean over her, your face upside down in front of the TV. "I don't think you're hungry. Let's change that diaper."

She certainly doesn't want you to. You turn to Eddie where he's making clumsy crosses on the door in place of the screws, his brows furrowed.

"I'm gonna go get her some jammies," you say, and then wince. "Pajamas."

"Jammies," he repeats. You hate how happy he looks.

A hot flush washes over you. "She's the only one I talk to."

Again, that awful softening of his features. He's got the biggest, brownest eyes you've ever seen. "Why don't you get changed, too? I'm gonna start drilling." He waves the drill and you don't like how loosely he holds it.

"Please don't ruin the door."

A wolfish smile. "No promises."

You leave all the doors open. Eddie's nice but you're not stupid – if he plans on kidnapping her or something evil this is the perfect time. Though, you suppose, he could’ve abducted her when he found her outside.

You shed your uniform and pull on a pair of loose fitting pants. You can't find a clean t-shirt, probably because you own a grand total of three, and you get distracted when the drill starts whirring and Junie screams.

You know in your heart that it's just a baby scream rather than a sign that she's in pain and you still can't let it lie, rushing down the hall. You can see her, see that she's uninjured, only looking at the drill.

She's excited.

"You like that?" Eddie asks her. "Is that funny?"

Junie claps her hands together and reaches for the drill.

Eddie frowns. "Sorry, you can't have it. I gotta finish the door for your mommy. Why don't you build me something with your bricks, yeah? Something big."

Junie reaches up for the drill again.

"I can't, Junie, it's too dangerous. Don't want you to get all mutilated." You wrinkle your nose at what he's saying. He turns the drill towards his chest and touches the drill bit to his collar. "Look, see this? It's not for little hands."

Junie steps over the case of things on the ground and leans against Eddie's legs, insistent.

Your mouth drops open as he starts the drill and puts on some fake anguished screams. "Ah! Oh my god, it's eating me!"

Junie starts laughing at his fake screaming. Her eyes widen, her hands clinging to a rip in his jeans.

"Think that's funny, do you? Heartless girl. Where's your juice gone, hmm?" He holds the drill behind his back and points to her bottle on the side of the couch where you'd left it. "You want that?"

He goes over her head to grab it and encourage it into her hands. "Yummy," he says, his eyes moving to where you stand in the door past the kitchen, eyebrows jumping up. "Everything okay?"

"Screaming," you say, awkward in your breathlessness.

Eddie's eyes stay resolutely on your face. "She's okay. The drill is exciting. You're shirtless, you know."

You spin on your heel and back into your room. Your heart a jack hammer, you sieve through clothes until a rumpled t-shirt that smells of deodorant but not sweat appears and shrug into it.

Junie has a much better selection of clothes. You pick out some matching pajamas for her and a thick pair of socks and tuck them under your arm with her changing matt.

When you return this time, Eddie's drilling a third and fourth hole into the wall next to the door and Junie's watching with the teat of her bottle in her mouth, chewing but not drinking. You lay her mat down on the floor and grab her with a big sigh.

"Alright, Junie, let's get you all fresh for bed."

You change her diaper and she doesn't misbehave too much, Eddie's general presence a distraction. Soon she's sitting in your lap, dressed in new pajamas and smelling of talcum powder and baby creams, her wool socks soft as you rub your thumbs into the instep of her feet.

You sit on the floor watching Eddie drill the screws into the deadbolt frame. Junie slouches against you, her head digging into your chest and her tired arms struggling to hold up her bottle. You hold it up for her, watching Eddie's hands and his arms, how they move. Muscle and ligament tense under the skin, tattoos warping, his bats propelled into flight.

"I like your tattoos," you say.

Eddie stops drilling to look over his shoulder. "What?"

"I- I like your tattoos."

He lights up. His back straightens out and he turns back to the lock, giving the last screw a final good twist. The door makes a groaning protest and then it's quiet. Just Muppet Babies, Junie's soft suckling and the compliment you'd given adrift in the room.

"They're pretty sweet," he allows. You can hear how pleased he is though he won't look at you.

"They're cool. Have you had them long?"

Eddie starts to tell you all about them, fiddling with something you can't see on the door.

Junie decides that she doesn't want to be sitting anymore and turns in your arms, hands coveting your neck. You lift her into your chest and rub circles in her back, the weight of her emptying bottle on your shoulder. Soon, her small arms go lax. There's a rush of air as her lips open from the teat and the bottle tumbles to the rug with a dull thud.

He pulls open the door. Cool air rushes in. He closes it, slides the deadlock into place, and then pulls hard to make sure it won’t come free.

It’s solid.

He laughs triumphantly and Junie stirs. You pat her back and make some quiet shushing sounds and Eddie turns around, a slip of his teeth on show as he grimaces.

"Sorry," he whispers.

You shake your head. "You're amazing. Thank you."

If his cheeks weren't pink they are now. He leans into it, hiding one cheek behind his hair. "Stop," he says, exaggerated.

"I'll make it good, I swear," you whisper, covering Junie's ear with your hand. "I'll make you the best dinner ever. I'm the best at Kraft's mac and cheese, or-" You flush hot, realising that mac and cheese might not be the treat you think it is to him. "Or we can order in," you say, doing the maths in your head. You can't afford it, but maybe Benny-

"Kraft's mac and cheese? You're spoiling me."

You beam.

Eddie cleans up the small mess he's made. You're afraid to move quite yet in case Junie's not really sleeping, though she's a dead weight in your arms, and you watch Eddie walk through the room with both caution and ease.

"Oh, you don't have to do that,” you say.

He folds the baby blanket in his hands and puts it back on the armrest of the couch before moving on to the stickle bricks, not looking at you as he says, "Just earning my wage, doll."

You can't watch him clean your home. You wrap a tight arm around Junie and rise to your feet. Eddie sees your approach and his movements grow faster, rushing to clean up the mess before you can stop him. You don't know who starts first but you're both laughing as you grab his wrist.

"Stop!" you whisper, mock-furious. "Stop cleaning."

"Sh, you'll wake the baby."

You shake your head in bemusement. "I'm gonna go set her down. Then mac and cheese."

"Take your time. Lots of things for me to clean up out here," he says with a mock sincerity.

You drift down the hall and turn back to sneak a glance at him. He's pulled Muppet Babies out of the TV and is rewinding it around his thumb, a small smile on his lips as he hums the theme tune to himself.

With Junie finally in bed for the night you take a quick peek at yourself in the mirror on your nightstand and cringe. You look tired. You give yourself a big smile and feel better; a smile makes even your most exhausted features look pretty.

You slap on some chapstick. You know, to counter your dry lips. It shines.

Slipping out of the bedroom, you close the door as quietly as you can manage.

Eddie's standing at the end of the hallway. You expect to feel scared. Instead, you’re perplexed.

"Hi?" you whisper.

"Can I use the bathroom?"

You laugh. "Yeah. Course you can."

You have to pass each other in the hallway. His hip bumps your hip, a short rub of fabric.

You're still thinking about it when he finds you behind the stove, half asleep with your face in your hand. It's the kind of tired where your eyes keep slipping shut, not aching so much as blurry with a heavy head.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, sitting down at your cramped table.

You hum. "Hm. Just tired." You give him a guilty smile as you tip the bigger portion into his bowl. "Sorry. Mac and cheese with bacon bits for you, my hero."

"Thanks, sweetheart."

The fatigue ebbs a little.

Eddie’s easy to talk to. He makes you laugh. When you say goodnight, he looks back over his shoulder twice.

It's a funny coincidence that Eddie sees you Friday night. He never grocery shops on a Friday but he knowd when his uncle gets home in the morning there won’t be anything for him to eat after his shift. He takes a sharp turn towards the TV dinners and there you are at the bottom of the aisle with Junie in the seat of the cart. You're talking to her like you'd talk to anyone, though you didn't sound so saccharine sweet over mac and cheese. Close, but not quite.

"What do you want?" you're asking. "Ham and pineapple or mini pepperoni?"

Junie holds her hands out for both boxes. You let her take them and the two of you puzzle over the pizzas, heads bent together.

"Pepperoni, right?" you ask her, quietly enough that he almost misses it.

"Peroni," Junie agrees. You let her keep the box and put the other one back in the freezer.

"Pepperoni," you correct, absentminded.

"Peroni."

"Pepper-roni." You sound it out slow, looking at a scrap of paper in your hand.

"Pepper."

"You'll get there. Do you think we need shampoo this week?" You start jovial, but quickly lose your sprightliness. "Maybe I can put some water in the bottle and just… shake it up. No, we definitely need it."

Eddie watches you look over the cart. He knows exactly what you're thinking, What can I put back?

"Hey!" he calls, walking a little faster to try and hide how he'd been listening.

You turn on the spot and smile as soon as you see him. Junie, to his delight, is even more excited.

"Hi," she says, hands thudding along the cart's handlebar.

"Hi, Junie. How's my favourite neighbour?"

She babbles.

"I'm psyched to hear it. How about you, sweetheart?" he asks, parking his cart next to yours.

You're looking very tired. Still in your work uniform with a hoodie thrown over the top and your smart flats swapped for a pair of converse with the laces undone. You pinch your cheeks up into a big smile. He guesses that with a baby you've gotten very used to hiding how you feel.

You don't hesitate to lay it down thickly. "I'm really good."

"Yeah? How's Junie liking daycare?"

You cover your hands with your sleeves. "She loves it. Loves napping again. She-" You frown. "She doesn't like the mornings. Dropping her off. But after." You nod with a tentative smile "Yeah, it's nice to pick her up."

"Uh-huh. How's work?"

"What?"

"How's work for you? How's Benny's?" he prods.

"You're asking me about work?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Nobody ever asks about work," you say.

You can't look at him as soon as you've said it, your eyes moving back to the grocery list in hand. It's an old envelope, and it crinkles under your squeezing fingers.

"Sorry," you mutter.

Eddie bites back a frown. "Well, I'm asking."

He holds out his hand for the list and you give it without thinking. He adores your handwriting the second he sees it, scanning the list for anything in this aisle.

"Hey, tell me about it," he prompts at your silence, pushing his cart. It takes you a millisecond to catch up, but when you do you're near frenetic.

"Well, I messed up like, five different orders today. And when I had Junie it was like they didn't care 'cos she's cute, but now she's not there they get pretty angry pretty quickly."

"She's like a magic item."

"Right," you say, sounding like you have no idea what he's talking about. "She was my lucky charm. 'N now when I mess up I gotta practically beg some of those guys to leave Benny alone. He's too nice to me already."

"Are they all terrible?"

"No, the regulars, guys in there everyday, they're all great. They're too generous. Benny's too generous. I know he's fluffing up my tip jar. I hate that. I don't want him-" You flinch. It's strange. Eddie takes a small step closer to you and waits for you to continue, but you've lost all steam. "Sorry, I don't mean to weigh you down with all of this."

"I asked. And I get it."

"I don't want him to feel sorry for me."

"Hey," he says, reaching out for a box of cereal on your list. He presents it to Junie and shakes it around, "who said anything about all that?"

"No, I know, I just-"

Junie smiles her approval and he chucks the cereal in your cart with a rattle of metal. "I'm not trying to make you feel worse, I swear. I get it. I- You said he's a nice guy, right? So maybe he doesn't feel sorry for you at all. Maybe he just likes you. He owns that place. I don't think it hurts him to put an extra twenty in your tips."

Junie reaches up. You turn to her and lean down until your face is a few inches from hers. "I wish I didn't need it," you say quietly.

"I know."

Junie puts her hand on your cheek.

You sniff, not crying or anything like that, only breathing. "Thanks, Junie," you murmur.

"Mommy," she says. She sounds a little concerned.

"Let's go get something yummy, baby." You stroke her face lightly. "I'm thinking canned peaches. Or pears, um. Fruit cocktail. And condensed milk," you add, sounding unsure.

"I got a can or two of that laying around," Eddie says, because he knows that shit is expensive. "Wayne hates sweet stuff."

"I couldn't-"

"You let me come over for one of those mini pizzas and I'll bring the dessert," he says, like he knows you'll say yes. He doesn't know. Eddie Munson’s an expert in pushing his luck.

Junie starts clapping her hands together.

"I think she's decided," you say.

You're terrible with a can opener. You whine to yourself as you struggle to get open the second can. Eddie had insisted on peaches and pears and fruit cocktail, because he wanted to try them all apparently. And then some dramatic speech about little kids getting spoiled.

You can hear him now in the living room with Junie. They're laughing in a way that you're worried about, that guilty, hushed giggling that raises your hackles.

"Shush," Eddie says, faux-angry, "your mom's gonna hear."

"Shush," she repeats with much more enthusiasm.

"You shush! Look, don't do that, Junie, you're gonna get it tangled in your hair," he says.

You carry the can and can opener with you into the living room. Something about tangled hair gets your heart racing.

"Eddie, please don't let her get stickies in her hair," you say quickly.

"They're called stickles," he says, dropping back onto his hands, head over his shoulder to give you a bright-eyed smile.

"I know what they're called. Junie can't say stickles."

"Stickles," she says.

"She couldn't when I got them," you amend.

He's up quicker than you can really take in, hands extended. "Let me do it," he says.

He works the can out of your fingers. It's more contact than you've had with somebody who wasn't your daughter in a very long time and it leaves you shell-shocked. Eyes on his nice hands, bigger than yours with thicker fingers and his riot of rings. He presses the can to his chest and hooks the opener, peeking between it and you intermittently.

"Go see what we made for you," he encourages. "I'll do it."

His arm brushes yours as he moves to the kitchen and that's worse than his fingers. You rub where he'd touched and drop down on your knees next to Junie, looking over the stickle bricks with a smile. It's a heart, poorly construed and of tens of colours. It falls apart when she tries to pick it up so you help her remake it, cooing.

"Thanks, baby. This is for me, huh? You're so sweet." Your voice drops to a murmur. "My sweet girl. Wanna cuddle?"

You open your arms out and she doesn't seem very interested. "Please?" you ask, vying for her waist.

She lets you pull her into your lap. When you actually start to hug her she does her lovely melting thing that she always does, a floppy fish in your arms but with tiny squeezing hands. You giggle at her antics and lift her up so her face falls into your neck.

"Thanks for my heart, Junebug." She snuggles her head into your neck, hair squished to your skin. "I love you," you whisper, rubbing her back.

"The works," Eddie announces grandly as he appears, two bowls in hand.

"Eddie, that's too much for her."

"She's a growing girl."

"A growing girl with a tiny tummy," you say turning her around in your arms. "Tell you what, you have that one," you point to the biggest one, "and we'll share that one."

"How about you share the big one?" he asks, though it hardly sounds like a question. He sits down and places the bowl in her lap.

You grab the spoon before she can and stir up some of the fruits. "Wow, look at this! You gonna say thanks? Thanks Eddie.”

She doesn’t say thanks — her mouth is too far open to form words. You make quick work of shovelling fruit and condensed milk inside, chilled enough that she shivers in your arms.

“Yeah, that’s good,” you say agreeably.

She gets enthusiastic enough to take the spoon and you let her, even when she totally mauls the food, eating so loudly that Muppet Babies becomes inaudible.

Eddie eats slowly. You can feel his gaze. “You’re not gonna have any?” he asks.

You’d felt it coming. Your answer is clumsy anyways. “No, I will. I just… I always have her leftovers,” you say, sheepish.

He stands up.

You’re gonna ask why when Junie tips fruit down your legs, cold on the naked skin of your ankle. You dab at your pajamas with a small sigh. There’s no point in getting upset. She’s a messy eater but they all are at this age. Honestly, it’s nice to see her attempting to use a spoon rather than her hands.

“You’re doing a good job,” you say. You’re not totally sure who you’re talking to.

“Tada!” Eddie cheers, wielding a third bowl of fruit. “Swap with me?”

“What?”

“You think Junie’ll come sit in my lap?” he asks. He doesn’t wait, really. He holds out the bowl and you take it on impulse as he sits down heavily.

He takes her into his lap with a cheerful groan. “Oh, c’mere, sweetheart. There’s enough milk on your chin to bake a cake.” He wipes it with his hand. He doesn’t so much as wince at the mess.

You stare. He eases the spoon out of her grip and scrapes up a half-spoonful of what looks like pear and feeds it to her with the same kind of deftness of hand that’d taken you months to learn.

He can feel your gaze, evidently, because he looks up. There, you catch it, that slither of insecurity he hides well.

You pick up your bowl and start eating. It’s the nicest thing you’ve eaten in almost two years. You’d die for Junie. You’d do worse. But to eat, to know she’s fed — gorged — to know you can sit here and eat this whole bowl of fruit all to yourself and you won’t have to put it down, that’s heaven. It’s better, because you never let yourself have anything nice if you can help it.

The fruit turns to a lump in your throat and you swallow it, sniffling. Your lashes grow heavy with unshed tears and you keep your gaze resolutely on your dessert. When was the last time you had something this nice all to yourself? When was the last time somebody ever went out of their way to be this nice?

It’s a small gesture and a huge one. A tear dribbles down your cheek. You lick it away and keep on eating.

Eddie starts to come around every Friday. It’s a good deal; you make dinner and he makes dessert. After that first time he makes it his mission to give you heaping bowls too much to eat most of the time. Soon, he’s coming a few days a week, not always long, sometimes until the late hours, though you tell him desserts are a Friday only occasion. He complies grudgingly.

You make your first friend in years, and it’s so sweet you don’t know what to do with yourself.

Or what possesses you to offer to cut his hair.

Eddie's sitting on the couch with Junie, his big thigh to her little one and a picture book spread between them whilst you clean the kitchen. He's not reading to her – she's trying to read to him. She can't read, of course, but she can remember some of the words in relation to the pictures. She pokes at the blue cat and says blue. She pokes at the blue dog and says blue. She also points at the red cat and says blue. It's a learning curve.

Eddie gives corrections and encouragements just as you would. You smile at him from behind your cup of water.

"He's red, sweetheart," he murmurs, arm around her shoulder to hold the book's edges. "Red cat."

"Red cat," she repeats with enough accuracy to make you choke on your water.

Eddie gasps almost as loud as you do. "Right! Red cat! You're so smart, junebug, I can't believe it," he praises, squeezing her shoulder. His gaze meets yours and he smiles.

You send him back your sweetest smile. If he wasn't always so nice to you you'd like him anyway because of how he treats Junie, like she's the fucking sun.

She gets so excited when other people are happy that she starts laughing, standing up and trampling all over his legs to give him a hug. She's given him half hugs, she's fallen asleep by his side and loves to pet his hair, but this is a proper, tactile hug. Her arms wind around his neck with purpose and as soon as his surprise has faded he brings his arms up to hug her in turn, laughing delightedly.

"You're such a smarty-pants," he praises, rubbing her back with a boyish brashness.

She squeals as he squeezes her, his fingers digging into her ribs. Never cruel, only tickling her. She eats up every second of it and buries her face in his neck, laughing her wound up baby laugh that always brings a smile to your face.

