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ash5monster01 · 2 months

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Cold Spring Harbor

Chapter One - She’s Got A Way 🎶

Pairing: Steve Harrington x FemReader

Warnings: fluff, instant attraction, invisible string theory, mentions of childhood trauma, mentions of death, coping mechanisms

Summary: Just when Steve figures he’s bound to be alone the rest of his life, somehow he finds you, and for some reason just being near you makes him feel much less alone in the world.

word count: 2k

→ Two

Masterlist

Spring 1985

She's got a way of showin', how I make her feel

Steve hated being sad. Yet for the last six months that was all he had felt. He should be over it by now. He wished he was over it, but everyday he went to school just to see Nancy with Johnathon and know everything that he lost. He had given up his friends for her, and when she gave him up for Johnathon, he had no one left. No happy family to come home to, and no friends to spend time with, especially no girlfriend to love. Maybe that was why it was so hard to get over her, because she was the only person he had left and she left him too.

So he woke up on the first day of spring break, no parents, no plans, no one at all. It didn’t matter that the first warm sun was shining through his window and the birds chirped happily outside. He figured he would always be alone and he was still just as miserable as before. The only person he did have was Dustin but how many times can you ask a middle schooler to hang out before it gets weird? Steve didn’t want to find out.

He wasn’t going to last all of spring break like this so he was going to do the only thing that made him feel better. The only thing that gave him enough motivation to get out of bed and get ready for the day. So it’s not long until he is walking out the front door and towards his car. Yet before he unlocked it he stopped, eyes glancing into the bright blue sky, and deciding against the drive. It was sunny and almost seventy, plus a walk would be good for him. So he stuffed the keys back in his pocket and started down the road.

Town was half empty once he got there, signs showing that the new mall being built was already taking away business. It was sad to see the town that once was so busy become a shell of nothing. Kind of like him he supposed. Yet the sight of the familiar blue door eased his mind as he pushed in the one place he hoped would be here forever.

“Hey man, long time no see” Ron, the owner smiles from behind the register. Steve matches the smile right back even though he doesn’t feel it. He wished he did.

“Hey Ron, how’s business been?” he asks, eyeing the various shelves throughout the room.

“I wish I could say busy, but ever since word got out that Sam Goody was being built in the mall, no one really cares about Ron’s Records anymore” he says and Steve nods, his throat tightening at the thought.

“I’m sorry about that man, you know I’ll be a customer for life” he tells him and Ron nods, smiling at the boys kindness.

“You and your Grandpa both” Ron says kindly and Steve has to look away before tears form in his eyes.

“I’m gonna check some records out” Steve tells him and Ron nods as he moves to the section he knows it will be at.

Finally reaching the B’s his fingers start skimming the records. It feels like he’s passed a hundred Barry Manilow records by the time he reaches exactly what he’s looking for. Smiling to himself he scans which ones are there, determined what would be the best to listen to. Something that for an entire forty minutes could make him feel much less lonely in this world.

“Billy Joel huh?” Steve looks up and nearly freezes. There you are, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and something about the world stops. He’s not one to be shy but it’s as if the words somehow can’t leave his mouth. There was just something about you. “Since when do boys your age listen to Billy Joel?”

“Hey, he’s still rock n’ roll to me” Steve defends, and it’s cheesy. He knows that, but it doesn’t stop you from laughing. You’re wearing the most perfect smile he’s ever seen and he wants to make you do it again.

“I’m not saying he isn’t, just most guys these days don’t know good music anymore” you say, pulling the record out of his hands and he almost gasps at the way your fingers feel against his.

“Well good music to me is just Billy, always has been” he says and you give him a small nod, smile still on your face. He briefly wonders what it could be about you that makes him suddenly so content.

“Cold Spring Harbor? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it” you say and Steve’s heart clenches.

“It’s his first album, he was only 22 when he wrote it. It’s one of my favorites” Steve tells you and the mischievous grin you give him makes his heart stutter in his chest.

“Well let’s listen to it” you tell him, hand grabbing his own, and leading him to the front of the building. In the front window there’s two chairs and small record player in between. They had been there for as long as Steve could remember, he had sat in them hundreds of times. He sits in his, the one chair he always sat in, and you sit, well in the other. His throat dries as he sees you sit across from him in the chair that had been empty for many years.

“What’s your favorite track?” you muse, hands delicately working to pull the record from its sleeve and place it on the player.