"Ooh, she's so smart. First blue, then red. Next you'll be saying indigo, and vermillion, and-"

He cuts off when Junie gets one of her nails caught in his hair. She jolts and whines like it hurts and he goes rigid. You move forward to play mediator but he's already pulling her away gently and making small shushing sounds. "Chill out," he chides lightly, "I got it. Here." He pulls the hair from under her fingernail and rubs the pad of his thumb over her hand. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he apologises, pouting at her scowl. He envelops her hand in his and waves it around. "Forgive me?"

She doesn't learn her lesson, pushing her hands back into his hair, probably less kind than what’s ideal. Eddie doesn't flinch.

You sit on the armrest gingerly. "Can I ask you something?"

Eddie looks over Junie’s head. "What's that?"

"Have you always had long hair?"

He doesn't balk. "No, of course not. I fu-" He clears his throat. "My mom was the best, and I fit in just like everybody else growing up. When I ended up with Wayne I was-" He smiles. It's the kind of rueful grimace that says, You didn't ask for this.

You smile encouragingly.

He drops his gaze to Junie, worming his arms around her in a loose hug as she continues to play with his hair. "I was mad about everything, and I remember him asking when I wanted to get my hair trimmed and I said ‘never’. Took a few years for it to grow past the awkward stage," he bares his teeth and nods toward his shoulder, as if allowing his past misdemeanour. "But now I'd say it looks pretty sweet."

"I love your hair," you say.

Eddie beams. "You don't think it's too long?"

Emboldened by his reaction, you slip off of the armrest to sit next to him, turning in until your knees touch. Junie, loyal as she is, climbs straight into your lap with a babble.

You pat her back with one hand and raise the other cautiously for permission. Eddie flares his eyes wide, as if to say, You want to? Go on.

You take a lock of his hair between your fingers like Junie had moments before. "I like it like this."

"But?"

You look at the ends, an inch of limpness where the rest curls. "You haven't had it cut since you were a kid?"

"Maybe not that long, but it's been a while. I do it myself sometimes." He gestures to his bangs. He speaks quietly. A rarity though not unknown for him to be so hushed.

You tuck the curl you'd been examining behind his ear carefully.

"Do you think my hair looks good?" you ask.

"Sh- Sorry, of course I do. I swear I was gonna-"

You shake your head, laughing. "Not like that. What I mean is, I cut my own hair. I cut Junie's, too, and I could do yours if you wanted me to."

He goes quiet.

"Only if you wanted. I know it's a lot of trust, so-"

"Would you do it now?"

You hold Junie's head away from yours to prevent a loving headbut. "Right now?"

"I'm in dire need."

He throws his big brown puppy dog eyes your way and you couldn't say no if you wanted to.

You explain how he needs to get it wet first and how the shower head in the bathroom doesn't detach. "It's, like, built into the wall."

"I could go home, come back?" he suggests.

"I can do it over the sink?"

Eddie can't remember the last time somebody washed his hair for him. He knows there must've been a time, some place in his life where his mom or dad had done it for him. He thinks that, if he'd asked, Wayne would've tried it once or twice growing up, but now Eddie's most definitely at the age where having his hair washed is a foreign luxury.

And it does feel luxurious.

It shouldn't; the sink basin is very small as they tend to be in the trailer kitchenettes – small sink, small stove, small small small – and Eddie has to crane his neck. Already the space between his shoulder blades aches from being bent over, and he can't breathe well, smothered by steam.

But your hands. One shields his eyes from run off, a gesture unnecessary and far from lost on him, while the other massages shampoo into his scalp. He'd been surprised when you started because you hadn't mentioned washing his hair, and he'd said, "You don't have to do that."

You'd hummed. "Well, it's kind of a waste not to."

That was that.

Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp and if his eyes weren't already closed they would've fluttered shut. He nibbles his lip and tries very hard not to show outwardly how nice it feels. Your left upper arm rubs against his back as you scrub at his roots, your right soaking wet beside his face, covering his eyes uselessly. He doesn't mention it. All this touching, he doesn't want it to end.

Your proximity honest-to-God sets him on fire. Your body pressed to his is a flame over his ribs.

"Maybe we shouldn't cut it at all," you say, stroking wet bangs away from his forehead. "It's soooo long."

"Can’t do it?" he teases.

"Keep your eyes closed, okay? I'm gonna rinse."

It's a comforting process. You dip your cup into the water. It fills with a wet glug, the rim shushing against the basin's bottom. You hold it over his head and pour carefully, heat caressing his scalp as the soap is washed away.

It's over too soon. You grab the towel you'd procured and tuck it around his shoulders, wringing all the excess water from his curls back into the sink. You encourage his head up wordlessly and he stands there, arms useless against the countertops edge, water sloughing down his face as you press the ends flat between your hands.

You lift his head and push his hair back with your hands, raking your fingers through it and laughing as soon as his face appears. "Eddie! I'm sorry, you're totally drowning."

He chuckles. They fade away as you pinch the corner of the towel and start to dab his face dry, dragging the rough material over his cheeks with an expression he can't read on your pretty features. Almost pensive, not quite.

"There," you say under your breath. "Saved you."

"My hero."

You smile at him softly before spinning on your heel. "I gotta find the hairbrush. And the good scissors." You look into the living room quickly and then turn to the hall leading to your bedroom.

Eddie looks into the living room too. Junie's not upto much, only watching TV, unusually subdued. He doesn't disturb her despite the itch to go over and play.

One of the muppets starts laughing about something and she laughs too.

"What are you smiling about?" you whisper from behind him.

"Nothing," he says quickly.

You raise your eyebrows. "She has a nice laugh, right? Doesn't matter how bad I feel, she laughs and everything's okay for a little while."

He feels a fond stab in his chest. "Her laugh's like yours."

"I guess we do sound the same."

You do, but it's not really what he'd meant.

The metal sound of scissors snapping. You wield them at him faux-threateningly and shepherd him into a chair you've dragged to the middle of the kitchen.

Eddie fights goosebumps as you pull a brush through his hair, loses when you take a lock at the front between two fingers and stop about an inch and a half from the end.

"I'm gonna do that much, okay?"

You're a quiet hairdresser. Eddie doesn't care, he can talk for Indiana, but there's something so sweetly simple about the quietude, just your hands in his hair, the snipping of your scissors and Junie's occasional excited chattering. You start to hum a song Eddie doesn't recognise about halfway through. It's melancholy. He doubts you realise what you're doing.

You draw silent as you round to the front. Eddie watches your hands work for what feels like hours. You have really pretty hands, not perfect, burnt fingertips and neat little nails. They smell like honey hand soap.

You pull two locks from the front together to make sure they're the same length. His curls will hide any discrepancy, he knows from experience, but he doesn't want to tell you that. Selfishly, he wants that extra time with you this close.

You work your way between his legs to comb his half-dried bangs. Eddie looks up at you with wide eyes.

"You want me to trim these, too?" you ask quietly.

"If you please."

You huff a laugh through your nose and start to trim his bangs carefully. He closes his eyes, and maybe it's the fact that he can't see you that gives him the confidence to reach out for your hip, a touch that can't be defined as amicable. He curls his fingers into the soft material of your shirt and feels the heat of your skin underneath.

You draw closer, as close as you can be.

"What made you decide on bangs?" you ask.

"Zits, mostly."

He can feel your laugh under his hand.

"I used to… I used to powder my face," you confide, a murmur, "like, an inch thick to try and hide everything. Being pregnant makes you so-" You pause to snip some hair, comb it away. It tickles his face. "Well, it makes you spotty. Or it made me spotty. It actually made me really sick."

"That's must've sucked," he says earnestly.

"It- Yeah. I guess it did. I don't know."

He hadn't meant to bring up something unhappy, but he's hungry to know. "Were you on your own?"

"Mostly."

"What was the worst part?"

"Being scared all the time."

He'd been expecting morning sickness or aching feet. "You were scared?"

"I honestly thought I was gonna die, Eddie."

He opens his eyes and leans back in his chair, hand flexing over your hip, as he tries to tamp down his surprise.

"It was," you mess with his bangs with the tip of your ring finger, "hard. I felt sick all the time, and when I didn't I would make myself sick worrying about her. What if I eat something or I catch something and it hurts her? What if- what if it all works out perfectly and then I can't look after her?"

"Did it work out perfect?"

You rub your lips together. "Uh, I guess so. It took a long time, and it hurt," you sound especially unhappy with that part.

He strokes up your waist, wanting to soothe the small crease between your eyebrows. "By yourself?"

"Yeah, by myself."

"I'm sorry."

You tuck his hair behind his ear and grin at him. "Now what are you sorry for?" Your hand lingers near his cheek. Slowly, you turn it, pressing the knuckle of your index finger into the skin under his eye and rubbing a small line. He worries he’s in love with you right then and there. "Not like you're the one who knocked me up."

You drop your hand and Eddie really doesn't want you to go anywhere, his grip kind but steadfast, bringing the other arm behind your back in a loose hug. "Who was it?"

"Just some guy. Nobody. Nobody worth thinking about."

"How old were you?" he asks.

"Why are you asking me all this stuff?"

"I wanna know about you."

You bring your hands to the towel around his neck and pull on it mildly. "I was sixteen. Seventeen when I had her."

He drags his fingertips up and down the small of your back lightly, almost like he's playing guitar. "I'm sorry you were all by yourself. That young. When I was sixteen I was still watching The Bugs Bunny Show."

You giggle and your hands move up to the side of his neck. He can hardly breathe, afraid to dispel whatever enchantment it is that he's under.

"Could be worse, huh? I'm nineteen and I still watch Muppet Babies," you joke.

"Why wouldn't you? It's the pinnacle of modern television."

"Yeah?"

Your beaming smile hits him straight in the chest. He thinks about how beautiful you look and can't stop, hiding his face in your stomach to stop from saying something stupid, laughing loud. You laugh in tandem, hugging the back of his head until your giggles peter out.

A small hand on his arm. You both turn at the same time and find a very unhappy Junie.

"What?" you ask her. Then, teasing, "Are you jealous?"

You lean down to pick her up. Eddie's gutted to lose your touch and then quickly exuberant when Junie ducks out of your arms to grab at his legs.

"Oh my god, yes," he says, holding out his hands.

Junie tries to take them and he slips them under his arm, pulling her onto his thigh with a big sigh. The sigh is half the fun, a theatrical reluctance when really he's always happy to have her climbing on him.

As soon as she's in his lap she's pleased, turning her head so she can watch the TV across the room.

You roll your eyes at his smug smile. "Shut up. She just wants what other people have."

"And you had me?"

"Shut up, Munson, seriously," you say. You don't sound half as mad as you're trying to.

Eddie takes a drying curl between his fingers and pokes at the side of Junie's face. "Whatever you want, sweetheart," he says, grinning when your daughter starts to squirm on his thigh.

He grins at her and tickles her until she's curling in with her chin dropped to her chest, smiling despite herself.

His fondness colours every word as he croons, "I got you."

Junie sounds about as outraged as a toddler can be when he tickles her nose and then drags the tip of the freshly trimmed curl under her eye. He draws a big circle around one of her cheeks until it's kissing her chin. She dissolves into giggles while squirming to get away from him and so he stops, only for her to blink and tug at his wrist.

He tickles her until she's screaming.

You pause on your knees where you'd been sweeping up his trimmed hair to look up at her and he's struck with guilt. "Y/N, you don't have to do that. I'll do it."

"No, you're okay."

Eddie finds his gaze drawn to your thighs, spread out as they are in your kneeling position, and then stolen by Junie as she almost topples off of his lap.

"I think…" he begins quietly, speaking to Junie though it's just as much for you, "that your mom deserves something nice for my haircut. What do you think?"

"I don't think that," you say.

"Wasn't asking you," he says seriously. Back in baby mode he continues, "What's mommy like, huh? What's her favourite thing in the whole world, besides you?"

"Sleep," you say.

"Well, I can't help you there."

"You help me there all the time. Junie sleeps like a log every Friday."

"Food coma," he says knowledgeably.

"You really don't have to get me anything, Eddie. My services were administered charitably."

He pushes his hands behind Junie's back and pulls her to his chest before standing. When he has her secure in one arm he pulls the chair back to your small table and tucks it in.

"Get up," he says to you. "I'll do it, alright? Swap with me."

You ignore him until he starts kicking you in the leg. "You're ridiculous!"

"You're ridiculous. Seriously, get up. You're not a serf." He returns your glare. "I'm a big boy, I can clean up after myself."

"It's my house."

"If you don't let me-"

"Christ! Okay." You drop the dustpan and brush sullenly, wiping your hands together as you stand before taking Junie out of his arms. "I'll make dinner."

"No you won't! I'm gonna order takeout," he says factually, already on his knees and sweeping.

"No you're not."

"I am. Me and June already talked about it. She's craving Marino's pizza."

"I'm not gonna let you use the phone."

"I'll walk to my place and order the pizza to here."

"Eddie-"

"Why are you being a hardass?" he asks.

"Fine! God, clean up your gross hair and order your stupid pizza. You're making me crazy," you say, collapsing onto the sofa with a little oomf, Junie's weight hitting you hard in the chest. She moves into a sitting position and pulls your shirt up, hands moving across the space under your chest.

Eddie throws himself into cleaning all the mess you'd made for him, the hair and the towel and the sopping wet draining board. He washes the dirty baby bowl on the side and fills up one of Junie's bottles with water, then a glass for you. He hasn't seen either of you drinking a thing since he's been here, likely his fault for distracting you.

He's about to call for pizza when he peers past the cabinets and sees you dozing on the couch. He decides pizza can wait until tomorrow; it's later than he realised.

Junie's halfway across the room with Mr. Bear playing make believe. She talks and talks and talks, gibberish to him but what's likely an unending, complicated storyline, no doubt.

Eddie approaches with the bottle already outstretched. "Junie," he says, and when she doesn't answer, "Junebug. Junie. Junie." Each iteration of her name softer and sweeter than the first, hoping to entice her in.

He holds the bottle in front of her face.

She finally looks up with a pout.

"For you," he says, offering the water.

She seems mildly interested as she takes it, turning back to her teddy and talking around the teat like it's not there.

You're struggling to keep your eyes open. Eddie gives the room a quick once over before kneeling down in front of you, tugging your shirt down to cover your exposed tummy as he says, "I should head home."

You blink at him and turn onto your side, cheek squishing into the couch cushion.

"Okay? Why don't you and Junebug head to bed?" he asks, using a tone not far from what he'd use with your daughter.

"You know, her full name's Juniper," you whisper.

He didn't know. "Really? I love that."

You wrinkle your nose, sounding very tired as you continue, "But someone told me it sounded like a name for a cat. So I've called her Junie ever since."

"It doesn't sound like a cat's name," he placates. "It's beautiful. You chose well."

"Yeah?"

Eddie smiles at you fondly, eyes tracing down your nose to your lips, shiny with balm. He tilts his head to the side to mimic yours. He could kiss you.

"Sounds like the name of an elf. Juniper Lightfoot, or… Goldwind. She could even be a mage. Juniper the Brave."

"Juniper the Loveliest," you say, and then grin. "Juniper the Hungriest."

"Juniper the All Great and Hungriest," Eddie says decidedly.

"Would you make her a hero, in your game?" you ask.

"Of course I would. She wouldn't even need to divide, she'd just conquer."

"What about me?"

"What, would you be a hero?"

You nod. He doesn't know why, but he thinks his answer is going to hold a lot of weight with you.

"You would be," he starts quietly, words painted slowly as he raises a hand to rest on your wrist, pinky finger spread over the hill of your thumb, "a fighter. With insight and survival."

"I don't know what that means," you say.

He leans in. "It means yes, you'd be a hero. You'd save kingdoms. Slay dragons." He squeezes your wrist.

"I think I better leave all that stuff for Junie. I'll just cheer you guys on from the sidelines."

"You're her mom, she can't do it without you. And even if she could I bet she wouldn't want to. Where's all the fun in guts and glory if you can't share it?" he asks, rubbing his thumb over your skin.

Your eyes shut. Eddie doesn't know if it's from fatigue or a want to end this conversation. He feels marginally embarrassed for descending into nerd metaphor with you, but he thinks it's the kind of thing you needed to hear. He thinks if Junie could understand how often her mom prioritises her and misses out for her she'd want to fix that. Eddie doesn't know you half as well as she does and it breaks his heart sometimes to watch you insist on a smaller portion, to watch you put things back at the grocery store because she wants a box of milk duds, even to watch you wear yourself out ironing baby clothes in the only pair of pajamas you own.

"Make sure you lock the deadbolt behind me," he says carefully. You hum. He gives your wrist one last squeeze.

Junie looks tired in that she's getting agitated, whimpering under her breath. Eddie ducks down to give her upper arm a good rub. "Why don't you go cuddle with your mom?" he asks her, turning her by the shoulder so that you're in her eye-line. "Go have a lie down."

He doesn't know whether what he says makes any difference but you extend your arms out and Junie walks towards you, big staggered steps that make him laugh to himself as he pushes into his unlaced converse.

"Don't forget to lock up," he says in place of a farewell.

"Goodnight, Eddie," you say.

He waves. You're both too tired to wave back.

He's surprised to find his Uncle Wayne still home when he gets in, shoving into his work boots with a grunted hello.

"Hey."

"Did you cut your hair?" Wayne asks, perplexed, a little gruff.

"Junie's mom did it for me."

"'Junie's mom,'" Wayne quotes dryly, slugging his bag over his shoulder. He's heard all about Junie's mom.

Eddie scratches the back of his neck and splutters when a big hand claps his back, a demonstration of Wayne's pity as he passes through the open door.

Eddie spins to watch him jog down the steps. "We're friends," Eddie calls.

"Don't be dumb," his uncle says without turning back.

"I'm not exactly known for being smart," Eddie says to himself, cheeks heated by a furious blush.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you for reading! | my masterlist | multi-chapter

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#eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader oneshot #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x afab reader #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things

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ally-writes-many-things · 2 months

Text

I fucking Need You (Ruhn Danaan)

Summary: You and Ruhn break up for good after he said things that hurt you to the fire and he begs you to come back.

Words: 2.7k

Requested: Yes

Warnings or A/N: I forgot to add in. He was acting like a dick because his dad was putting pressure on him and he took it out on the wrong person.

"I understand that you're the crown prince, but could you please lend a hand around the house? It shouldn't just be me, Dec, and Flynn doing all the cleaning," you said, tossing one of his shirts on him. "I'm not your maid, I'm your girlfriend,"

Ruhn casually placed the shirt on the chair and replied, "I'll do it later,"

"That's what you always say, but you never do," you retorted.

Turning away from you, Ruhn headed towards the shower. "I said I'll do it later," he repeated.

"Ruhn," you called after him.

He simply waved you off before disappearing behind the bathroom door.

You couldn't help but mutter to yourself, "You've got to be kidding me."

Grabbing your books and bag, you made your way downstairs, where Dec and Flynn were engrossed in a TV show. "Have a good day at class, Tater Tot," Flynn teased.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

Upon arriving home from work and classes, the house was booming with music. As you entered, you were greeted with the sight of people making out on the couch, and others practically fucking in the corner. Although you didn't mind the boys having parties in their own house and that they could do whatever they pleased, you simply didn't have the energy to join the party all night long, especially after a stressful day at work.

Rolling your eyes, you made your way up the stairs towards the room you shared with Ruhn, but your arm was grasped by his hand. Turning to face Ruhn, you could tell from his glazed eyes and broad smile that he was clearly high. "Where are you going, baby?"

"Upstairs, because I don't want to party tonight,” You calmly replied.

"Yeah, because you're such a fucking bitch," he retorted.

His words struck a chord within you. “I'm a stuck up bitch because I don't want to party one fucking time? I had a long fucking day of work and class,” You questioned, anger filling your veins.

"You're a bitch because all you do is nag and complain," he alleged.

Slightly exasperated, I responded, "I don't want to do this with you at the moment. We can fight in the morning like always,"

"No, let's do it right here," Ruhn insisted, his arms crossed defiantly.

“Really? Here and now? In front of everyone?" I sighed.

"Yes, so that this time everyone will know what happened. You bitch at this morning because I had left a single dirty shirt on the floor," he countered.

"If it were only that one minor thing, I would not have. It's frustrating because you hardly contribute to the household chores, unlike Flynn, Dec, and myself," I argued.

"In that case, maybe you should go to fuck Flynn," he snapped retortedly.

"What?"

"I am the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae, and I don't need some half-breed bitch telling me what to do in my own house," he callously declared.

That statement shattered what was left of your heart into tiny fragments. "I am done from the same fights, Ruhn. I am done, completely and utterly done. This time, we are over for good. Go fuck that faun who has been lusting after you for the past few months," You screamed in his face.

Maybe I will," he shot back.

"You are free fuck who you please," You yelled back, walking upstairs to gather your belongings.

You didn't have many possessions since you had only recently started fresh when you moved in with Ruhn a few weeks ago. This time, you didn't shed any tears. Over the past few months, you had countless fights and breakups, which were the times that brought you to tears. However, what Ruhn said tonight, referring to you as a "half-breed bitch," was the final straw for you.

You swiftly packed your belongings into your suitcase, forcefully removed the R necklace that Ruhn had given you on your one-year anniversary, and threw it onto the dresser. You didn't care if people stared or whispered as you walked towards the door with your things. Let them talk and say whatever they wanted, because ultimately, it was you who chose to permanently end the relationship with the crown prince.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

Ruhn woke up to a throbbing headache, regretting his actions once again. As he sat up in bed, he absentmindedly rubbed his forehead and glanced over to your side, only to find that you were not there. This was not unusual, as you always had early morning shifts. Unconcerned, he got out of bed and discarded his clothes on his way to the bathroom for a soothing shower.

Covering his body and hair with soap, he tried to recall the events of the previous night, but it was all a haze. He couldn't remember a single detail, not even if he had seen you come home.

After completing his shower, Ruhn returned to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel. As he approached the dresser, his eyes noticed your broken chain necklace and picked it up. He noticed that all of your belongings on the dresser were missing.

Placing the broken necklace back, he anxiously opened the drawers that belonged to you, only to find them empty. His heart raced. Rushing back to the bathroom, he switched on the light to discover that all traces of your makeup, perfumes, and personal items were gone. Returning to the room, he searched frantically, realizing that every trace of you were gone. In that moment, his heart shattered. You and him must have gotten into a fight last night and a pretty bad one if you took all of your things.

Without wasting any time, he hastily got dressed and dashed downstairs, only to find Dec and Flynn tidying up the aftermath of last night's party. Their eyes remained fixed on their task, refusing to acknowledge his presence. "What happened last night?"

No response followed, so he attempted once more. "All of (Yn)'s belongings are missing."

This time, both Dec and Flynn glanced up but exchanged loaded looks before resuming their cleaning duties. If they were deliberately withholding information from him, then he must have done something horrible. "Guys, please tell me where my girlfriend's things are."

Flynn snickered, and Declan scoffed disdainfully.

"What was that all about?"

Flynn sighed before finally meeting his gaze. "Don't you remember what you said to her last night?" Declan's words dripped with venom.

His heart plummeted to his stomach. If Dec addressed him with such fury, it must have been something awful.

"Do you have any idea how much I want to leap over this couch and beat the shit out of you right now?" Flynn added.

His stomach churned with anxiety. Whatever he had done, it was a really big mistake. Dec and Flynn were fiercely protective of you, ready to defend you against anyone who hurt you. "What did I do?"

"Does 'fucking bitch' and 'half-breed bitch' ring a bell?"

He took a deep breath, struggling to recollect his actions from the previous night. "I didn't call her a half-breed bitch, did I?"

"More like 'I am the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae, and I don't need some half-breed bitch telling me what to do in my own house.' You fucked up, Danaan," Flynn replied, tossing a red solo cup into the trash bag.

Dec chimed in, picking up another cup and disposing of it. "You also told her that she could go fuck Flynn."

"Yeah, she broke up with you for good. We are done with how you treat her. She is the best thing that has happened to you. All she wants from you is effort in chores. Go and try to fix things with her or we'll move out,” Flynn added.

Ruhn's head throbbed as he attempted to recall the events of the previous night, but the memories escaped him. He couldn't have uttered those words. You being a half-breed was never an issue for Ruhn. He cherished every part of you. It was a part of what made you, you. But in that moment, he had carelessly used something that he knew you struggled with as a weapon to hurt you.

Desperation clawed at his soul as he searched for a way to mend what he had broken. He knew apologies were no longer enough, that actions spoke louder than words.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

It has been seven days since you ended things with Ruhn once and for all. Despite his relentless texts and visits to your doorstep, you have made a conscious decision to ignore both your phone and the doorbell. Deep down, you understand that giving in to his advances would only lead you back to a place you are determined to move on from. You are committed to holding yourself to a higher standard, no matter how difficult it may be.

The ache was still there in your heart. Ruhn’s words had cut deep within you. He knew just how insecure you are about you being a half-breed.

The memories of the past few months played like a broken record in your mind. The countless times you had separated, just to get back together again, hoping that each time would be different. As you neared the car parking lot from CCU, you spotted Ruhn walking in the opposite direction. "(Name)," you called out, trying to maintain a steady tone.

"What are you doing here, Danaan?" you asked.

"I wanted to apologize for my words," Ruhn replied, his expression reflecting genuine regret.

"I'm not interested in hearing it," you responded, brushing past him and heading towards your car. "I meant what I said last night, unless you were too out of it to remember."

"Flynn and Declan filled me in on what happened. Please, just listen," Ruhn pleaded, reaching out to grab your arm. "I truly am sorry for what I said."

"You used a half-breed bitch against me, knowing how much it would hurt," you retorted. "And now you expect me to forgive you?"

"I was high on Mirthroot, I didn't mean it," Ruhn explained. "Your heritage doesn't matter to me, you know that."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his excuse. It was clear that he didn't understand the depth of your hurt.

“I didn't have the same support system as Bryce. I didn't have a pack of wolves or a Crown Prince looking out for me when I was growing up. I had to face insults from faes and humans alike, constantly being called a worthless half-breed or half-breed whore. And you knew all of this, yet you still used it against me. I don't care if you were high. I've known people who were completely out of it and they never stooped to insulting their friends or loved ones like you did,” you explained, your voice filled with hurt and anger.

"(Name)-"

"No, I've had enough. I have put up with a lot from you, but calling me a half-breed bitch was the last straw," you stated firmly, walking away and leaving Ruhn standing there in silence.

Ruhn ran after you, falling to his knees with tears in his eyes, pleading, "Please, I'm truly sorry, baby.”

You stopped in your tracks, watching Ruhn drop to his knees. A part of you wanted to give in, to forgive him and take him back into your arms. But another part of you held firm, remembering all the hurt and disrespect you had endured.

Taking a deep breath, you faced Ruhn, his desperate gaze locked on you. The tears in his eyes mirrored the ache in your heart.

"Ruhn, I can't do this anymore," you said, your voice steady but filled with emotion. "I can't keep going back and forth with you, hoping things will change. The trust is broken, the respect is gone."

Ruhn's shoulders shook with sobs as he struggled to hold back his tears. "I love you, (Name). I know I've messed up, I know I've hurt you. But please, give me ione last chance. I will do whatever it takes to make things right, to earn back your trust."

You looked into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and sincerity in them. You knew that a part of you still loved him, still hoped for a future with him.

"I'm not sure if I can do this, Ruhn," you whispered before he took your hand and led you through the busy campus.

Eventually, you arrived at a busy gathering area where Ruhn raised his voice to get everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to someone," Ruhn declared with a smile. Your heart pounded with anticipation as he turned towards you and proudly announced. "This incredible woman before you is not only the love of my life, but also the most beautiful, kind-hearted, patient, and brilliant individual you will ever meet - (Name) (Last Name). As some of you might know, I said some things last night and they were not a true reflection of my feelings," Ruhn began, his voice steady and sincere. "I want to make it clear that her being a half-breed doesn't negate that. She is my soulmate, my everything, and I vow to make sure she knows that,”

"Ruhn, do you honestly believe this will make a difference? You're speaking to me as if you're delivering a formal address," you remarked.

"You want real?" he asked.

"Yes," you replied.

"Then I'll give it to you," Ruhn said as he knelt before you.

You maintained a steady gaze as Ruhn knelt before you, the onlookers around hoping for something different than what you expected. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air as he spoke. The skepticism that had been building within you seemed to gain more ground with each passing moment. Your instincts told you to brace yourself for what was to come next.

Ruhn's eyes locked with yours as he spoke, his voice steady and sincere. There was a hint of vulnerability in his tone, a crack in the facade that he had carefully constructed. Despite the grand gesture unfolding before you, there was still a lingering doubt in your mind. The onlookers may have hoped for a proposal, but you knew better than that.

"I know I've been acting like an asshole lately, and I'll explain why if you give me a chance to explain that to you in private but I shouldn't have taken it out on the one person who means more to me than anyone else. You've been incredibly patient with me, and I appreciate that. I'm willing to give up partying, even the Mirthroot and the star sword, if it means you'll give me another chance," he declared.

Tears welled up in your eyes as Ruhn poured his heart out in front of everyone, fully aware that someone was likely recording the moment. "You know someone's probably recording this, and your dad is going to be pissed that you mentioned giving up the star sword, especially for a half-breed," you whispered.

"I don't give a fuck. You're the only one that matters to me. This past week has been absolute hell without being able to see you, talk to you, touch you, fuck you. I'd dream of you and wake up, hard as fuck and unable to do anything about it because you weren't there beside me. Everyone thinks you need me, but the truth is, I need you more than you need me. And you fuck me in ways I can't even put into words. I mean, I always come before you anyway," Ruhn confessed.

"Not that you don't fuck me good, because you do. I just fuck you better," you replied.

"You do. Please, give me another chance. I'll be your servant if that's what it takes-”

"I don't want a servant. I want the Ruhn I fell in love with, the one from a few months ago. I want you to be that person again, not this version who doesn't realize the pain he's causing. If you can promise me that you'll go back to being him, then yes, I will take you back," you stated firmly.

Ruhn's face lit up with a smile. "Yes. A thousand times, yes," he declared.

"Then get up and kiss me," you commanded.

Ruhn swiftly rose to his feet, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you passionately, pouring all his emotions from the past week into the kiss. "Take me home so I can fuck you," you whispered, your lips just inches from his.

#ruhn danaan x you #ruhn danaan x reader #ruhn danaan #house of earth and blood #house of sky and breath #house of flame and shadow #sarah j maas #sjm #ruhn danaan fic #prince ruhn #the crown prince of the Valabaran fae

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milf-harrington · 10 months

Note

For the made-up fic title prompt:

"Just another normal doomsday"

♡

Just Another Normal Doomsday

Hawkins, 1987.

"I'm just saying, punk rock gay sex is different to hippy gay sex."

"How?"

Robin shrugged, stirring her straw through her milkshake before lifting the whole cup to her mouth to drink it. "It's sexier."

She was sitting with her legs crossed underneath her, back leaning against the bus window so she could face where he was sitting across the aisle. The bus was pleasantly dim, but watery sunlight streamed through a gap on her side and bathed her face in blue shadows while her hair lit up with bronze at the ends.

Steve snorted, leaning sideways with one leg stretched over the aisle, muddy sneaker propped up on the edge of Robin's bench. A cardboard tray filled with chips was nestled in his lap, the corners darkened with grease and grainy with salt.

"You're just saying that because your parents are hippies."

From Steve's backpack, their walkie (one they shared, with masking tape scribbled over in colourful markers stuck to the back, their names written in each others handwriting) crackled to life, codes carried out in a cloud of static that made them both sigh in unison.

Robin burped, dropping her empty milkshake cup back into the bag their food had come in. "No," She protested, milk lining her upper lip before she wiped it away. "I'm saying it because it's true."

"They're both gay!"

"But being punk rock is gayer!"

He flicked a chip crumb at her when she reached for her bag, watching it dodge her flailing attempts at a block and get stuck in her hair. "I'm telling Eddie you called him gay."

She blinked at him, face scrunched up in the same expression she used to give him whenever he opened his mouth at Scoops. "Eddie is gay, and I'm telling him that you called him punk rock-"

Something outside shrieked, high and rattling like broken glass against a sheet of metal. They shared a look like the ones they used to share at Family Video, when customers were being unreasonable and they couldn't say anything about it or they'd get fired.

Steve leaned down to grab his bat from the floor, wiping the grease off of his hands onto his jeans as Robin stood and stretched. There was still a deep purple bruise tucked into the inner corner of her eye from a demo-bat attack on patrol a few days ago, and Steve felt the matching one on his shoulder twinge when he hauled the nail-bat over it.

"He won't do anything," He told her, stepping in front to take the lead as they moved towards the front of the bus. The windows were still sloppily boarded up from a night that felt like a hundred years ago, just Steve and a bunch of kids who were in over their head. "I call him punk all the time, I think he's grown immune to it."

They stopped at the door, Robin squeezing past to stand on the other side, where the controls were. They stayed quiet, peering through the dirty glass to get a grasp of the how many and where. Dustin's code said three, but they'd been wrong before.

"Yeah, but if he hears you've been spreading that around?" Robin whispered, reaching behind her to wrap bandaged fingers around the lever. She whistled low, mostly breath, and Steve rolled his eyes. "You won't have to worry about demodogs, is all I'm saying."

"Yeah, yeah." He muttered, tightening his grip on the bat as the door shuttered open and a gust of warm air hit his face.

He crept outside, second-hand work boots crunching lightly on the gravel as he listened to Robin hurry up the ladder to the roof. She was going to yell directions and throw molotov cocktails while he did the actual hard shit. Technically the lookout part was supposed to be Eddie's job, and Robin was meant to be at Steve's back with her axe, but apparently they were at a crucial stage of the campaign and he "couldn't miss it".

Part of Steve hoped he'd get eaten, if only to get his boyfriend to reorganise his priorities a bit.

A half hour later, Steve leaned against the side of the bus, sweaty and panting while Robin offered him her water-bottle. She reeked of cheap alcohol and the sharp smell of burning, glittering shards of glass caught in her fringe. Gore dripped from the nails in his bat, and one of the dogs had gotten a good swipe at his shin, but he remained mostly un-grievously-injured. He still hurt everywhere though, body complaining about all the diving over and around and behind random bits of junk and machinery.

"Metal gay sex is probably gayer than punk rock gay sex." He decided, and Robin hummed thoughtfully.

"You'd know."

He shrugged, tilting his head with an ehh. "I've never slept with a punk so I can't be sure, but you've met Eddie."

"I have indeed. Speaking of- are we having dinner at Wayne's tonight?"

Steve groaned - not in complaint, it's just that his everything hurt and he'd forgotten about their dinner plans - and ran a hand through his hair. It was greasy and damp with sweat and monster blood. Overhead, a flock of demobats shrieked and weaved among each other, not bothering with the two of them as they headed off towards the quarry.

"Yeah, I said we'd pick up mince for that chuck-in he makes, but that was before the butcher got eaten this morning and I don't think Melvald's is open today."

Robin sighed, scooping up her bag and shrugging it over her shoulder. She held out a hand, fingers spread and wiggling expectantly, and he grinned as he clasped their hands together.

The headed off towards the tracks, a short-cut to the trailer park, and swung their hands back and forth between them.

"I could make that pasta my mum taught me?" Robin offered. "Pretty sure the Munson's will have all of that."

He groaned, this time in delight, and swung their hands a bit higher like a kid on the swings excited to touch the clouds. "God yes, please."

#this might be ooc im really fucking tired lmao #hope you enjoy!!#the concept of steve and robin just hanging out in the bus at the junkyard while on patrol is something thats been in my head for a while #very glad to have an excuse to write something for it #my writing #stobin #platonic soulmates #bit of steddie #steddie #robin buckley #steve harrington #stobin ficlet #asks #leeloooonfire #also the whole 'punk rock gay sex is sexier than hippy gay sex' part at the start #is taken directly from a conversation i had with my best friend one afternoon #i cant remember the context - i just found the exchange written down in my notes app and i went OH PERFECT

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rdhadastroke · 1 year

Text

So this straw-masked dumbass decided to do a thing and share some personal tips about writing fanfiction/writing someone else's character/writing in general!

Please keep in mind that I am a hobbyist writer, not a professional! These are just suggestions/things that help me that may or may not work for you, please feel free to correct me or add your own anecdotes :)

Tips for getting ready to write:

Make sure that you're in an environment where you can concentrate.

Whether that be in a quiet room, a chatty café, or blasting your eardrums out with music, whatever gets you in the groove is good. Not everybody can focus in the same environment, so your choice of surroundings for when you right aren't going to be the same as everyone else's. I (personally) listen to long video essays, my current favorite song on loop, or a playlist about the story/characters.

Clear a space for where you want to write.

Clear the space of excess clutter and keep only what you need. If what you need to write is a lot, that's fine! Having too much going on at once in your writing space can overwhelm and/or distract you. I know from personal experience.

Have all of your materials at hand.

Character sheets, previous stories, note paper to jot down ideas, rough environment & scene sketches... Whatever references and tools you need, keep them with you! Also, keep a glass of water or some other drink nearby. Hydrate or diedrate, my friends.

Make sure that you won't be interrupted while you're writing.

This may not be an option for those of you living with your parents or a roommate, but it's ideal for your creative flow to go undisturbed, uninterrupted, and unwatched. Is your father really watching you write your fanfic? No, probably not, considering that he's snoring. But it still feels weird to write when he's sitting in his armchair right behind you. No, I am not projecting my experience onto the reader under the cover of an absurd joke, why would you say that?