"The first one, She's Got A Way. It was my Grandpa's favorite, the first Billy song he ever played me" Steve says, looking off onto the rows and rows of records. Remembering a time when he was just short enough to be the same height as them. Rushing around and looking for the most colorful covers while his Grandpa went straight to the B's. Then he'd sit in the very chair he was now, ankles just barely hanging over the edge as his Grandpa played him song after song, in the very seat you were sitting in now.

"So that's where it comes from" you muse, the record spinning as you turn on the machine. Steve watches as you set the needle on the record, sratching till it finds its groove, and fills the silence between you both.

"Why is it his favorite?" you ask after a few moments, watching the boy as he let's the words sink in.

"He claimed it was the only song he ever heard that perfectly described how he felt about my Grandmother. How the right women could completley turn you around and heal you when you least expect it" Steve smiles fondly as he repeats those words he hadn't in a very long time.

"A charmer, I'm sure you are too" you say and the shocked look Steve wears has you laughing lightly. It takes Steve only a second to laugh along with you, realizing just how quickly you had revealed him. It's when your laughter calms he realizes the smile on your face has eased his heart more in the last six months than anything else.

"If you must know" Steve says and you giggle again which has Steve wanting to spend more and more time with you.

"Where is this Grandpa of yours, I have a few questions for him?" you ask and Steve freezes, not expecting the words to leave your mouth. It takes him a moment to respond and you sense the discomfort and place your hand on his own. Steve nearly jumps at the electric touch that comes from it.

"He passed away when I was fifteen, right before high school" he tells you, throat tightening around the admittance.

"I'm so sorry, that's awful" you try to comfort but Steve just smiles.

"You would have loved him though. Everyone did. He was my best friend, the only family I really had that spent time with me. Since my Grandma passed when I was ten, me and him made sure to spend all of middle school together" Steve isn't entirely sure why he is telling you this, he just knows your the first person he has been this comfortable around since his Grandpa and he didn't even know your name yet. He didn’t know what it was about you but he figured there didn't need to be a reason.

"That's so sweet, he sounds so special" you tell him and Steve nods, recalling memories he hadn't allowed himself to think about for years.

"He was, just wish he was still around. He was the only person to ever be there for me, front row at every swim meet and basketball game. Was hard going through highschool knowing he was no longer in the stands, but Billy. Well that's all me and him ever talked about. So sometimes, on days like today when I miss him a little extra, I find him in the lyrics of a song" and your heart soars for the boy in front of you. A boy with a deep sadness buried within him. A boy the world hadn't given a chance yet.

"Is he there right now?" you can't help but ask, the last few lines of the song coming through the speakers on the machine. Steve listens, can practically see his Grandpa yelling at him for not making a move. ‘At least ask her name’ he groans and Steve chuckles lightly to himself.

"Yeah he's here. He always is" Steve says and you give him a smile that somehow heals him. "I'm Steve by the way"

"Nice to meet you Steve" you tell him before offering your own name and Steve finds it rattling through his head, the most beautiful name in all of existence, and somehow it belongs to you. The very girl who showed up while he was feeling down and has inspired him without a sound. The beginning notes of You Can Make Me Free fill the silence between you both and Steve sits up, realizing your hand is still atop his own.

"Sorry for spilling my guts" Steve says and you shake your head, wanting him to know that he had done nothing wrong this entire time.

"Don't be, it actually happens a lot. I seem to make people very comfortable. Guess I just got a way about me" and Steve agrees because somehow in just this short exchange you have inspired him to keep on going, reminded him that this is not the end and it won't be all bad. It is like you have some bright light around you and it gives him the strength to keep going.

"Would you maybe want to go get something to eat?" Steve finds the confidence to ask and you beam a smile brightly back at him.

"I'd love to Steve" you tell him, using his name like it now somehow belongs to you and Steve wishes it does. A million dreams of love surrounding you and for the first time since Nancy he finds himself feeling something for a girl he never thought he'd feel again. He just knows he no longer wants to live without you.

"Have fun you two" Ron calls out as you both exit, the record still playing as you both leave it behind. You talk the whole way to the small diner in town, Steve just smiles and listens, loving how everything sounds the way it comes out your mouth. It's as if every word lifts him up as you are walking.