Now that setup is out of the way, let's go over some actual writing stuff:

Always, always, always block out what you want to write before you actually write it.

By "block out", I mean give a basic summary of the events you want to take place in that chapter or segment. I usually do this event-by-event because I struggle to carry on a story without an outline, but you can do it by chapter or by paragraph if you'd like. Make jokes in your mini-summaries, and phrase things in wacky ways (that convey things to you effectively)! You don't have to be too serious about it. After all, if you're in a lil silly goofy mood, you can get an epic sentence like this:

If you get stuck on a part of a story, move on and save it for later.

If you're anything like me, you understand the screaming, crying, pissing, pants-shittingly frustrating experience of not knowing how to describe something or figure out what should be said next. As angering as it is, it's okay. Just write a mini block-in for what you want to happen, want to describe, or the general tone of what you want to be said. Or use a keyword that you can Ctrl+F for to finish those pesky scenes when you're ready. If your writing software can do it (I have no clue if any one program does this, I only use Google Docs), mark the spot for review to return to it later. If you're one of those frighteningly powerful people who write stories by hand, highlight it and paste what you want to go there over it once you're ready. If you aren't familiar with this infuriating part of writing, you're a lucky bastard and I envy you immensely.

If you have writer's block, there are 8 potential strategies (that I can provide) you can use to alleviate it.

These are NOT surefire fixes for writer's block and are EXTREMELY subjective and results will vary from person to person, but they can potentially help you.

Read a book. Sometimes reading how another author writes (dialogue, scenery, figurative language, etc.) can help you get a better grasp of what you want to write, and how you want to write it. You might even get inspired to make a different story, which bleeds into the next point.

Work on/start a different story. (This isn't always the best way to get out of writer's block, so if you can't get a word down, this probably won't help.) Sometimes changing what you're working on can free up the ink clogged in your pen, for lack of a better phrase, and give you an, "aha!" moment.

Eat and drink something. Brains don't work when they don't have fuel, so feed your machine. Frequent maintenance keeps an engine running smooth, so occasionally get a snack and make sure to keep hydrated.

Take a walk and get some fresh air, and touch some grass for the love of god. Jokes aside, getting your body moving can excite your brain into working and clear some brain fog, since exercise gives your brain a dose of serotonin. As silly as it sounds, sitting in the sun and touching some grass can actually make you feel nice and rejuvenated, it helps me a lot. Even if you don't go outside, moving around is a good way to give your brain a break.

Talk to a friend and get their input. Their ideas can get you through a tough spot and inspire you to get writing again.

Look at pretty pictures and distract yourself from what you're doing. I have pictures of art pieces and doodles I like hanging in front of the desk where I write, and losing myself in pretty stuff helps me work through what I'm struggling with.

Jot down notes by hand on what you're trying to do. Planning things out on pen and paper, despite being tedious, imprints information in your mind and can be useful to your writing needs

If you're writing a fanfiction, look at the source material. Chances are, there's something there that could help you along.

If you don't have the motivation to write anything, don't.

This isn't the best advice for someone who's on a time limit, but works wonders for passion projects and fun stories. Very few do their best work when they force themselves to do it. Besides, there's no point in having a hobby if you don't get joy out of it and overly stress over it.

Writing someone else's character? No problemo, here's some fanfic help:

Always look at the source material, and don't be shy to explore new territory with the character.

It's important to stay true to the personality of a character when you're writing someone else's creation, but don't be afraid to throw in some headcanons and artistic flair. Remember, there's a difference between writing a character unrealistically (pertaining to personality, likes, interests, and universe/world/time period) and changing the circumstances of the original story. Characters are people too, and people react differently to the same thing depending on the world around them. A character may not have [x] trait if [y] event never happened, likewise [y] event never would have happened if this character didn't have [x] trait. Take into consideration the people around the character, as well, as they can also affect what the character does and how they develop. Change up small events in the original source material's story to get a different story and a different reaction out of the character. Experiment, and have fun! It's your story, write it your way!

That's all the advice I have for now, and I hope I was helpful! :)))

#fanfiction tips #writing tips #writing help #writing #fanfiction help #fanfiction #writing advice #fanfiction advice #hobby writer #im not a professional

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biaswreckingfics · 1 year

Text

Business or Pleasure? - Part 3

Pairing: Lee Sangyeon x Female Reader

Genre: CEO AU, Fake Dating AU, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: None

Previous Chapter

It's two minutes before you're supposed to start work when you run through the lobby on the bottom floor. From the corner of your eye, you see Eric open his mouth to say something to you, but you speedwalk past him, shouting a hurried "morning" as you move along his desk. Realistically, you know you're not making it to the office on time. The elevator ride alone will probably be at least five minutes, but that doesn't slow you down. The only thing running through your mind is Mr. Lee telling you what he expects from you, and the main point was to not be freaking late.

You couldn't blame this on anyone but yourself. You knew the consequences of staying out late on a work night. Well, you didn't stay out late per se, but spending the entire night in Sunwoo's bed is basically the same thing.

Immediately clamping down on the memories of last night's activities before they can get too far, you maneuver into the elevator just as the door starts to close and jam your finger into the button labeled 75. You take a deep breath, knowing your fate is out of your hands, and look at the few people occupying the stainless-steel box with you.

None of them are familiar, and when you glance back at the buttons, you see they're going to lower-level floors. Of course, because all the rest of your coworkers aren't idiots. They know not to be late or cut it too close. Even Sunwoo probably got here before you because he didn't have to run all the way back home and get ready for the day.

The elevator creeps slowly up, and you smother the urge to scream. You should've taken those stupid stairs of death. You could walk faster than the pace of this elevator. Tapping your foot on the ground, you look at your watch to see that it's now 8:02. You're officially two minutes late and maybe two minutes past being fired...

Maybe Mr. lee isn't there yet! Maybe he's running late himself. He could've been stuck by a boat or train or... something. You clutch at the fleeting thoughts as the elevator approaches the top floor. Realistically, you know you're grasping at straws. Mr. Lee is probably standing next to your desk with his arms crossed over his chest.

The stern image of his face evaporates from your mind as the elevator stops at the top floor. The doors slowly open, and you take off out of the elevator, barely noticing the disappointed expression on Mrs. Park's face. Yes, you're late on your second day. You're probably just as bad as the rest of the assistants he has fired.

You can feel the eyes trailing you as you pass cubicle after cubicle, which only stands to make you feel worse. It's like your teacher or parent singling you out in front of a crowd. You feel small and want to disappear, but you've done it to yourself.

As you approach the back wall of the building, you spot your desk and nearly fall over in relief when you don't see your boss there waiting for you. Your eyes immediately slide over to his office, and you're pleasantly surprised to see the door and blinds closed. Either he isn't here yet - which is doubtful - or he hasn't realized you're late.

Quietly, you place your bag on your desk and take a seat. Turning on your computer, you log on and unpack your things, making it look like you've been here longer than you have. Once everything is set, you take a deep breath and slump in your seat. Thank god.

Once your computer is ready, you open your email and begin sorting through it. You make copies of what needs to be copied, reply to any inquiries, and check that Mr. Lee's schedule is up to date and ready for him. When that's all finished, you grab the notes you've made and stand up.

As you move to Mr. Lee's door, you take a few calming breaths and look over your outfit to make sure you don't look rumpled. Satisfied, you knock on his door and wait until he says, "Come in" to enter. The last thing you expect to see is a frazzled Mr. Lee leaning over his desk.

He doesn't even look up as you come in. His focus is on the papers scattered across his desk. You pause and take in the sight of his crooked tie, the messy hair he's clearly run his hand through a few times, and his jacket halfway falling off the chair behind him.

How long has he been here? He almost looks like he never left, which can't be true because he left before you did. Unless he came back after?

"Mr. Lee?"

He hums but doesn't acknowledge you. After another moment, his eyes snap up, and recognition finally dawns on his face. He glances at the clock on his wall and then looks at his watch before he looks back up at you.

"I'm sorry. Good morning," he murmurs while his eyes fall back down to the papers on his desk. When he looks back at you again, he seems more with it. "Everything okay?"

It's so painfully obvious to you that he has already been here for hours and hasn't even realized the workday has started. Not wanting to worry him more, you flash him a smile. "Everything's fine. I just thought I'd go over your day with you."

His gaze takes on a faraway look, and he rubs his lips together in thought. When his eyes fall back down to the papers on his desk, you know something's bothering him.

"Actually," he looks back up at you. "I'm going to need you to clear my entire day. Reschedule everything I have to do and anything else that pops up, please."

"No problem," you trail off before working up the nerve to ask, "Is everything okay?"

He seems surprised that you've asked and even more surprised with himself when he answers. "One of the businesses we contract out to has been bought out by another company. All of their management and policies are being switched around, and they're no longer willing to do half of what we pay them for. Everything's a mess, and I have to find work around's..."

He trails off when he sees the blank look you're trying to keep off your face. His lips slightly twitch before he says, "I'm sorry for all of that. Everything will be fine once I figure this out."

"Okay," you quietly say before turning toward the door. "I'll get started on rescheduling your day."

You hear his mumbled thanks as you close the door, and you know he has already gone back to his paperwork. Dropping down into your seat, you begin to rearrange his schedule and field any calls that come into his office.

By lunch, there's been zero change. Mr. Lee is still locked in his office, and you've just about freed up his day, minus an email or two. Tapping your fingers on your desk, you glance back at his closed blinds. Throughout the morning, you've heard a grumbled curse here and there, but other than that, Mr. Lee has been locked up in there for hours. No visitors, no calls, no bathroom breaks. Nothing.

An idea pops into your mind, and while you tell yourself you're just being a good assistant, you're sure part of what you're about to do is thanks to guilt for being late. Standing up from your desk, you make your way through the half-empty office until you reach Mrs. Park's desk.

Her eyes leave the sandwich she's unwrapping and come up to yours. The unimpressed look she gives you only fuels your thought process.

"I see you got away with it."

Choosing to ignore her comment, you ask, "What does Mr. Lee like to eat?"

One of her brows raises. "Why?"

"Because he has been locked up in his office for hours, and I don't think he's even thinking about food." When she continues to stare at you, you add, "There's an issue with a contracting company, and he seems really worried about it."

Once you mention that, you see a motherly look of worry crossing her features. She debates for a moment, her mouth pursing to the side in thought before she answers.

"There's a burger place a few blocks down to the east that he sometimes goes to." At your directionally challenged expression, she sighs. "Go to the right when you leave the building and walk a few blocks. Get him something nice and greasy. Don't try to feed him that healthy crap when he's like this."

Nodding, you turn to the elevator until a question she asks stops you. "Why are you doing this?"

You turn back and meet her gaze. "Because I'm his assistant."

"And because you were late."

"And because I was late," you concede.

She smiles at your admission and shoos you away.

Bearing her words in mind, you ride the elevator down to the main floor. A few people are milling about, wasting away their lunch break before they have to go back to work. You spot Eric leaning over his desk, his head leaning lazily on his hand while he taps his other hand on the desk.

You approach him - intending to say hi - and he slowly faces you, sliding the customer service mask back on his face before he realizes it's you. He straightens up, and the knowing smirk that replaces the polite smile he put on has you apprehensive.

"You were late," he says in a sing-song voice. "How much trouble did you get in?"

"None," you airily say. "Mr. Lee was so busy, he didn't even notice."

Shock paints his features. "What the hell kind of good luck do you have?"

"I have no idea," you shrug, "but I'd like to keep it."

"Must've been all that woo-woo Sunwoo gave you last night." He smirks while his eyebrows wiggle on his forehead.

"Woo-woo?" You repeat in disbelief.

Eric nods. "Yeah, you know... When he was laying it down! When he was -"

"Okay!" You raise your hands up and wave them in front of your face. "Stop! Do not say whatever horrifyingly embarrassing thing you're going to say! I don't want to hear it."

Eric laughs. "What? You can do the deed, but you can't talk about it?"

"God. What are you? Five?" You back away from his desk before he can say anything else. "I'm going to get lunch and avoid the rest of this conversation."

"I'll be here when you get back!" He shouts at your retreating form, and you cringe, wondering if there's a back door to the building.

Finding the burger joint is shockingly easy. You follow Mrs. Park's directions, taking a right out of the building and walking a few blocks. Then, you follow a couple of suits who are, apparently, going there for lunch. You order one of the burgers that looks like it'll clog an artery and a side of fries for Mr. Lee, then get yourself something slightly less life-ending.

When you get back to the building, you hold your breath and prepare yourself for whatever nonsense Eric is going to spew. However, when you enter the lobby, you see his desk is blessedly empty, and you hurry on through to the elevators. The second trip up the elevator is much nicer than your first anxiety-filled one, and you're back on the floor in no time.

Mrs. Park eyes the greasy bag as you walk toward her and gives you a nod of approval as you breeze past. You have no idea why you want the elderly lady to like you. Maybe it's because she seems like she takes no shit, and you admire that.

Stalking through the still mostly empty office, you only come to a stop when you get to Mr. Lee's closed door. You take a moment to collect yourself, not wanting to appear over eager, before knocking on it. Mr. Lee's tired voice comes through the door telling you to come in, and you quickly open the door.

He doesn't look up at you as you enter, and you're not sure he's going to until the smell hits him. He pauses, trying to comprehend the new scent, and then finally looks up at you. His eyes immediately fall to the bag, and you hold it up for inspection.

"I know you said not to worry about your lunches, but considering how long you've been here already, I think a well-deserved food break is in order."

Mr. Lee mulls over your words, eyes never leaving the bag for such a long time that it becomes awkward. Then, after what feels like an eternity, his eyes find yours.

"Thank you, but I don't eat unhealthy food like that."

"Liar."

The word falls out of your mouth, surprising both of you. Your eyes widen at the horrifying thought that you just called your boss a liar, but he doesn't look mad. He looks... amused. He finds it funny that you have the guts to say something like that.

"I'm so sorry," you immediately backtrack. "It's just... I asked Mrs. Park what you'd like, and she strictly told me to get you something greasy."

At that, his eyebrows raise, and he looks at you in a new light. "You asked Mrs. Park what I'd like for lunch?"

"Yes?" You question as you try to decide if you're falling into some sort of trap here.

He stares at you for a moment, and you wonder if he always chooses his words carefully or if this is just how he is at work. His eyes bounce between yours before he nods.

"Well, alright. I shouldn't prove anyone a liar." He pauses, and you swear to god, you see a smile creep onto his face for a moment before he says, "Including myself."

He begins clearing off a spot on his desk, piling up papers to the side, and you approach his desk. "Again, I'm sorry for calling you that."

Mr. Lee waves his hand away, surprising you. "Don't worry about it... Though, I will say, it's the first time an employee has called me something to my face."

You wait until he places some napkins on his desk to hand him his burger, but his words catch you off guard, and you look up at him with wide eyes. "You know what they say about you?"

He lets out a short laugh. "Don't most employees have something bad to say about their bosses?"

"I can't say I've had a superior be referred to as a "mob boss" before, but sure."

His hand pauses midway to the burger you're holding, and he looks up at you in surprise. You push the burger into his hand as he considers the nickname, and then he raises his eyebrows. "I guess that is a new one."

A part of you cringes internally when you realize he hadn't been aware of that nickname, but he doesn't seem too focused on it. Instead, his eyes are glued to the burger he's unwrapping. He slowly drops into his seat as he eyes the greasy wrapping.

"I know this will kill me, but it's so good, I don't care."

Pulling out the fries, you place them and his drink on the desk. "I also got you fries and water because ya know... balance."

He looks at the two new items, and a laugh is ripped out of him. It stuns you because you haven't seen much in ways of merriment when it comes to Mr. Lee, and here he is with a full-blown laugh. You search his face and the smile that still rests on it, feeling a swirl in your stomach.

He looks so different when he smiles. So relaxed and light-hearted. Nothing like the controlled appearance he tends to show at work. This Mr. Lee is someone you want to know.

And like a splash of cold water, reality comes back. He's your boss. Get a grip.

Flashing him a smile, you excuse yourself to go eat your lunch at your desk. He doesn't stop you, which you're grateful for. You need a moment to reflect on the little victory you were just awarded.

The entire time you eat your meal, your mind goes back to his laugh. It both annoys and worries you. Deciding a distraction is needed, you open the internet browser on your monitor and begin to look for something - anything - to get your mind off of your boss.

Once lunch passes, you can't help but think about how Mr. Lee probably went straight back to work, and you wonder if he's made any progress - or if there's something you can do to help...

Before you even realize you've made a decision, you're up from your seat and knocking on his door once again. He gives you the okay to enter, and you quickly open the door and close it behind you before you lose your nerve. Mr. Lee looks up at you curiously.

You pause and take a breath before you finally just ask, "Can I help you at all?"

He looks stunned by your question before a polite smile takes over. "This isn't a secretarial issue... Do you know a lot about technology and business?"

"Not in the slightest," you answer honestly, "but maybe a fresh set of eyes or you talking it through with someone will help you see something new?"

He considers it for a moment, looking at the paperwork that surrounds him before glancing back up at you. "Okay. That'd be great."

Moving to a chair across from his desk, you glance at the scattered papers and hope you haven't gotten in over your head. Mr. Lee must sense your hesitancy because you hear him say, "Don't worry. It's way less complicated than it looks."

You send him a grateful smile. "Let's hope for both of our sakes you're right."

For the next few hours, Mr. Lee - or Sangyeon as he tells you to call him - walks you through everything he's working on. He explains it all with such easy clarity that you actually feel like you understand what he's trying to do. You're certainly no expert, but you've definitely upped yourself a few levels.

One thing that you've noticed is how passionate he is about his work. When he really gets going about the company and its inner workings, he lights up like a kid at Christmas. It's not something you were ever expecting to see, and you have a feeling he doesn't share that side of himself often.

"Have you always wanted to do this?" You ask when you both decide it's time to take a break.

"Yes and no... I've always loved developing software and messing around with codes. It was something I was good at and something I understood." He leans his head back against the chair and gazes up at the ceiling. "I knew I could make a good life for myself in this field. I could give back to my parents and help my sister with my nephews... but it wasn't my dream."

"What was your dream?"

He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. "I think I'll keep that to myself."

There's no way your interest could've possibly been piqued higher. "Well, now you have to tell me."

His head lifts up from the chair, and he raises a brow. "Is that how it works?"

"Yep." You adjust in your seat to get comfortable and look at him expectantly. The amusement on his face triples.

"Was it your dream to be a personal assistant?" He counters.

"Merely a means to an end." You wave your hand in the air almost like you can wipe away his distraction attempt. "Do you not want to tell me because it's embarrassing and absurd?"

His lip twitches in response. "I'm almost afraid of the picture you're painting in your head."

"You definitely should be," you nod.

Sangyeon shakes his head, a small smile resting on his face. His eyes search yours for a moment, and you can see the instant he decides to tell you.

"I actually wanted to compose music," he says quietly.

Your entire body freezes at his response. For some reason, music wasn't even in the realm of possibilities that flitted across your mind. "Music?"

He nods. "I've always liked singing and creating arrangements... and from the very few people who've heard me sing... It sounds like I'm not that bad." His eyes cut to yours, almost like he knows what you're going to ask before you do. "No, I will not sing for you."

"Oh, come on," you whine. "I want to hear."

"Absolutely not." He sits up in his seat, and you can tell he's about to dive back into his work.

Without thinking, you throw your hands out and cover his papers so he can't see them. He looks up at you in surprise, and you immediately defend yourself.

"At least tell me why you ended up doing this instead."

He purses his lips and stares at you. "Because there's too much chance in the music industry, and it's hard to break into. Technology, on the other hand, continuously creates jobs and is a growing field."

When you stay quiet, he tilts his head to the side. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Clearly, you have something you want to say."

"Nope," you respond, letting the "p" pop.

He starts picking up some of the papers in front of him. "Well, I find that rather hard to believe."

Your mouth opens in mock outrage. "Excuse me?"

"I have a feeling that you're not one to hold back on how you feel." He shrugs. "That's all."

"While that's accurate, I kind of resent that you know that about me already. " An entertained expression grows on his face, and you sigh. "All I was going to say is that's a safe answer, which makes me think you don't take risks. You always want a controlled outcome."

When he stays silent, you wonder if you've managed to finally offend him, but he slowly nods. "I suppose you're right."

A triumphant smile grows on your face. "I guess you're not the only one here that can read people pretty well."

"Oh?" He arched a brow. "Have I met my match?"

His words cause your heart to do an unnecessary flip. "I guess only time will tell which one of us comes out on top."

The words suddenly sound dirty in your ears, and you meet Sangyeon's surveying stare with a horrified expression. Wow, you really need to learn to think before you speak!

"Superior! We'll see who is superior. At reading people. Which one of us is better. At it."

You cringe so hard that your face scrunches up and you turn your head to look away from Sangyeon. God. How embarrassing! The words probably sounded perfectly normal to him, and now he knows that your mind was in the gutter. This man is your boss! You're not supposed to think dirty things about him. You didn't even realize that you were thinking dirty things about him!

A low chuckle reaches your ears, and you slowly turn your head to find Sangyeon watching you. There's a glint of light in his eyes that almost seems mischievous, and that's only confirmed when you hear him respond, "I guess we will."

Tagging: @jungkooksworld18 @sungbeam @jenowithjaem @ilovechanhee @maybeifyoutrieddd @winterbeartaehyungbestboy

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jyndor · 2 years

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so... can some of us (you included lol) be mad and frustrated at what the show is doing with Cassian's characterization already, or do we have to wait until the whole season is out? smh anyway, thanks for your rant, Cait 💔

Ty Ai I appreciate you as always. I don't know how clear I have to be that it's not that I don't Get the point of what the show is doing, it's that so far I don't agree with the It they're trying to do (and doing so well that I am grasping at straws to fix it lol).

I like a LOT of things! I think for most people who aren't as obsessed with Rogue One it probably doesn't feel dissonant with Cassian's character, and also im sure many people feel like it works for whatever reason, but to me this show wants to be set EARLIER, when Cassian is a teen. That would feel less dissonant. Or show some disillusionment while doing different kinds of rebellion.

I'm sure the show hasn't given us every twist or reveal about Cassian's past, and I still think it's possible they reveal he has been doing little rebel things here and there instead of just being a scammer. But like yeah idk I don't think the Cassian Andor who is supposed to be a foil to Jyn would be fucking off to Space Miami to avoid his true calling and passion. I don't think that's him at ANY point in his life.

And you can see from looking at how fans have written Cassian overall as a former child soldier who stuck with the fight despite the trauma, for six years. If you think that anyone got this out of what Cassian said, you're lying to yourself.

Ai lol we all get there's more to see. I'm sure by the finale he will be a rebel. But he should have been one - even on and off, or with different cells and in different ways - since he was a kid. It's in the text. The show is rewriting his story.

#rogue one #cassian andor #star wars #andor spoilers #star wars andor #asks #answered #fandom critical #dasakuryo

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talkshow-shitlord · 1 year

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Admission of being compliant should Kirby take his life, I see. Thank you for the evidence, should Kirby be taking you and your little group of hyenas to court.

Considering Kirby provided medical evidence of his time at the hospital on suicide watch last year? I find your logic not only broken, but abhorrently twisted from reality and any semblance of morality.

What you're doing has crossed the legal boundary and has reach criminal stalking and harassment. AKA it's a crime. With tangible, screenshotted, evidence.

You and your friends should be the ones in jail. NOT Kirby.

I don't even post anything aside from warnings to you clowns. Like, I got a small timeline. All you gotta do is check it. Y'all leave us alone, I leave you alone. He constantly talks shit about everyone, stalks people by proxy, block evades, emotionally manipulates people, and then tosses them out when they're not good enough anymore.

Dude is sick in the head. And I guess I must have been a little too vague; I am not responsible, in any way, for this manchild acting up. I didn't tell him to do anything, he doesn't have the guts to approach ANYBODY without an ulterior motive. He harassed most of the Hazbin and Helluva fandom, tried to bring dozens of people into his problems, and then hurled bile and insults.

Also, for anything legal, I wouldn't trust the word of someone taking all their advice from a family lawyer. Especially one that would facilitate Kirby's publicly available admittance to sending third party people to spy on people he's "over".

I don't want, nor does anyone else want, for Kirby to kill himself, as far as I know. However, I stand by my statement; very few people that know him at this point are likely to take any suicide threats as exactly that; threats. Even the people that are worried about his mental state, which I can confirm is at least a good handful of people, will still take this with a grain of salt, because he's done this too much in the past.

If he wants to try and use my words as some admittance of guilt, he is free to try. But he can't even accurately call me out. He just grasps at straws, aiming at this "Allison", taking potshots left and right at anyone that bites back at him for the awful things he did, trying to sound all menacing and mysterious, when really he's just some stuck up manchild that throws tantrums when he's told to clean up, or goes quiet like a toddler when he's upset about something.

He (You) is (are) grasping at straws, vague posting, and then trying to act like he's done nothing wrong. For years, people were concerned with a pattern that he has of dating men, only to later find out that they are groomers. Tumblr is a platform that has many minors on it, just like any other, and with Ruskeptical in his little bomb shelter clique, that's a big red flag, for me and other users on Tumblr and other sites as well.

Honestly, my best advice to him, and this is genuine advice; drop all the bullshit. Either come clean about everything yourself, make your apologies, and try to be something approximating a good person, despite your shitty actions, or withdraw from the internet, absorb yourself in creation for the sake of creation, hone your technique, and come back when you've grown.

One way or another, if you want it to end, the easiest way is just to leave it, and us, all alone.

#how many more times #don't make me say it again #tired of you bitches #take the anon off if you want to make legal threats #I have nothing but time and patience #But you ain't got the stones #headass #When one anon a day #While he gets six or seven #Almost like he's faking that too #Y'all drank the Kool-Aid #Hope it tastes like piss

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vincentanthonyv13 · 2 years

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How Can You Start Writing A Book By Vincent Anthony Virga

For many people, writing a book is a lifelong dream. So what's the secret formula that will unlock your creativity and show you how to write a book that will make your dreams come true? Some authors would tell you that there is no single path to authorship, as every writer's journey is unique. Vincent Anthony Virga would counter this: almost every best-selling author will have highly effective writing patterns and habits that help them reach their goals. If you want to write a book of your own, all you have to do is emulate them!

So let's get started. Here's a step-by-step process on how to write a book:

Find your "big book idea."

The one thing you need to write a book is, of course, an idea. If you don't have that, you'll never get past the first page of your draft.

You may already know what you want to write about or be at a total loss. Either way, you can settle on a "big book idea" by asking yourself a few simple questions:

What do I want to write about?

What do I feel is important to write about?

Who will want to read about this story/subject?

Will I be able to carry out this idea effectively?

Your answers to these questions will help you narrow them down to your best options.

Tools to help you find an idea

If you're grasping at straws, consider using creative writing prompts or a plot generator to get the ball rolling! You might stumble upon an interesting concept or story element that sparks a "big idea" for your book.

Research your genre

Once you've found your big idea, the next step is to research your genre. Again, if you're writing the book you like to read, you already have a leg up! Reading books in your genre is the best way to learn how to write in that genre yourself.

But if not, Vincent Anthony Virga suggests you select a couple of representative titles and analyze them. How long are they, and how many chapters do they have? What does the story structure look like? What are the major themes? Perhaps most importantly, do you think you can produce a book with similar elements?

Find out what people are reading.

You should also conduct market research on Amazon to determine the most popular books in your genre.

If you want your book to succeed, you'll have to contend with these best-sellers.

Going above and beyond is the only way to give your book a chance in today's hyper-competitive market. So don't skimp on the genre research because this will tell you where the bar is and how you can surpass it.

Trust in the writing process.

Remember how it's said you'd inevitably get stuck? Well, that's what this step is all about: what to do when you hit a wall. Whether it's a tricky plot hole, an onslaught of insecurity, or a simple lack of desire to write, all writers experience setbacks from time to time.

Most of all, remember to take setbacks in stride and not let them get you down. As trite as that might sound, it's true: the only thing that can stop you from writing a book is if you stop writing. So keep calm and carry on — every day brings new opportunities, and you'll get through this.

Whichever route you take, one thing will remain true: you've written a book, and that's an incredible achievement. Welcome to the 0.1% — and may the next book you write be even greater than the first.

#VINCENT ANTHONY VIRGA

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cowboy-turtle · 2 years

Text

Crossroads

Part 11 of the La Parca series

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!Reader

Words: 4k

Tags: angst, character death, survivor's guilt, an ending once again dedicated to @arahxdjarin

A/N: yeahhh this one hurts... thank you as always for reading <3 hearing your thoughts afterward is always appreciated (even if you're yelling at me 😉)

Previous Part | Masterlist

Onscreen, Rosalinda threw herself onto the floor and wept. She had to decide between saving her lover from a doomed business deal with his archnemesis, or rescuing the family she’d thought had been dead for the past ten years, their fate uncertain now as they’re stuck in a blazing fire.

It was the culmination of the entire telenovela you’d been adamantly watching every week with the girls, and yet none of you could focus on it right now. You were too busy carefully watching Vanessa’s stricken face.

And you still hadn’t heard back from Javier.

It’d been a tense couple of days, trying to reach him for any insight he might have over David’s case. Vanessa’s parents had gone down to the morgue, but the body revealed to them wasn’t his. He still remained missing even now, and Vanessa had to exist on this plane of purgatory, the continued question of his whereabouts gnawing at her attention.

She hadn’t even been excited when she mentioned a party she’d been invited to work, giving you no other details other than she probably won’t go. That worried you, exchanging a look with Carmen. Vanessa thrived off the attention, the ego boosts and heavy pockets these parties always gave her, but instead you’re left grasping at straws as you watch her wilt before you with each passing day.

“I’m getting more lemonade,” Carmen offers, “do you want some?”

The crescendo of dramatic music from the television is ignored, watching the listless, zombie-like movement of Vanessa as she nods and hands Carmen her glass. She disappears into her kitchen right as Rosalinda seems to make her decision. She wipes her eyes dramatically, tosses her hair and calls for the car. The driver appears onscreen and asks her where she’s decided to go. There’s another swell of musical score, a zoom of the camera as she opens her mouth and tells him…

The screen cuts to static, making even Vanessa sit up with a sound of confusion.

When the channel connects again, a stoic news anchor sits behind a desk.

“We apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled programming, but we’ve just received an urgent transmission from our field correspondent, Valeria Valezquez.”

The anchor nods at the cameraman, and they’re replaced by a woman who fills up the screen. She sets the scene, explaining how a twelve-year-old boy was found murdered in the streets earlier this week, how it wasn’t just a freak accident but a coordinated attack. Then it cuts to an interview.

Vanessa lets out a wail of panic.

Carmen comes rushing out. “What, what is it?”

The glass of lemonade slips out of her grasp, shattering to the floor when she sees who’s on the television.

“How old are you?” Valeria’s offscreen voice asks.

“Ten.”

“I understand you’re quite a soccer player.”

The little boy lets out a nervous laugh, fidgeting in his seat.

The woman’s voice beside the camera continues. “Thank you for being brave enough to tell us your story, David.”

David’s eyes dart between where the voice is coming from, and someone else who is in the room.

“Tell me,” she coaxes gently, “who were the men who brought you to the building that day?”

He blinks, swallows. “They were Search Bloc policemen.”

“Do you know why they brought you there?”

“He…he said they were going to send a message to other kids.”

“Who is ‘he’? Do you remember his name?”

“Colonel Carrillo.”

Vanessa lets out another choked gasp, sinking further into the couch. You can hear Carmen’s worried murmurs from behind you, but you’re too frozen in place to offer either comfort, unease seeping into your bones.

“Who else was there besides Carrillo?”

Your heart shudders, eyes darting over to Vanessa who is rapturously watching the screen. A sweat breaks out along your neckline at how searing Carmen’s gaze now burns at the back of your head.

“A bunch of men. Some I heard speaking English. Americans. Like in the movies.”

Vanessa seems to stiffen next to you with realization.

“Are you sure they were police?”

There’s a pause, then David nods. “Yes.”

“How long did you know?” the cold question doesn’t come from the tv, but from the friend staring daggers beside you now.

You’re scared to meet Vanessa’s glare. “Van…”

“Answer the question.”

You look down at your hands instead. “I…I didn’t know David was there.”

Any attempt at rushing towards you is stopped by Carmen who pushes Vanessa back to her side of the couch. Vanessa lets out a disbelieving scoff.

“Of course you defend her.” She gets up, reaching for her jacket. “I need to find him.”

“Van, stop! She did nothing wrong.” Carmen blocks her path even as Vanessa tries to push past her. She holds up her hands appeasingly.

“Don’t you see?” Carmen points at the screen. “Those sick fucks used David. He’s just a kid and now they’ve identified him on national tv. The police are going to be looking for him too.”

Vanessa’s anger deflates at this, panicked glances between you and the door trembling her lip.

“Please don’t tell Javier where he is,” she settles on you with a pleading voice. “He’s only a kid. He…they’re going to arrest him or…or worse.”

The last tacked-on words, or worse, shoots a tingle up your spine, strikes through you like the gunshot that started this whole ordeal.

“I won’t say anything,” you promise. Vanessa nods, anxious tears finally rushing out, and then you’re up helping her leave. She’s talking a mile a minute about where David could be, you promising to help search for him again if her family doesn’t find him by nightfall.

In the commotion of getting Vanessa out the door you miss Carmen’s phone ringing, finding the result of the called conversation in her thinly pressed lips and worried brow once the lock clicks shut.

“What is it?” you ask quietly.

“That party Vanessa mentioned? I was just invited.” She looks at you uneasily. “They want to know if you’ll come too.”

“What?” You brush off the request by walking back to the living room, squatting to pick up the broken pieces of glass. “I’m not working anymore.”

“Well they think you are.” When your continued silence indicates your lack of interest, Carmen calls out your name, concern laced in the word.

“I don’t think this is a normal party,” she warns slowly once she has your attention. “They said it’s a big celebration.”

“What for?”

“They wouldn’t say anything except it’s…it’s something that hasn’t happened yet.”

Your mind stalls for a moment before it races with possibilities. Carmen cuts in to continue.

“They already bought out all the brothels from here to Cartagena, they’re flying us all out there. The paycheck’s their biggest ever.”

You swallow. “How much is it?”

You balk at the number when she tells you. It would cover the funds you needed for the fellowship twice over.

“It’s scaring me,” Carmen whispers, drawing nearer until you pull her into a hug. “I don’t know why but it feels…violent. Something bad’s going to happen.”

She pulls her head from your shoulder to level her gaze.

“Please tell Javier, okay? I think it’s going to be important.”

You nod, brushing back a wild stray curl from her fear-creased forehead. “The next time I see him, I promise I’ll tell him.”

When you hear your door open later that night, it’s not to the usual slow shuffle of his step, weighed down by whatever troubled him today.

He’s so light on his feet you have to look towards the entry just to ensure it’s actually him. He doesn’t notice you’re there yet, peeking up from your hideaway on the couch watching the black plastic bag in his hand swing as he adds a little sway to his step, the slightest hints of a dance to an imaginary song. Except it’s not completely imaginary because he’s…

He’s singing softly.

The sound is pleasant, so low under his voice you can’t hear the words. The back of your mind wonders if he’s been in some sort of accident that’s altered his brain wiring, at least enough to change his view of the world. You’ve never seen him this happy, this tranquil, an easy smile sitting gently on his face that finally spots your curious look from the living room. His body turns to yours with an open arm.

“Cariño,” he beams, “come over here.”

“Javi,” your puzzled laugh is apparent in your response, but you get up regardless. “What is all this?”

His arm loops around your waist to draw you nearer the second you’re within range. He sways you together for a moment, head dipping down for your lips to greet each other before he drags his up with a contented hum, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

“We’re going to celebrate tonight.” He remembers the bag then, hoisting it onto the counter and dragging the plastic down to reveal its singular content.

You look at him, bewildered. “Champagne?”

You don’t know how it’s possible that his smile stretches broader. “Everything’s about to change.”

He leaves you only to open your refrigerator, scanning the shelves before he’s satisfied with a home for the bottle of bubbles. He turns to you once more as the door seals shut, a questioning tilt of your head in response.

“What aren’t you telling me?” you venture to ask.

He pacifies the inquiry with hands coming up to cradle your face, drawing close to you once more as his smile relaxes back into a peaceful ease.

“I can’t say anything yet but,” he lets out a slow breath, expectant eyes searching yours for acceptance, “we might finally…this might all be over.”

The words ping through your chest, the beat of his contagious hope taking over the drum of your own heart now. “Really?”

He nods, barely-contained anticipation edging back into his voice. “I’ll be back to celebrate tonight, okay?”

Another chaste kiss and he steps away then, a quick check of his watch introducing a slight frown that disappears just as quickly when you turn towards him.

“It’s happening tonight?”

“Yes, the next time you see me,” he pauses, a resolute nod as the belief behind his words solidifies, “it’ll all be worth it.”

You smile at the idea, at Javier suddenly determined to reach the light at the end of the tunnel, that you almost forget your promise. It’s not until he’s reaching for the front door that your stomach twists in sudden remembrance.

“Wait, Javi…”

He turns back, and you’d do anything to keep that smile on his face. There’s a calm about him that you’ve never had the privilege to experience before, and the words Carmen wants relayed suddenly feel like daggers that will pierce the hopeful peace in Javier’s eyes.

You’ve yearned to see that look for so long, to give him at least one good night of it, and it's this desire that seals your lips shut from spewing out any warning. It can wait until tomorrow, you decide, and it might not even matter by then.

“Just be safe, okay?”

His face softens, and he pulls you in for one last kiss that expels any final worries with your sigh.