For the rest of the day Steve does his part getting to know you. Making you laugh and flirting where necessary which never fails to make you blush. The sight of your red cheeks alone make his heart soar for you. It's cute the way you show it, exactly how you feel about him. In return you do find yourself charmed by the very boy you couldn’t resist talking to. You wondered where a sweet boy like him had been your whole life and for the first time you aren't as embarassed by the blush on your cheeks as you normally would be.

"I really like you Rosy" he says matter of fact, the nickname falling easily from his lips. You blush at his words again, shaking your head at the boy you figure you aren't getting rid of anytime soon.

"I like you too Steve"

Taglist: @slvtforstve @keerygal @goosy-goose @livsters @blckburd @loveshotzz @ohwauwdoritos @superblysubpar @southereads @amataadriana @violet2022 @mxrcjqckspnchqsc @madaboutjoe @thunderstomp-and-tequila @justdamnpeachy @micheledawn1975 @fangfatale @kingstevesgf @notlilyyyy @eddiesguitarskills @palmtreesx3

Comment if you want to be added to the taglist :))

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macfrog · 22 days

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birds of a feather | joel & ellie

y'all listen to the new billie eilish album? there's a song that reminded me of a couple of someones.

pairing: joel miller & ellie williams summary: joel surprises ellie on her sixteenth birthday. warnings: nada. just me loving hard on this pair. word count: 1.5k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤍

Oh, my god, it is a dinosaur.

She didn’t actually believe it would be. I mean, it was her first guess – but where the fuck is he going to find a dinosaur way the hell out here? She was kidding.

Wasn’t a convertible, wasn’t a puppy, wasn’t even a lotta kittens. A litter. Whatever. It wasn’t a new pair of sneakers, nor a comic book collection. She’d almost run out of ideas, when she spotted the tail through the bushes.

Is that–? Is he seeing this, too?

It’s, like, three times the size of her. No, wait – five times the size of her. Ten? She’s gotta ask Joel.

Two thick, stocky legs planted firm into the earth. Draped in ivy and spattered with moss – the thing actually looks prehistoric. Head lifted to the canopy; teeth bared in a silent roar. His little arms – alright, they’re actually kinda fuckin’ cute – frozen, reaching for something.

It’s right fucking there. Right in front of her. A motherfucking dinosaur.

Her hands fly to her head.

“Joel!” Ellie cries, and she can hardly feel her legs with giddiness.

Joel lingers a few steps behind her. He kicks a heel through the mucky grass, just watching. Smiling like an idiot, letting the ripples from the kid’s glee wash over him. It’s like the zoo all over again, or that time he found a Savage Starlight poster while out on patrol.

Ellie’s laughter is ticklish, vibrating through his veins. She pumps her fists and sizes up the monster. She says holy shit, Joel three times before she takes a step closer.

The sun trickles through the leaves, haloing over the Rex. It’s warm, but not too warm – and the swim on the way helped cool them down. It’s a bit of a hike to get here. He’s just glad it’s a nice day.

He was, truthfully, a little nervous about it. About bringing her here. He’s never had a sixteen-year-old to plan shit for. What if she didn’t like it? Hell, what if she thought it was fucking lame?

But Ellie wades waist-deep into the moat instantly. She pulls herself through the murky water straight to the plaque, and whips out her journal.

And Joel knows he’s fucking nailed it.

“King of the tyrant lizards,” she announces, making sure she gets the spelling right. Her tongue pokes from the corner of her mouth as she sketches.

Joel wanders over to her side, hand combing through the tangles of leaves drooping from the dinosaur’s belly. He swats fluttering flies away from his face.

The water sloshes around her feet as she rounds the tail. It’s slippery with slime. She crawls over threads and vines, soles scuffing up the spine.

“What are you doin’?” he asks, a chuckle patching over cracks of sudden fear.

“I’m climbing a dinosaur!” Ellie yells. She hesitates on the snout – though only for half a second, because fuck it, how many times am I going to jump off a motherfuckin’ dinosaur? – and then she’s plummeting.

Joel’s stomach flips. He staggers into the water, breath clamped in his throat until she resurfaces again.

She’s still wearing that dumb as shit smirk. It probably didn’t flinch, the entire fall. “Did you see that?” she gasps.

Jesus. Yeah, he saw it. He pulls a hand down his face.

It’s been a year, little less than. They’re used to it by now – the slow turn of life in Jackson. Breaking bread in the dinner hall, calling the woodland creatures by whichever ridiculous names Ellie christens them with.