“For you, cariño?” he whispers. “Anything.”

Javier gives you a lingering look, full of a hopeful mellow expression spread easy across his face.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he promises, and then he’s out the door.

The atmosphere around the place feels different now after Javier’s presence, a quiet anticipation for the next time his spirit would grace your apartment. It’s buzzing just beneath your skin, bustling through your mind at what was going to happen next, at how certain he was that your lives were going to change after tonight. He’d planted that small seed of hope for a future, and it grew bigger and louder with each expectant glance towards the clock as the sun edged across the sky.

But you don’t see him that night.

Or the next morning, when you wake up to an empty bed and a breaking news bulletin when you turn on the tv.

You wished you had warned him.

No matter what channel you switch to, it’s the same scene over and over. Shattered car windows, spider-webbed designs of broken glass around bullet holes. Smoke and flame billowing from gas-slickened asphalt, the remains of a car explosion still being extinguished. The violence of the show now dissipated, reporters swarm the scene to reveal the aftermath. Thirty confirmed dead, the largest singular attack against Search Bloc, but they’re all there to talk about the main character. Their headliner, a demise so shocking it would be sure to rack in the ratings.

“Colonel Horacio Carrillo was pronounced dead this morning,” Valeria Valezquez drones on from your screen, “after a violent confrontation with the Medellín cartel. Locals report that…”

Whatever following information she dispels is barely comprehended, the memory of the kind face you met in Bogotá clouding your vision. His headshot is soon replaced by others on the television, pictures of the deceased presented one by one. You wait for the familiar brown eyes, that cocky smirk, your stomach in your throat every time your eyes flicker across each new image searching for recognition. It never comes.

But he doesn’t answer on the first ring, or the fourth, or the tenth. Your telephone cord has pretzeled with the amount of knots in it now, anxious fingers twirling and yanking through the curls every time you reach the answering machine. You’re about to shrug on a jacket, keys clattering into your hand when a shrill ring has you clambering back into the kitchen. It’s an American drawl that answers your shaky “hello?”

“Candy…” Steve pauses and you can feel your chest grow heavy, struggling for the next breath.

“Steve,” you have to close your eyes to escape your next intrusive thought. “Is he…is Javier…”

He pauses with a soft sigh and it feels like the entire world hangs on the thread of his next sentence.

“He’s safe,” he responds, but the deep set of a mouth frowning heavy with concern is apparent in his voice. “He just needs some time.”

“Of course,” is your immediate response of relief, but the selfish part of you can’t help but add on quietly, “how’s he doing?”

Another sigh. Another calculated pause.

“I wish I knew.”

“Okay,” you swallow dryly at your uneasiness, “just…just let him know I called, okay?”

“I will.”

“And,” the word wells in your throat like a lead balloon, “and I’m sorry about what happened. Steve, I…”

“It’s okay,” he tries to placate, but the delivery is empty. “He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last.”

Those words might be a common phrase to people like Steve, but it only sits heavier on your conscience as you hang up the phone. It remains there, in the back of your mind, through the days and nights you wait up for the chance encounter of a tall, dark stranger on your doorstep. You hope his specter would appear for you to wrap your arms around him, just to make sure he’s still real, just long enough for him to understand he did not have to bear his grief alone.

And as you pass by the military academy on the bus ride home each night, you consider getting off at the stop every time. If he’s been radio silent for almost a week, though, you didn’t even know if he’d be there. He’s effectively shut you out, and all you can do is wait to pick up the shattered pieces.

You can’t even be certain the voicemails you leave behind have any effect. Attempts to keep the worry out of your voice quickly deteriorating the longer the message plays out. Staggered pauses when you fail to find the right words, anything that would touch him when he feels unreachable. Each one ends with the same breathed promise, a soft refrain. I’m here for you, Javier. You know where to find me.

The only day you disregard the door is when the funeral rolls around, wishing you could be there in Bogotá to support Javier but instead bogged down by an intense deadline. The hours wane through the night and you only have enough energy to shuffle onto the couch and click off the nearby lamp before the heavy set of your eyelids pulls you under.

It’s well past the witching hour when you hear rustling and clinking from behind you. A blanket has been pulled over you now, the threadbare patches sliding off you as you sit up to inspect your thief in the night.

You almost can’t recognize him, slouched over your open refrigerator to sift through its contents. There’s an unnatural lean in his posture, a slight sway to his stationary legs that forces him to grip the door harder. The fridge light casts his face in sharp angles, gaunt features pulled down in a haggard expression. The effect in the otherwise dark room is otherworldly.

A phantom in the flesh.

“Javi?”

His reaction time is slow, saturated with the alcohol you can now tell he’s steeped in by the clouded gaze of his eyes. And even then, the sadness you find there is fathomless.

“Why aren’t you in Bogotá?”

His face seems to harden at that, coldness in his response. “I don’t do funerals. Especially…” His brow winces, mouth trembling shut.

“Javi…” you sit up further but he stops any progress with an outstretched hand. There were so many words to say, but how good were any of them? Your uncertainty pitches your voice when you speak up again.

“What happened wasn’t your fault.”

Javier almost laughs but it shudders through him, eyes screwing shut as he turns to rest his forehead on the fridge with a heavy frown. After a slow exhale, he shakes his head.

“You know, you can say all the right things,” there’s a slurred pause as he sways, a painful hiccup resounding from his chest, “it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”

His eyes glaze over, unfocused and away from you.

“I know what I am. I know what I can’t change.”

Something catches the corner of his eye and he staggers back down to the open refrigerator, clumsy hand coming to grip the neck of a bottle. He brings it up slowly, like he’s racing to jog his memory of the promised life in this gift.

“You kept it?”

It’s not an accusation at you, just a morose curiosity at the unopened champagne in his hand. A sad look at a future lost.

“I forgot it was there,” you offer, but the sight of the bottle, of its promise, has already fully claimed his attention. He pulls off the top with a brute carelessness, the whizzing cork making you duck back as it smacks against the opposite wall. Champagne spills out onto the kitchen floor and he’s quick to not waste another drop, tipping it back and drinking greedily, like he can still chase after what should have been with each gulp, slivers of foam slipping past his careless mouth onto his collar.

But you can smell the whiskey heavy on him all the way from the couch.

“Javi,” you try to plead, “I don’t think you should have that.”

The mouth of the bottle leaves his lips, edges of his mustache dripping and understanding darkening the eyes that train on you now. They seem to grow even more despondent when he nods.

“You’re right.”

He pitches towards the sink, leaning heavily on the counter for support as the bottle tips in his hand. Champagne splashes down the drain, his wrist twisting to pour it out until he lets it roll out of his hand to clang loudly into the recess of your sink.

“I don’t deserve this,” he slurs. “Champagne is for celebration.”

He turns, stumbling forward but something doesn’t work. A knee doesn’t catch him right, his center of gravity toppling to the left and he finds the floor instead, sinking down against the cupboard with a choked cry.

You get up then as he curls into himself, shoulders shaking under the weight of keeping it all in. Soft soothing sounds spill out of your mouth as you wrap your arms around him.

“C’mon,” you urge, “let's get you to bed.”

But his arms only come around you to pull you closer to him, crushing you into his grip as fingers curl into fists around the fabric of your shirt. He knocks the wind out of your lungs with his embrace, the entire pack of cigarettes he reeks of caught in your last breath as your ribs scream in protest. You try to readjust but the effort only makes him pull you harder to him, like he’s afraid of letting you go.

“Javi,” your voice is tinged with a slight panic. “Please stop, please. You’re hurting me.”

“I know,” he gasps out sharply, a pained sound. “I know I am. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t let up, a shudder running through him as his brow draws even further together. His words tumble out broken, jagged edges catching in his throat.

“I’m always hurting people, aren’t I?”

He pulls away but you shift to lay your own hands on him, turning to cradle him. It’s this soft gesture that has him seizing up, frozen in your acceptance as he trembles in your arms.

His breath catches in his throat, and then it’s like all of the pent-up anguish he’s been holding the entire week rushes out at once. A broken sob escapes and he’s shaking apart, drunken wails muffled into your shoulder when you hug him tighter to you. You’re so close you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, only feeling his mouth move against you.

“It should have been me,” he cries, “it should have been me.”

His face is damp with spilt drink and tears as you rock him to and fro, broad shoulders crumpling and shaking with each pass of your comforting hand. He’s hugging you to him like you’re oxygen and he’s struggling to breathe, each ragged attempt only heaving him further into despair.

Any words of consolation catch thick in your throat – how could you ever encapsulate how glad you were that it wasn’t him? To imagine if it had been his face on the television, his funeral tonight…

Tears begin to blur your own vision, catching in the curls of his disheveled hair.

He’s here. He’s breathing. And that’s enough.

But Steve’s words come swimming back up too. Carrillo certainly wasn’t the first, and you had no control over Javier being the next.

Just like when you wake alone the next morning, you have no control over how long he stays. If he had even been here at all, or if he’d just been another dream. Another nightmare. But the crumpled shirt on the floor tells you otherwise, the spent cigarette in the bedside ashtray still smoldering enough to remind you that everything had happened, that you couldn’t take it back.

And as the sun began to peak through your curtains, it dawned on you. The party was Escobar’s version of a funeral for Carrillo.

And you could have stopped it. If you had warned Javier.

The flash of guilt builds, deepens, burning longer until it wasn’t just a momentary paralysis. It took on a new shape, forged in the determined footsteps you take towards the phone. It turned into revenge.

Carrillo certainly wasn’t the first, but you could make sure he was the last. You were done watching from the sidelines while this war ate away at everyone you loved. You had the golden ticket to burn it all down offered so casually, if you dealt your cards right. If you remembered how to play a part.

A pause at this crossroads occurs right before you dial the last number. You cannot return to the life you promised yourself by turning around on this progress, the finality of this sacrifice was certain. But if he needed you now and found you weren’t there, what good would that future even hold?

If Javier was burying himself into the depths of hell, you were going to follow him to get him out.

Your call is answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Carmen,” you stare resolutely toward youar decision.

“Yes?”

“Tell me more about this party in Cartagena.”

taglist: @1800-fight-me @iamskyereads @microsoftcraint @thisgirl-knm @dobbyjen @triggerhappyflygirl @athalien @phandoz @queen0fchaos @c4psicle @sunnshineeexoxo @mrsudontknowme @rosethornxs @wyofabdoms @mandosmistress @dumplinshee @thirddeadlysin @kissasith @cmc1014 @morenhoe @mssbridgerton

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier pena #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #narcos #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #la parca series

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jawritter · 4 years

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Let’s Get Lost

Summary: Jensen takes you on a date to the local corn maze in lue of Halloween, and the fall season with every intention of getting lost.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Warnings: Agoraphilia kink (public sex kink), Smut, outdoor sex, fluf, language, unprotected sex, dry humping? Sex on a bet. That’s pretty much it I think.

Word Count: 2743

A/N: This fic was beta’d by the lovely @miss-nerd95! Thanks so much love!! I haven’t dropped a Jensen Ackles one shot in a long time, so I figured in light of Kinktober, it seemed like the thing to do. LOL. As always please do not copy my work! Feedback is golden! I hope you guys enjoy this one!!

Want more? Check out my Masterlist, and if that’s not enough become a patreon, and get exclusive fics as well as make request!

**MASTERLIST** **BECOME A PATREON**

The night air was turning crisp as the sun sank down past the low hanging clouds, casting long shadows of the trees along the highway as you stared out of the windshield in front of you. Jensen’s free arm slung over the seat with his hand resting on your shoulder, his bowed legs that you loved so much spread in a relaxed seated position and a pair of shades resting on the bridge of his nose as he drove down the fairly empty road out of town. His fingers drum lightly on Baby’s steering wheel to the sounds of Zeppelin that filtered through the speakers.

This was by far your most favorite place in the world to be. The front seat of Baby with Jensen’s arm caging you protectively against his side, hints of the season’s change thick in the air which was blowing through the open windows.

You didn’t get to do this often in Texas, where cold days even in fall were few and far in between. Jensen’s work schedule was also part of a huge problem as far as nights out alone could go. Thankfully, even though he was somewhat of a well known celebrity in Austin, people were pretty respectful, and when they saw him out they didn’t hover too much. It was a blessing in a big way, not many people in his line of work had the freedom to do things like what you were headed to do tonight together without bringing a whole security detail.

Tonight was the night before Halloween, Jensen had wanted to go to the local corn maze in town. It was something the town did every year, and it was something that you always looked forward to. There were always hayrides, and little old classic games like horseshoes, and even an archery competition. People would come out with their kids, or just on a date like the two of you were doing now. The goal was to make it through the corn maze without getting lost… or not getting caught… depending on just what you had in mind.

“You’re quiet tonight.” Jensen observed as he pulled onto the dirt road leading to the corn maze and festivities ahead of you.

You let your head fall on his shoulder as he circled around the open field to try and find a spot to park Baby that was out of the way. She was a good bit bigger than most of your average cars, and he cared for her just as much as Dean had.

“Just enjoying the evening,” you tell him. Honestly he could have kept driving your around and you would have been content just to be with him.

“Well, we’re here, so let’s get lost,” he said, pulling the ball cap from the backseat and slipping it over his hair, wiggling his eyebrows at you playfully.

You give him a playful push on the chest in return, and laugh as his fingers slip around your waist, pulling you to him and peppering every inch of skin he could reach with little kisses.

“Jay!” you squealed, trying to wiggle your way away from his grasp as he continued his assault. “Stop!”

“Fine,” he said, releasing you with a deep chuckle. “But you better not go astray out there tonight, sweetheart. You never know what might happen in the dark.”

The mischievous, pantymelting smirk that he gave you let you know exactly what he had planned by coming out here tonight and you weren’t surprised, but you weren’t gonna give in that easy, at least while you were still in the car.

“Jensen,” you hiss as the pair of you get out of the car, and start making your way towards the that was forming at the mouth of the corn maze where people were getting their bracelets stamped and paying the admission fee. “We are NOT doing that here. There are too many people and we can get caught!”

“That’s all part of the fun, baby girl,” he said, giving you a wink and stepping up in front of the small table to pay for your admission.

You narrowed your eyes as the back of his head as he paid the lady at the table, and was handed two red paper-bracelets.

Jensen was a country boy through and through, all those years in California had done nothing to take the Texas out of the man. He was a gentleman, and a total sweetheart. He’d give the shirt off of his back if someone needed it more than him, and he had the most electric and admirable personality you had ever saw in an individual. The one thing that you never expected to discover when you first started dating was his public sex kink.

You were pretty sure it had everything to do with the thrill of almost being caught. You discovered it when he literally fucked you in the crowd at a slipknot concert. Thankfully the flashing lights and the dark arena made it hard for the crowd to see anything but the stage, and you got out of that without getting caught.

And then there was the time the two of you did it in the girls bathroom at Jared’s bar, and even in the back of the movie theater three weeks ago.

He was also the kind of guy that liked to take you home and make love with you where no one was watching. Those were when the sweet, intimate moments happened, the ones that let you know just how much he loved you, but this little kink of his was just for additional fun, and how could you deny him that?

“Okay everybody! Here are the rules!” a heavy sat man yelled at the top of the line, wearing overalls, a straw hat, and looking every bit like something that rolled out of a redneck comedy.

“No running, no booze, no wandering off of the trail, no trying to sneak into the shake in the middle of the corn maze. If anyone is caught doing any of these things you will be asked to leave! Signs are set up through the maze to let you know where you are, and there are food trucks and games set up on the other side of the corn maze! You guys have a great time!”

With that he threw open the ropes that were held up by two pools at the top of the maze, and the line started to move. Jensen’s hand laced with yours as people broke off in groups in the maze, looking around he took the path that seemed to have less people going in that direction, purposely taking the wrong way. A mischievous smirk that was put there by Satan himself to tempt any woman who saw it plastered all over his face.

“Jensen,” you said, giving him a playful shove as the two of you made your way deeper into the corn maze. “I know what you’re up to mister.”

“I am the poster child of innocence, sweetheart, you misjudge me,” he said in mock offense.

Standing up on his tiptoes Jensen got a good look at his surroundings. Even though the corn was way over your head, Jensen had a clear shot of the field around him if he stretched far enough. Damn him and those long bowed legs.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, and shook your head. Knowing that whatever Jensen Ackles wanted, he got, not that you were going to complain - much, and you could already see the well-defined bulge forming in the crotch of his dark-blue jeans that left little to the imagination as it was.

“Oh you're innocent? Yeah, then I must be Virgin Mary.”

Narrowed green eyes moved around to meet your gaze as straight, white teeth sank into his lower lip, the former shamelessly roaming your body in an almost predatory way that made you shiver.

“Oh baby, you ain’t no virgin. I made sure of that.”

You swatted his chest when he winked and walked ahead of him further up the trail, the sun sinking lower as the two of you made your way deeper into the maze.

“I’ll tell you what,” Jensen said, grabbing your waist, and pulling you close to his chest just in case listening ears were close by he couldn’t see. “You take the lead and if we end up at the end of the corn maze, we can go home and I'll have my way with you there, but if we get lost on a dead end and I win… I get to have my way with you right here.”

It was your turn to narrow your gaze at him as the excitement danced behind those forest green orbs that were staring down into your own. The excitement was almost contagious as it radiated off him.

“You already know we’re lost, you can stretch to see over the corn,” you tell him accusingly.

“Actually, we’re so deep in here that I can’t see any way out, and it’s getting dark,” he said, procuring two small flashlights out of his back pocket that you didn’t even know he had stuck there. “So it’s fair game, unless you're too chicken about getting caught if you lose.”

If there’s one thing you weren’t, it was a coward. Now you couldn’t back down from the challenge and he knew it.

“Fine, I accept,” you tell him, poking him in the chest and watching as a wicked smile spread across those lips that were just daring you to kiss them. “But if I win I also want to go on a hayride before we leave.”

You knew Jensen would want to get out of here as soon as you hit the exit if you won, his patience to get your pants off would be worn almost completely thin at that point and you wanted to drag out this victory for as long as you could.

“Lead the way, Y/N/N,” he said, giving you yet another smirk that made your knees weak. If you weren’t trying to make it at least a little hard for him you’d probably have given in already. He’d been in the mood all day, but where was the fun in that?

You thought you were making headway, you thought you were actually getting out, until you rounded the corner and found yourself standing in front of that damn shed they were talking about, and a sign that said to turn around and follow the signs for the exit.

“Dammit!” Stamping your foot you turned to see a very cocky Jensen, who was leaning against the sign biting his lip as if he had every right to stand there looking like the cat that caught the mouse.

“Looks like I won, baby girl, but I have to say, if you were going to lose, wasn't this a good place to do it?”

Pushing himself off the sign he was leaning against, Jensen stalked towards you with an almost predatory stance, closing the distance between the two of you in just two short strides. His lips collided with yours as he backed the two of you to the little shack, not stopping until you hit the wall, your flashlights long forgotten on the ground as his body dominated your own.

Your hands twisted in his hair, his ball cap on the ground next to your feet as he kicked your feet apart and nibbled on your lower lip, pressing his clothed length against your center. You gasped as his fingers started to make their way to the button on your jeans as he grinded himself down against you, creating a delicious friction that only got better as he harshly shoved your pants from your hips and kicked them out of the way before resuming his teasing.

“Jensen,” you gasp as he increased the pressure of each thrust of his hips, the denim of his pants moving the thong that you were wearing against your swollen clit in a way that already had you panting. “We’re going to get caught, they said to stay out of this place.”

“We’re not in it, we’re outside of it, and if you can’t keep quiet baby girl your gonna be pretty embarrassed when they find us here,” he said, his teeth scraping the shell of your ear as his fingers wind their way around your legs and hoist you up to put even more pressure on your center.

It was all you could do not to make any sound, your legs already shaking as he continued to drive you crazy, and he hadn’t even pulled his dick out from his pants yet.

“Come on baby, let go, all you gotta do is come, and then I’m gonna fill you up right here, you want that don’t you? Want me to fuck you right out here in the open like this, where anyone can see us, see who you belong too. Don’t you baby girl?”

You nodded furiously as he quickened his pace. He was pressing against you just right as he continued to drive you crazy.

“Then let go, baby.”

His teeth sank down on your pulse point, and that was all it took. Your orgams hit you like a wave, your walls clenched around nothing as he slowed down his ministrations. When you finally stopped shaking Jensen pressed his weight against you to hold you up and freed his cock from his confines, moving your ruined thong out of the way and shoving inside of you with ease, your walls tightening around him as soon as he was fully seated and both of you let out a groan as he stretched you.

“Fuck, so fucking wet, Y/N. Gotta keep quiet baby girl, or this party ends before it can get started.”

You nod at him and he slowly starts to pull out before slamming his hips back into yours, his hand slips between your body and rubbing harsh circles on your clit.

You held a scream in as Jensen’s cock slammed into you with mapped out accuracy, hitting that spot deep inside of you only he seemed to be able to find. Low grunts and breaths mingled as he kissed you in order to swallow the sounds you were making, your body already barreling towards its end as your walls fluttered around him.

“God, I need to feel you sweetheart, let go,” he said with a strained voice, as his own pace started to falter and your walls squeezed him as your orgasm hit you like a freight train.

Two more thrusts and he stilled inside of you, filling you up with hot ropes of cum as his body twitched and he whined into your neck. Aftershocks of your release still rocked your body as you ran your hands through his hair, waiting for him to come down from his high.

“Fuck, I needed that,” Jensen said, his breath fogging around the two of you in pants as he slowly removed his now softening length from you, and helped you stand on shaking legs. “You okay, baby?”

Nodding at him, you reached for your pants, but he was faster, helping you step into them before zipping his own, his lips finding yours in a much slower, softer kiss.

“Okay, we need to get out of here, it’s getting cold,” you tell him as he laced his fingers with yours, and led you toward the exit, stopping to shrug out of his denim shirt, which left him in his fitted black tee and handed it to you to put on.

“Okay, but first that hayride you wanted, and maybe a funnel cake,” he said, kissing your entwined hands as he led you towards the end of the very eventful corn maze.

"You really want to go on a hayride with me?" you asked him hopefully.

"Of course I do! Besides, we can always get lost again on the way back to the car."

"You're terrible, you know that," you rolled your eyes, looking up at him as you reached the exit of the corn maze. The sound of kids running and music playing invaded your little happy bubble you'd been surrounded in as you made your way back to reality.

"Yeah I know, but you love me anyway."

And you could honestly say that you, with everything in you, loved that man for all he was.

Forever tags: @deanmonandnegansbitch @hayleeharling @flamencodiva @coldmuffinbanditshoe @bxbyizzy @dirty-pan-goblin @itmejado @supernatural3002 @teresa-67 @thoughts-and-funnies @deanwanddamons @rvgrsbrns @bi-danvers0 @onethirstyunicorn @i-love-superhero @akshi8278 @lyss-dw79 @magssteenkamp @lemondropirwin @squirrelnotsam @hobby27 @spnbaby-67 @mrsjenniferwinchester @defenderrosetyler @screechingartisancashbailiff @thecreatiivecorner @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624 @busy-bee-angel-misska @justanotherwinchester @brilovesdeanwinchester @idksupernatural @lyarr24 @amandamdiehl @love-jackles-37-blog @miraclesoflove @Waywardsistershy @emoryhemsworth @dean-winchesters-gardian-angel @softsebastian @tatted-trina6

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the-plural-of-cris-is-crises · 2 years

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Angel said I should analyze my own poems more, so here is an initial, mostly line-by-line analysis of my first Caleuche poem (I will do the sequel after); long, under the cut.

Slowly I felt I lost my mind. - The sirens' call? What did I expect to find? To see you as the realms collide And find you waiting on the other side? - Dias de los Muertos; the day the veil between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead is at its thinnest

The storm rages on and their song calls to me, Luring me in to drown in the sea. - Obviously the sirens I don’t know why I thought I might find you there But I felt I’d regret it if I didn’t dare.

On this eve before the hallowed saints And lost loved ones are honored, I have no restraint - Dias de los Muertos/All Saints Day; actually Halloween/All Hallows Eve, since it's the day before My love is beside me, loyal and strong, Trying to keep me away from their song. - Lorian saved him from the sirens song the first time they encountered, and he continues to be Cris's anchor

He doesn’t understand what I need to do That the only way to get to you Is to throw myself into the ocean deep And let her gently lull me to sleep. - The legend of Caleuche says that La Sirena Chilota brings drowned sailors to Caleuche. Could also be a lie the sirens song is implanting in his head. Cris did come out here knowing he might have to drown himself or, theoretically, nearly drown himself, to get to Caleuche. He was more than willing to take that chance.

But when I do, will I find you there? To rescue me from the depths of despair? On this night when lost loved ones are near, Will you come to me, will I find you here? - Again, a reference to Dias de los Muertos

But this won’t change what happened to you. You won’t come back no matter what I do. You didn’t drown in the sea, you took your own life, Did Caleuche still come for you in the night? - Again, Cris is back to the "I don't know what put the thought into my head that you would be here since your death doesn't seem to fit the typical requirements for getting onto Caleuche"; maybe it's the sirens/whatever has this sort of telepathic hold on him planted in his mind from the sirens' song

Did La Sirena guide your soul to her mast, - La Sirena Chilota guiding drowned sailors to Caleuche = Cris's La Sirena guiding Vandermeer's soul to Caleuche on the day when the spirit of loved ones are supposed to be able to find you; instead of Vandermeer already being there, maybe he has to guide him there Will I ever be able to make up for my past? When you drowned in your guilt, did she rescue your soul, And give you a place where you can still be whole? - He is a drowned sailor, albeit a metaphorical one. He drowned in his own guilt; Cris is doing that too and had been for years. Maybe it will be enough to grant Vandermeer passage on La Sirena? Grasping at straws to try to justify this to himself?

Did she give you a second chance at life, Will I finally be released from my strife? - He's doing this to rid himself of the guilt. If he can ensure that Vandermeer has a second chance at life, his part in Vandermeer's suicide could be negated? At least, starting to make up for it? Will he be able to let it go if he knew Vandermeer's soul was at rest? Or did she enslave you to her decks forever? - The dark legends of Caleuche say that she's not a peaceful place where drowned sailors go to get a second chance at life, she enslaves their souls for eternity. It's a risk Cris is apparently willing to take. Would we be trapped with her here together? - "Will I be stuck with you? Will be forever trapped in my own guilt?" / "Maybe being trapped isn't such a bad thing, as long as we're together. Maybe I want to be trapped if you're by my side."

But my love waits for me faithfully, I have someone true who is dear to me. I can’t let him down when he gives me his heart, Even though I’m so close to falling apart. - If Cris didn't have someone he loves, this would be a lot easier. None of this would be conflicting at all. He would do it without hesitation. He doesn't see his commitment to Lorian as a burden, but a part of him might think it would be easier if he didn't have anyone who cared about him. He could do this and not worry about having to leave the one he loves behind.

I’ll be strong for him, so maybe I’ll try To guide you to be here by my side, - Another reference to Dias de los Muertos. Cris loves Lorian enough to not go through with this We’ll meet again, but just for tonight, When I finally see those sails of white. - Despite not taking the riskier route, finding an in between way to do this, he doesn't completely abandon the quest either. His loyalties are still torn. - Legends of Caleuche describe her having white sails; white is also the color representing purity, could be representative of Cris's hopes in the good side of this legend

But after that we will say goodbye, And my love and I will return to the sky, Knowing you have found a home, And you’ll be watching us wherever we roam. - "Return to the sky" means space, of course, although it could have "heaven"/"the afterlife" implications although he seems to make the choice to live. The thing is, Cris knows that if he died Lorian would kill himself. Still, the conclusion is an optimistic one. But is he fooling himself? Is he in denial, "expecting" (or claiming to expect) things to go right for him?

- Concluding thoughts: Is Cris really on a quest for redemption/salvation for Vandermeer or is this a suicide mission with an elaborate lie he is telling himself? Could it be both simultaneously? Could a part of him believe the lie he's telling himself, or is he self-aware enough to know of his suicidal inclination?

#suicide tw #suicide

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migleefulmoments · 4 years

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Le Sign, Abby

Anonymous asked: this is funny, C posted a photo of beard, D posted photos with the beard. Almost like they were sitting next to each other and saying “ok ok I will say this” (and it isn’t like EVERY Halloween Darren and Chris post their costumes for their fans)

ajw720 answered:

The only difference, C controls his SM and the bearding, D does not, (that isn’t true but I know you need to believe it or your world comes tumbling down). but they knew the Halloween post was coming when C posted his belated b-day wishes (not that he acknowledged they were late).

It really is, if you can remove the very human, tragic element, like a script for a really bad D Movie. C posts “Happy Birthday, Babe!” a day after the man’s actual b-day and “D” praises his fake bride for MAKING TEN costumes (let me stop you right there, Darren was actually APPRECIATING Mia for putting together 10 costumes while he was too busy to help. He was praising her for thinking of and executing 10 costumes. He was honoring her for being as into Halloween as he is and playing along. He was praising her because he loves her. If he wanted to praise her for shopping he would have use the word shopping. Your reductive shopping tirades- which you turned it into a full day of nonsense intended to bully Mia- misses the point of his Tweet entirely. At the end of the day, he appreciates her. If your lover appreciates you AND is sensitive enough to care about your feelings they should write something about you on social media..if they aren’t, then it sucks to be you but shut up because the shopping straw man silly makes you look petty, obtuse, unappreciated, mean girls who are so jealous you can’t see straight. Yes, a lot of their costumes this year were mass-produced and purchased this year-so what? Who cares? Is the bar of Halloween costumes that they are all couture? In the past they have used costume designers- they never made their own costumes entirely from scratch themselves. But that doesn’t mean that coordinating 10 costumes isn’t time consuming and clearly Darren didn’t care -he appreciated her.) Sure praise her if she actually designed them and sat with her sewing machine No, she went online and ordered things (I doubt she even went to a store) (Why would that matter? You really have no idea what she did do you? You’re just grasping because you're so pissed that Darren mentioned Mia and now you are stuck erasing that history...AGAIN. Darren is always doing things with- and saying things about- his wife that prove time and time again that they are a couple and he loves her...it infuriates you because you have to erase it or "debunk” it. ) and 3 couple costumes were cheap frankly (Again, why would that matter but also at $50+ per costume, I wouldn't call that “cheap”?). The only thought was how narcissistic she could be (What did she do? I didn’t see her social media...what did she say? Oh, right, you didn’t see her social media. You're just pissed that Darren mentioned one nice word about her. Your the one who blew it up into Armageddon and gave her so much attention) in their execution (as @flowersintheattic254 pointed out even the Mario costume had a reason, it was a reminder of Japan and the fake encagement by referring to the ad that paid for their trip there) (Huh? You're insane. That’s suuuucccchhhhhh a stretch- but then you cannot stop thinking about that trip. I just don’t understand who the person you believe ccDarren is. Is he such a coward that he lets Mia walk all over him and hurt him over and over? Why would he agree to be a dog hurt by CDV or make fun of the place they g to engaged if ccMia was ruining his life? Nobody is that much of a wuss ass twit. The rest of us on planet sanity know that a the real reason they wore that costume was because Mario wins when he rescues Peach).

And seriously how are people not questioning that she spent the entirety of her month picking TEN costumes? (Because it isn’t our place to question that. I don’t get your beef? Is it because she isn’t stuck working 9-5 in a cubicle like you are? Is it because she both a successful business and a wealthy spouse so she has more freedom than you do?) Who has time for this? I know, i know, a person whose only role in life is to play fake plus one.(You come off as so jealous every time you bring this up-and god how many times can you bring it up? How other people live shouldn’t concern you. It just spins up your anxiety and you have no control over it. Couples make decisions about their roles and their work schedules and nobody else gets a say and nothing is “normal” or “abnormal”.)

I am just so tired by D in particular being utterly dragged down by the useless dead weight by his side and his team’s sole ambition to promote her and make her sound like a decent person. (Here’s the harsh reality Abby- Darren posted his Halloween costumes and gave Mia a simple mentioned and you have written or reposted 23 posts about it just today. It has consumed your blog and your life. The ONLY person pushing and promoting Mia is YOU and your ilk. Mia is a decent person with lots and lots of friends-but even if she was the world’s worst person-even if she sat all day stalking and cyber-bulling strangers - you still have no say in who Darren marries and loves. That you don’t like her- or that you

If they wanted to praise her, maybe they should have forced her to participate in the zero waste initiative instead of sitting drinking by the pool or have her volunteer to help young girls who have been kicked out of their homes, or have been raped. (This entire paragraph is rich-talk about moving the goalposts- if he had put her in the video-which wasn't under his control since it wasn’t his project, he was just the host- you would have lost your shit over her being in the video raging about her lack of worth she isn’t famous, she’s a slut, blah blah blah...like please please have enough self respect to recognize that you would have been livid if she was in the project). Or pick any cause and truly volunteer her time to promote it (you have NO idea what she does with her time or money because she doesn’t post it on social media. If she did, you would be raging that she was looking for attention- so please stop. What do YOU do to help the world?). If she is not going to actually get a job and pursue a career (SHE OWNS A BUSINESS!!!!! Just like your boss... and you know she does. Your refusal to accept that is an ad hominom logical fallacy) please force her to do something that is actually of value and contribute something good to the world. But to praise her for picking TEN costumes? (Le sigh.)

Praise that comes from a man who this year alone won three awards, is starring in a show he created and wrote the music for, has his first big movie premiere this week, is exec producer and star of a huge show on N/etflix, just announced his starring role with 2 A++ lists actors next spring on Broadway, celebrated the 5th anniversary of the festival he created, volunteered his time for the zero waste initiative, performed at several charity events, and was just yesterday name limited series actor of the decade. Where is the praise for him from his “bride”? (Abby, come on, just because she doesn’t have public sm doesn’t mean she isn’t praising him in real life -or on her private sm-in fact, she has praised him on her social media that has been reblogged and you bitch about that. She was bragging about him speaking Tagalog at a dinner and your bitched and moaned that she didn’t know the language his mom speaks-forgive me for not believing you know more than she does). He at least deserves it. (Why does he deserve it? Because he’s famous and he’s a good actor? People are more than the value of their celebrity. You sure buy into the celebrity-obsessed culture don’t you? Pathetic. A husband thanking his wife for doing something for him is not something you can argue about-It is what it is. You have no say. There is no argument, no straw man, no gaslighting, and no erasing it).

(here is where it gets intense)

How do they not see how ridiculous it is for someone with D’s accomplishments in 2019 alone praise a person for purchasing TEN costumes for Halloween? (SMH because one has nothing to do with other. Comparing them is another logical fallacy-your entire post is full of them. It’s like saying that if I am honored for my work saving kids’ lives, you can’t be honored for your work because your work in corporate immigration isn’t as important as mine is). And stans, how do you accept that this is right or normal. (I just don’t get why you continue to ask us WHY and then outright refuse to learn from what we say. A life without learning is a wasted a life, Abby. To answer your question-because there is no “right" or “normal” when it comes to a stranger’s life. Darren’s life is Darren’s life and he can marry a Rhode’s Scholar or high school drop out with a low IQ. He can marry someone who never wanted to work or someone who wants to own the world. He can marry a humanitarian or Kim Kardashian. It’s his choice..not yours...you have no say whatsoever.) You really know nothing about him and have such little respect for him as a person if you continue to accept the character his idiotic team has created on his behalf. It is so far from the person he is and that he generally holds himself out to be when given the opportunity. (oooh someone has been reading my blooogggggg. No, Abby, YOU have no clue who Darren is. When I read Darren’s words or hear him in an interview, I take in what he says and I simply add that info into my internal “who is Darren” file. This is how we learn about the personality of anyone and everyone we know. We hear what they say about themselves and we take in how they act and what they care about, what they don’t care about, what they think is important, and what they do with their life at work and outside of work and we form a persona in our minds. You, on the other hand, have decided Darren is a very specific persona that you only see on rare occasions and looks far more like Blaine than he does like the real Darren. So instead of listening and learning, you immediately set about to rewrite his words, change the meaning, and debase their value and intent because you have already formulated your version of Darren and it’s static. You won’t accept anything he does or says as “real” if it doesn’t meet that fantasy Darren. But this isn’t how it works in real life. We don’t label someone and then expect them to fit that model at all times or we get angry and scream “this isn’t normal”. Everyone we know is growing and learning and changing al the time and we simply take in that information and store it away as part of their personality. You spend so much time being so angry about Darren’s life because you haven’t actually seen much of your ccDarren since Glee ended. And you know that at some level because you just said “It is so far from the person he is and that he generally holds himself out to be when given the opportunity” That is the key here- the Darren you love is never around because that Darren ceased to exist when Blaine went away. The Real Darren is the one you see every single day- he’s a multifaceted guy-just like all of us- who can be prim and proper when he wants to but can be bawdy and crude and sexual. They are all Darren Criss).