It took a few weeks, but eventually, their heartrates settled. Their fists loosened. They relaxed into the quiet, found respite in the negative space.

Tommy joked for the first little while that Joel had a shadow he couldn’t shake. She’s five-three, red hair, and she carries a switchblade everywhere she goes. Following him close enough that she felt more like a phantom at his heels.

Joel never minded, and he still doesn’t. He’s long forgotten the feeling of being alone – as quickly as he acquired it, it seems. These days, he waits at his kitchen table for the kick of the backdoor, the slump of a still half-asleep teenager opposite him.

He wonders how he ever got by so long without it.

He leads Ellie into the museum.

Everything looks exactly how he left it. A jungle of a building; shattered glass and overgrown grass, a muggy smell lingering in every dim corner. The stuff he deliberately left for her to stumble upon when she got here: a Giants of the Past brochure, the stupid hat he knew she’d force him to wear.

A marshland wasteland, and she still sees the magic in every square inch.

She throws fact after fact at him. Fruit flies and moon landings, gunpowder and Yuri Gagarin. She knows a shit ton, if the stacks of books on her desk are anything to go by. And when Joel tells her how smart she is, Ellie smiles smugly to herself and thinks up ten more facts, just for him.

He thinks of her books and their awkwardly long titles, the faded pictures on all the covers. Astronauts and nebulas and faraway suns. He offers the one thing he remembers from school back at her: My very educated mother just served us nice pizzas.

She’s never even heard of it.

But she’s impressed, and she repeats it to herself as she explores some more. Turning back at every new artifact she finds, beckoning Joel over with a flapping hand.

He wanders after her, thinking up questions he’s sure he already knows the answers to – just so she can tell him again. Just to see her face light, to hear her ramble as she explains.

And nine times out of ten, she corrects him, anyway.

The space shuttle is spotlit under a dome roof, more ivy spilling over the top. A little heap of machinery, succumbed to the nature around it. They crank the door open together, and a springtime heat floods from the cockpit.

Joel stops Ellie from climbing in. “You’re goin’ into space,” he says, leaning on the warm metal. “You’re gonna need a helmet.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh, right. What was I thinking?”

They’re too big for her – all three helmets. They’re clunky and clumsy, the visors a little grubby and distorted. But she pulls one over her head and jogs back to Joel, hoisting herself into the shuttle.

It’s cramped inside; stifling even with the door wide open. Joel feels his back twinge as he settles into the seats. But he doesn’t mind, and neither does Ellie.

She flicks button after button, her elbow knocking against his. Explosion sounds rumbling from her lips. Her breath clouds the inside of her helmet.

He could lie here all day beside her. In this quiet corner of the world, where time stands still. Guarded by the Tyrannosaurus Rex out front. Just him and his kid, listening to her mimic engine noises and pretend to lift them both into space.

But he’s hellbent on timing it perfectly. So just as she sounds the roar of a seamless takeoff, he slips the tape from his chest pocket.

“Happy birthday, kiddo.”

Ellie blinks at the cassette. “What is this?”

“This…” Joel says, pinching it in two fingers, “…is a thing that took a mighty effort to find.”

His handwriting is carved into the label. It’s the first gift – real gift, birthday gift – she’s ever been given. Thought out and made up, addressed to her and placed in her hands for keeps. All hers.

She clicks it into her player and hooks her headphones in, thumping her helmet back over her head. She jams a thumb into the play button, and –

He did remember to rewind the tape, right? It’ll play from the start, won’t it?

Joel’s heart begins to thud. He shifts uncomfortably.

Shit, what if it spoils the surprise? What if she hits play, and the first thing she hears is –

Ellie’s head lifts. Her eyes are wide. She grins, and so does he.

He fucking nailed it.

She closes her eyes, the staticky babble of mission control in her ear. His voice tickles, pulling a wide grin across her face. 10, 9, 8, 7…

The shuttle shudders as it shoots into space. She’s holding her breath, holding until he announces liftoff on Apollo 11. The naked sun stretches over her visor, red under her closed eyelids. It disappears somewhere in the distance.

Ellie lands slowly, carefully, back in Wyoming. She blinks her eyes open.

Joel’s still right beside her, hands clasped on his chest. He waits for her to turn, waits to check her expression. He asks it softly, earnestly.

“I do okay?”

Her cheeks ache with smiling. She clutches the tape player tighter, replies through a giggle.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

There might be nothing outside of this shuttle. Perhaps there was nothing to begin with. They might’ve shot straight past the earth’s atmosphere, might actually be among the stars. And it might not even matter, if they are.