This isn’t about being a “gay fetishist” or “hating woman” this is about wanting for D to be fairly and accurately represented and no longer forced to participate in this stupid, life sucking game to promote a person that contributes absolutely nothing to the world. (No, you're right, this isn’t about being a gay fetishist or misogynist- you are those as well- but this right here is about you not liking the person Darren Criss is in real life and demanding he adopt the persona of a character you fell in love with on Glee. Darren was never Blaine. Yes, he can act like Blaine in an occasional Tweet or during an interview- usually on the red carpet when he doesn’t know the interviewer. But that doesn’t mean he is that person. Think about it, you have never once seen the Darren you believe he is outside of Glee events, interviews, your favorite 3 Tweets (the Met Gala coat, the granddaughter of his Midway character and Bradley Cooper) and the conversations you imagine he has with his family and Chris. It isn't reasonable to believe that the Darren you see every single day isn’t the real Darren. People are who they are, they aren’t who we want them to be- that goes for your favorite celebs, your parents, your best friends, your lovers, your coworkers and even your children (which is a very hard lesson for some parents). You’re suggesting that he is acting like someone else because you don’t like what you see. That isn’t healthy, period. As for promoting a person who contributes nothing to this world- judging someone based entirely on other people’s social media mentions of her is frankly fucked up. It’s another logical fallacy to believe you know what Mia does for the world. She owns an entertainment venue and Darren is an entertainer. Just because Darren has more fame than she does, doesn’t make him more valuable. It’s really pathetic and sad that you see the world that way.) If you want to have a strong female role model, there are so many, i’ve talked about a few in the past few days (thus far Nancy, Lea, and Phoebe) and will continue to do so, but please stop worshiping a person whose sole reason you are speaking about her is her connection to D, even if you refuse to accept it is fake. (Abby, Darren loves Mia. He married her, IDK what it takes for you to understand that you have no say in his life and bitching and moaning and demonizing Mia says nothing about Mia, but it does say everything about you. You're petty, cruel, a bully, and you are losing sight of reality- please get some help. As for role models- I had to ask because I couldn't’ imagine that Lea was Lea Michele-it’s funny how your opinion of her changed after you saw more of the real Lea on LM/DC tour. Maybe you should learn from that. Nancy Pelosi-I mean yes but are you suggesting Darren marry Nancy? And Phoebe? Phoebe who? I don’t understand this argument at all. First of all it false presumes that everyone looks to Mia as a role model. None of us know her. The only people obsessing about others looking to Mia as a role model are you and the tinhats. I’m 50 years old, the only younger people I look to as role models are people who are doing something to change the world we are living in -fighting corruption, hate, and climate change. I don’t look to Lea, Darren or Mia as role models . I enjoy them as entertainers and I think Mia is kick ass but it ends there. We can all look to Nancy as a role model, but what the hell doe she have to do with Darren and Mia? My celebrity crush on Darren has nothing to do with looking for strong female role models nor does it have anything to do with who he is married to).

#cc #ccer #cc fandom #crisscolfer #darren criss #debunking cc nonsense

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dontreadthistrashgarbage · 4 years

Text

G O T 7 PT.6

A couple days passed and Guerin met JB for the open mic night. She was a good ten minutes early but he was already at the quaint coffee shop, seated in a hidden corner booth. As soon as he saw her, he beckoned her over, gesturing at the drinks he had already ordered.

"You didn't have to get me something." She said, wandering over to him.

He shrugged, and patted the seat next to him for her to slide in. She hesitated for a moment. "It's so we can both see the stage." He explained.

"We'll look like a couple..." Guerin said, uncharacteristically shy, but she still slid into the booth next to him.

He shrugged again, "So?"

She puffed her cheeks out slightly, feeling awkward before covering it up with a sip from the iced americano he had bought for her, "Thank you for the drink." She said, setting it down. She couldn't help but be hyper aware of him while he was so close to her, but it helped she didn't have to look directly at him. JB was easily one of the most beautiful people she had ever seen and today was like putting a magnifying glass on that fact. He was wearing a black dress shirt, more buttons than necessary undone under a stylishly patterned blazer. His hair looked freshly cut and styled. She felt even more strange appreciating this side of him after Jackson's confession and her promise to consider it.

"You look nice." He said after a few more moments of awkward silence and Guerin realized she had been looking at him despite being relieved she didn't need to. She started and looked straight ahead as though it would undo her being caught. "I like the orange lipstick." JB's voice gave away his smile of amusement.

Guerin chided herself for being so weird. There was no reason for her to feel conflicted. They were friends and had spent a lot of time together already. Why would this now feel like such a date? She inhaled and fell back on old habits.

"Thanks." She puckered her lips and poked her cheek with a wink. "It's one of my favorites, and it matches my sassy shirt and neon shoes." Guerin showed off her favorite shoes.

JB gave a close lipped smile at the dorky response, trying not to laugh outloud, "How old are you again?"

"Old enough that you better respect me." She bumped him with her shoulder making him laugh, "and here I was going to say how nice you looked too." Her sass turned to a small sulk.

"I'm sorry." He said respectfully and bowed as much as he could in the small space.

"Oh god no stop that." She laughed and pushed him again, wondering in the back of why she felt so aware of each time she made physical contact with him.

JB looked up at her with a smirk and amusement in his eyes before straightening up and dropping the gag.

"What are you singing tonight?" Guerin changed the subject, focusing her gaze back on her coffee as she took another sip from it.

"A couple new songs. Each performer can sing up to three. I actually just finished one today. It's called Rainy." He answered.

"Appropriate." She nodded, referencing the weather outside. Since her walk with Jackson it had been raining on and off for days now. JB nodded along with her. The two sank into a comfortable silence, lost in their own thoughts. The booths at this particular shop were somewhat oversized and cushy, an oddity for Korea. It enabled Guerin to relax and cross her legs under her as she took in the decorations. JB was sitting in his signature slouch, one leg crossed over the other as he toyed with the straw in his drink.

The performances started, JB was much more critical and sparing of his responses but Guerin openly enjoyed most of the songs each artist played. She found something positive about each song, sharing with JB at the end and asking for his input. He couldn't help but appreciate her enthusiasm.

"I don't have any creative talent or skill of my own, but I am an avid consumer of art." Guerin explained between sets when he voiced his opinion on her perspective, "Each one of these people is working hard and improving. It does so much more to bolster creativity and exploration if they're encouraged rather than constantly corrected or told they're failing."

JB cocked his head, "Most successful artists I know where trained very harshly."

"Sure, there's people who survive the process but think of all the talented people who gave up because their learning style wasn't catered to. Just like the animal training we've talked about, you get more successes with patience and kindness than you do with punishment. The people who are successful are that way in spite of the harsh teaching methods, rather than because of them. In the meantime we lose out on so much potential art. So I just... do what I can to encourage it." She trailed off with a shrug realizing she was lecturing. JB was looking at her with a thoughtful tilt to his head.

"Sorry, I'm rambling." Guerin let out an embarrassed laugh and looked away self consciously. If JB was planning on saying anything he was unable to as the next artist started up. Finally JB was up as the last performer of the evening. Guerin let him out of the booth and he grabbed his keyboard case from the bench across the booth from them. As he set up Guerin checked her phone, responded to a couple texts from Charlie and Jackson. She felt a pang of guilt again thinking of Jackson but buried it quickly. -I have nothing to feel guilty about- she reminded herself as she put her phone away.

JB's two song set left her breathless. As he performed he rarely made eye contact with anyone, even closing his eyes for a good portion of the time. When he did look up it tended to be in her direction and those moments stopped her heart. Guerin had to physically stop herself from clutching the front of her shirt defensively. His first song was Be With You. Its sweet lyrics and melody made her smile without realizing. It was a direct contradiction to his second song, Rainy. The song was close to perfection and his performance clinched it. Guerin was fighting off tears, cursing her eye makeup silently as she dabbed at her eyes with a spare napkin.

"Why are you crying?" Asked a surprised JB. He had seen her and moved quickly to her side, squatting next to her at the end of the table.

Another embarrassed laugh escaped her, sounding a bit water logged this time, "I'm sorry, this is nothing. That was just a really good song." She took a shaky breath and straightened up, smiling through watery eyes, "They were both excellent, but Rainy got me good." She laughed again.

"Noona, don't cry." JB said serious but tinged with his natural cuteness as he appealed to her. He used the extra long sleeves of his shirt to dab at the neglected tears that threatened to spill.

She laughed again, shaking her head, "No it's a good thing. I really liked it." JB dropped his hand from her face as the tears slowed, still looking somewhat concerned as he stared at her. "You're drawing attention to me." Guerin scolded, covering half her face with the hand holding the napkin, "Go pack your stuff up and greet your fans." She insisted, pushing his shoulder lightly. He hesitated so she gestured again, "I'm fine I promise, hurry hurry."

JB did as she said, glancing over at her as he packed, catching her using her phone to check her appearance. He didn't realize she would cry and he felt bad. Guerin certainly emoted her way through life and he couldn't help but find it fascinating and endearing. He finished putting away his keyboard and stared down at it for a moment wondering what to do now. He needed the evening to continue.

The cafe staff was announcing closing and putting away the equipment around him. A few patrons and fellow performers, both familiar and new, came up to chat with him. He stayed as long as was polite before excusing himself back to the patiently waiting Guerin.

"I thought you'd still be crying." He teased.

"I'm soft and weak. I cry all the time. I exist in a perpetual state of holding back." She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed.

"Let's go for a walk, since the rain stopped." JB suggested suddenly.

"Sure." Guerin agreed with minimal thought.

"I just need to drop this at my studio." JB hefted the keyboard case and Guerin nodded as the two headed out, thanking the staff as they left. JB was a regular, and even chose his personal studio location because it was just around the corner. Once empty handed, the two wandered aimlessly. They stopped at a convenience store and picked out a few beers to share.

"The lyrics you sing in english for Rainy I find incredible." Guerin gushed. The topic had turned back to his performance, "When you say 'I love you alone' it's such an interesting way to express one sided love, or a doomed love?" She mused, looking at him, expecting an answer.

"Thank you." JB responded simply instead, flattered with her praise but unfocused. Guerin pressed her lips together thoughtfully, watching him before her gaze caught something behind him.

"Oh, JB!" She was so excited she grabbed his long sleeve peaking out from under his blazer.

"What?" He asked, startled, eyes wide as he looked at her and looked around.

"Swings! Let's go!" She cut past him, still holding his sleeve and forcing him along with her.

"Seriously? How old are you?" He asked again, rolling his eyes.

"Depends on the situation." She quipped, not bothering with sass this time. "Right now I'm whatever age it is appropriate to be happy about swings."

"You startled me. I thought something bad happened." JB chastised her but still didn't pull out of her grasp.

"Aww, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." She looked back at him with an exaggerated apologetic expression. He sucked air through his teeth and cocked his head, making her giggle with his feigned disapproval, "I'll buy you a drink to make up for it." She promised as they reached the swings, only then releasing his sleeve as she sat on one of the two swings.

JB set their bag next to him, pulled out two beers and sank down on the second swing, handing one of the beers to Guerin who was already starting to swing gently.

"I wrote that lyric thinking I had to give up on a love." JB answered suddenly, cracking his beer open and taking a sip.

Guerin paused, taking a moment to piece together the sudden change in topic before figuring it out, "You mean from Rainy?"

JB nodded.

Guerin looked thoughtful, swinging gently again, this time from side to side, "Did you pair it with Be With You because you were telling a story?"

JB nodded again.

"Did someone hurt you? Do I need to fight someone?" She shook her fist and JB laughed at the unexpected mood shift.

"No, I wouldn't say someone hurt me. I think I did most of the hurting." His smile faded and became more forced.

Guerin let him have his thoughts for a few moments, drinking more of her beer before speaking again, "Do you want to talk about it?" She asked.

JB hesitated then nodded a third time. She waited and the two continued drinking in silence.

"There's someone I like a lot. I wrote Be With You inspired by our time together. Then someone close and precious to me said that they liked her too." He started. Guerin nodded as he spoke, offering quiet sympathetic sounds as he continued, "I thought it would be best for everyone if I just let it go. No one knew my feelings except me." He sighed and stopped again, pressing his lips together and casting his gaze to the treetops.

"I thought I needed to withdraw and instead it made me seem distant which was hurtful, then it made me angry and I lashed out which was even worse."

Guerin had gone completely quiet and still as he told the story, convincing herself that this story was becoming more familiar by coincidence.

"I told my friend the truth. I told him I couldn't give up without trying, that I had to tell the truth. Even though I accidentally already did." JB looked sheepish, "I remember going to your house Guerin. I remember what I said. It was vague enough to play off. I let you believe I didn't remember. I'm sorry I deceived you. But I wanted to do this right." JB was looking at Guerin. Her gaze met his, still in disbelief as she switched her gaze between his eyes. Her face felt tingly and her chest tight, like she couldn't catch her breath.

"Do what?" She asked tightly.

"Those songs were inspired by you. By us. I like being with you, I want more. Rainy was me trying to deny my feelings and I don't want that song to be true."

JB stared into Guerin's eyes for a beat. His expression was genuine and serious. The only hint of nerves was the swallow he gave before licking his lips and saying the words he had been saving.

"Go Guerin, I like you."

Her mouth opened and closed as she blinked, eyes flicking around while she tried to process this unexpected turn of events. She managed a strangled laugh, "I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. It's just. I'm so surprised. And the timing?" She laughed the strange laugh again.

"Timing?" JB asked, curiously.

"Uh, is Jackson the friend you were talking about?" Guerin asked and JB nodded, "He also confessed before he left for China."

JB looked surprised, "I thought he would have said something if you two were dating."

"He probably would have. If we were dating." Guerin said somewhat guiltily.

"Did you reject him?" JB still sounded surprised but a little hope peeked through.

"No... he told me to think about it... he said I should answer him when he gets back." She exhaled, still feeling guilty.

"Good." JB said, Guerin glanced at him questioningly, "I mean... do you have an answer for me?" He asked.

Guerin felt bad, he must have been anxious that whole tangent but she still was processing the information, "I... I... JB..." Making words was suddenly the most difficult challenge to overcome. Of course she liked JB. He matched her introverted qualities, he was talented, funny, cute and sexy in the worst way. She also liked Jackson, despite her reservations, and it's not like she didn't have reservations for JB too. He was working on his anger and while he seemed to be doing well according to those who had known him a while, what would happen if they spent more time together?

Guerin must have been quiet longer than she intended because JB spoke up again, "You don't have to answer now. Take your time to think about it." JB shrugged, probably intending to seem nonchalant but looking stiff.

"Thank you." She said quietly. "I'm sorry to make you wait." She apologized as JB finished his drink and he shook his head.

"I got to take my time to figure out this. You should take your time to respond." He reassured her, "I'd be lying if I said I'm not disappointed it isn't an immediate yes." He shot her a wry smile.

Guerin stood, walking over and picking up their bag taking his empty can along with hers and switching them for full ones. "Come on, let's go get a late night snack." She handed him the new drink. He stood and walked along with her. Despite the silence neither of them felt awkward. The mood was pensive but a bit relieved. As they headed toward the busier city area JB took the bag Guerin was carrying between them. He bit his lip, looking straight ahead and trying to stay cool before clearing his throat and speaking.

"Would it be okay if I held your hand?"

Guerin fought back her grin at his adorable and respectful request that he very clearly was trying to maintain a chic demeanor for. Instead of answering verbally, she stepped in closer to him and took his hand in her own, lacing their fingers together. Both of them smiled without looking at each other.

"What do you want to eat?" JB asked after a few paces.

"Tteokbokki." Guerin answered decisively with a single big nod.

JB swung her hand back and forth with his gently, "Okay. I know a place nearby. My treat."

"No, you already got coffee." Guerin protested.

He shrugged and kept walking until she tugged his hand for attention and stopped in her tracks. JB faced her as she pouted at him and he laughed, "Fine, you can get drinks." He walked backwards, leading her along again.

"Deal." She tapped her beer against his, held in the same hand as their bag and took a deep pull, "But don't get drunk and confess again. Twice is enough for me to get the point." She avoided eye contact with him to prevent herself from bursting out into laughter.

"Ya..." He said in disbelief, now it was her turn to pull him along as he stopped and stared after her. Guerin's lack of poker face won out and she let out her typical loud laugh.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist, I'm sorry. Come on let's go." She said between chuckles.

He feigned being hurt but fell into step beside her as the two continued their trek, still hand in hand.

Mark didn't look up from the computer screen when the seat next to him was pulled out and someone settled into it. He knew Jinyoung would be coming since they had texted earlier. Jinyoung wanted wanted to meet up and said he would go to Mark. He stayed focused on the game since, well, he WAS a gamer, but also partially because a part of him wanted to avoid the conversation. Too soon the round ended with him losing. He exhaled and leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a few moments before reaching up to remove his headphones and turning to Jinyoung patiently waiting next to him.

"Hi, Hyung." Jinyoung greeted the older man.

"Hi Jinyoung-ah." Mark greeted in return, "You distracted me so I lost."

Jinyoung looked amused, "You didn't look distracted. You didn't even seem to notice me arriving."

Mark shrugged, not really feeling the small talk. Jinyoung waited a few beats before changing the subject. "I'll get to the point. Charlie-ssi and I are dating now."

Mark glanced at his dongsaeng from the corner of his eye before looking straight ahead and nodded slowly a couple times. "Okay."

"I wanted to tell you in person." Jinyoung said seriously.

"Okay." Mark said again. His expression was masked but Jinyoung knew him well enough that he recognized the clear displeasure.

"I... suspected that you also had feelings for Charlie. That's why I wanted to tell you." He added.

"You know..." Mark started and tilted his head in annoyance, "You are making this gesture of kindness after you already disrespected me. I find it almost more annoying."

"You mean when I insisted on walking Charlie home." Jinyoung said. It wasn't a question.

Mark nodded.

"I'm sorry hyung." Jinyoung said genuinely.

"Bullshit." Mark verbally sniped the apology, "You admit you knew how I felt, you pushed me out and now you're here telling me that it all paid off and expect me to believe you're sorry?"

Jinyoung went quiet for a moment before speaking again, "I can see why it might be hard to believe... hyung please believe me, my intention wasn't to upset you. I insisted on walking her home because that had been my plan all along. I had made the decision to confess and I didn't want to have to stress over it again. I should have taken your feelings into consideration and I didn't. My thoughtlessness hurt you, but that wasn't what I wanted. I'm sorry."

Mark clicked through a few screens after Jinyoung finished talked, hitting the mouse and keyboard buttons a bit harder than necessary before sighing again and leaning back. "What's done is done." Mark said frankly, "I'll accept it. But for now I need to be mad. So go away or it'll just get worse."

Jinyoung hesitated, wanting more but knowing Mark well enough to not push him when he was so close to the brink of anger already. With a sigh he stood, adjusting his long tan coat back into place and turning to go.

"Jinyoungie." Mark said suddenly, "Don't give her a reason to leave, cause if she needs one I'll be there. You owe me that."

Jinyoung looked down at Mark, "If I give her a reason to leave I'd prefer that option over any other." He chafed at the idea of losing Charlie, but in that undesirable scenario at least Mark would be happy. Mark started to put his headphones back on but Jinyoung quickly spoke up again, "Hyung, will we be okay?"

Mark looked annoyed, glancing up at Jinyoung, "Of course."

Having turned back to the computer screen he missed Jinyoungs visible relief. For now, he would give Mark the space he requested, hopefully soon they could repair the damage he had carelessly caused in their friendship. He was grateful to learn that it wasn't the end of such a bond. On his way out he ordered some snacks to be delivered to Mark and paid before leaving to meet his new girlfriend for a date.

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