Everything is right here. The sun and the moon – the entire universe between them.

Joel breathes a relieved laugh. His chest loosens, his heart settles back into place behind his ribcage.

“You’re welcome, kiddo.”

#in my genfic era #bye again #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller #ellie williams #joel x ellie #the last of us part 2 #tlou 2 #joel miller fic #ellie williams fic

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roseglazedlens · 10 months

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⦑ spoiled girl ⦒✶.*

requested by anonymous pairing(s): leon kennedy x f!reader synopsis: after the lost of your non-biological father, you find a way to come to terms with your grief with your stepbrother in the most unexpected ways. content: smut 18+ only mdni, stepcest, leon & reader are adopted, hurt/comfort, found family(?), grief smut, family member death, unprotected p in v, mating press, oral (f! receiving), praise kink, degradation kink, mentions of death, childhood trauma « 1.6 k words┇ao3 ┇masterlist┇reblogs appreciated! »

That man was never Leon’s blood father, but he was as close to one could be. Both just as stubborn, protective. Apprehensive at first, Leon found new comfort in calling this man ‘dad’, a word so foreign it spat off his tongue when he uttered it for the first time in sixteen years.

Leon first met you on the summer of ’95. You were antsy, untrusting, straight out of the orphanage. He recognised the signs - how your fingers tap restlessly against your thigh, eyes averted - you reminded him of his younger self. He didn't care if you two weren't bound by blood, instead, took it upon him to care for you like a real sibling he never had.

Sometimes, feeling beyond that with the wildfire looks exchanged through the hallways of your shared living quarters. Granted, none of those emotions will survive to daylight.

That is until your father passed away in a car accident five years later, he drew breath to his final words – “Take care of your sister, son.” Which will grow to be the latest memory Leon will remember of him.

Screeches echo the entrance as Leon opens the front door, embraced by a gust of cool air, chilling to the spine, into the hallway of darkness. You expect to hear the usual rattle of cookware and a distant hum of Billy Joel, but only the mutters of toneless eulogies ring in your head.

“I’m going to my room.” You murmur. Leon doesn’t say anything as you surrender yourself to the hollow in your room.

The door shuts behind you, piercing through the silence that once filled with countless occurrences of laughter and jest. Leon observes the sofa in the living space, one that he often finds his dad sitting on to watch a game. He picks up the throw, relieved to smell lingers of his dad's scent on them.

Maybe you'll appreciate it. He picks it up, folding the corners neatly together, as if the gesture alone can preserve the scent within. He grabs a box of tissues too, you’ll probably need it.

“Hey.” Leon knocks on your door.

“Go away.” You sniffle.

“I’ve brought you something.” You didn’t say anything, which is a signal, as he had learnt through the years, for him to come in.

Leon finds your figure sitting at the edge of the bed, a photograph of the three of them burying into your face, the tears dripping along the metallic frame onto your black pencil skirt, one you haven’t worn since your first job interview.

“How are you doing?” Leon positions himself right next to you, one hand extending the tissue box slightly to you.

You appreciate the gesture, instantly snatching a few strips to wipe the tears on your face and blow your nose deeply into the tissue.

“I… I already miss him, Leon.” You choke through the words, feeling another sting in your eye. The throw is draped in front of you, and you can't stop remembering how much your father means to you.

Leon almost didn’t know what to say. “Me too.”

“I don't want to be alone again.” Another sniffle threaten to escape.

“You won't. You still have me.” In an effort to comfort you, he slides his hand on your back, rubbing small circles at your centre.

Your hands fly underneath his arms, tears drenching over his tailored black suit, one that snugs around his figure. Leon hasn’t cried once ever since the orphanage, but today, he almost did. He runs his hand into weaves of your hair, massaging your scalp slightly as he pulls you closer into his embrace.

A sigh left your throat, almost a bit content. Pleasured. Leon catches your breath on his shirt, and his breath hitches ever so slightly. Leon parts with your embrace just a tad, just enough until your eyes meet. The smell of your childhood bedroom runs into his nose like juicy steak dangling right in front of his lion’s claw – he was so close to have it all.

“I’m sorry…” Leon cups your face, tilting his closer to you.

He runs his lips to yours, breaking the spell that has been keeping him away this entire time. Your lips twitch in resistance for a brief second, before losing control into the softness of his lips. Gently, he pushes you down till your frame meets the soft mattress as he plants his palms on each side of your face.

“We don’t have to do this…” His lids are hooded, cautious words contradicting the burning desire hiding behind the hardness pressing onto you. Leon tries to pull away from you out of conscience, but it has become impossible looking at how obedient you are underneath him.

“I can't say I don't want this...” Your hands come up to feel the mole next to his adam's apple. “You've always been more than just a brother to me.”

Leon kisses you on the forehead, this time with endearment. “I’ll be gentle, don’t worry.”

You nod, stifling a chuckle between your covered mouth. The kisses grow hungrier, more erratic. His hands start running down the zip on your skirt, pulling it down just slightly. Leon's fingers slither into your underwear, grazing lightly against the tiny bud that pulses slightly upon touch. A moan gasps at the back of your throat as he circles it gently, feeling you throb through your clit. Your thighs jolt together for a second, then relaxes, widening your stance for easier access. Leon runs a hand along your slit, collecting the juices onto the pad of his finger, bringing it up to his lips for a taste of that nectar.

“God, I didn’t know my sister is so spoiled.” He whistles, pulling your legs up his shoulders, basking in the wetness between your thighs.

Leon preps his cleaned fingers for another entry. With a skilled movement, he presses his thumb against your clit, index finger teasing at your entrance as he feels around your folds.

Your breath hitches at the impact, composure falling apart and melting into a puddle of your own pleasure. Leon parts his lips and land them right in front of your bud, exchanging places with his fingers. He breathes onto it lightly, triggering a tickle sensation that lets out a giggle in you before he takes in all of it in his mouth. Suckling on them. His fingers resume, moving in between your folds, thrusting his digits into you.

Your moans turn into a strangled pant, crying his name out loud, chasing the high that he instils into you. Leon watches you through the whole thing. When he sees your movement starts uncontrollable twitch, he releases your bub with a wet pop.

He moves his face lower, putting his tongue inside of you, thrusting and licking your sweet juices until you almost unravel on his tongue. Before he suddenly takes his tongue off you, his finger still pressing firmly in your pulsing clit. You whined out, clenching to nothing.

“L-Leon… Let me c-come…”

“Wait for me, baby. I want us to come together.” He kisses your inner thigh to as if to apologise before Leon removes his shirt revealing his chiselled body. He gets his pants undone and let it fall onto his knees. He wrings out of them awkwardly, tossing to the side of the bed.

You see his cock for the first time, looming in front of you. The crest of his cock slightly bulged in pink, tip drooling to enter you.

“Be a good girl for me and lift your legs up for me, won't you?” Leon curls his hand around his cock, fisting it a few times. You can't take your eyes off him as you lift your bottom upwards. He nods in gratitude as he hooks your knees across his shoulders, pressing you down so slightly until your knees almost touch your jaw.

You squirm involuntarily, a light gasp left your mouth as he lines himself up against you. You buck your hips closer, getting impatient. His breath turns heavy before thrusting himself into you.

You use this opportunity to lock his waist with your ankles, securing him just enough for his movements to become strained. The curse that left Leon’s mouth was almost carnal. He buries himself into you, elbows losing balance for a second and falls onto the mattress before he picks himself back up. Your thighs start to quiver under him, a welling of emotions chasing the high of your euphoria. His dick twitches, groans turning into desperate whimpers. He pulls himself out of you, shooting strings of white onto your sheets as he pants in relief.

“Where did you learn how to do all that?” Leon rolls right next to you, asking with a heaved breath.

“You know I’m already twenty-four, right?” You chuckle. “I’ve had some experience.”

“You’re already twenty-four?” He releases a heavy breath, mentally counting the years. “I would’ve graduated high school seven years ago… Man, I'm getting old.”

“Shut up, you’re just a year older than me.” You run your fingers to the soft of his waist, tickling him in the spot you know he’s sensitive to.

Leon guards his sides defensively, hands held in yours to stop you. You chuckle at his reaction, but he holds your hand firmly this time. His eyelids hood the cerulean of his eyes, gaze fixed upon you like wildfire meets turbulent waves.

“I’ll take care of you. Whatever it takes. Always.”

Leon’s hand grip onto yours, a bit firmer. You let a grin tug your cheek, and lunge to hug him.

He intends to keep every bit of this promise.

i've never thought ab stepcest in this way, until this kind anon asked me to write this. ngl i wasn't sure how to approach this at first - but i think i did my best? ik stepcest can be kinda controversial, i just enjoy writing angst in all forms lol thanks for reading! come check out my other works. ––yours truly, rose. tags: @carlosgf @sporeghost (pm me for tags) © roseglazedlens - please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.

#꒰✒️ rose fics ♡.꒱#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil smut #leon kennedy smut #resident evil fanfiction #leon s kennedy #leon x reader #leon kennedy #resident evil x reader #resident evil #fanfiction #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #꒰💌 rose requests ♡.꒱

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blueberryarchive · 2 months

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thoughts on 80's slasher!jk...♡ (18+)

more here

(because i can't stop thinking about him)

There was something so cruel and fun about being part of a sleepover. The sweet aroma of vanilla and nail polish compacted in the room covered in colors. The muffled laughter of 2 in the morning, Steph's mother sleeping on the other side of the wall where the Billy Joel poster is. The yellowish silhouettes move slowly as they write on small pieces of paper, concentration makes them frown, smile flirtatiously at the ceiling.

“Can it be any guy?” Bobby Joe asks, tossing the piece of paper in the corner to grab another one, Steph rolls her eyes knowing full well why she would ask such a question.

If Bobby Joe was talking about any guy there would be no problem but the three girls, including you, knew perfectly well that sweet BJ wanted to put the philosophy professor's name in big italics.

“We're not going to call Mr. Hogg, Bobby Joe. I don’t want to hear him pull his old and saggy out just because I said the word ‘wet.’”

“I thought this was a game.”

“Exactly, it's a game. I don’t want to develop an infatuation with men over forty-five.” Liss attacked folding her game papers into four.

Your fingers fidgeted on the piece of paper on your knee. You couldn't write your boyfriend's name, obviously, it wouldn't be as fun since Jimin knows your friends' voices and it wouldn't be as fun to see one of your friends flirt with Jimin on the phone.

“Come on, Boo. Don't you know another man besides Jimin? Steph laughed. Bobby Joe and Liss put the names inside Elmo's mug.

No, you wanted to answer. But what's so fun about that. Now that you think about it, you should have brought your Monopoly or the old Ouija that your brother hides. It wasn't a good thing to ever leave the games to Steph.

Liss sat her face on your shoulder looking at the yellow paper, empty, desperately empty. You can put the name of someone who isn't in college, she whispered to you, taking pity on your sorry male record. And that's what you did, you chose your neighbor, only two people know how long you and Cooper haven't seen each other: God and your mom. And that was perfect, he wouldn't know your voice if you called him to ask him what his favorite position was.

Dan Cooper, the “o”s looked like long zeros and the ink pooled at the edges, demonstrating your hesitation in looking for another man in your life you wanted to call for a prank. But it was too late, Steph took the paper and crumpled it before you finished the R.

“Who dares to call first?” Liss held the cup, turning the papers over with a spoon.

Bobby Joe sighed looking into the darkness of the room. You noticed her nervousness, perhaps regretful.

“I want to change the last name…”

“Don't be a pussy, BJ.” It gushed from your lips, the Malibu bubbling in your throat with the taste of the Caribbean islands and the triple cheese pizza you had for dinner. None of the three expected to hear your babbling so early and in so few milliliters of rum.

“Well, you start, take a piece of paper.” You heard her mumble something about putting your stepfather's name on the cup, you ignored her as you took the paper that first fell on the carpet.

“Wait, let me turn on the camera.” Liss got up taking the camcorder that her father gave her for her new career in communication. Now the lens focused on the college antics of your group of friends and, occasionally, the artsy pornos that she and her boyfriend tried to sell on college corners.

Of the ten papers, the one you took seemed to be folded with the delicacy of origami. You unfolded until you undid the little cube and found a name that you have rarely heard or even thought about.

“Jungkook Jeon?” You feared you had said the name wrong but the looks between your friends were not looking for a good pronunciation but rather who dared, in fact, who even thought of trying to flirt with such a specimen.

Steph let out a squeal as she almost dropped her drink on her favorite sweater.

“God, Liss surely wrote that.”

"Why me?"

“You've always liked weird men.”

“You like octogenarians, you bitch.”

“Who the fuck is Jungkook?” You were starting to get desperate and the tiny flickering light from the camera was starting to feel like needles in your pores.

Steph takes another drink before proceeding to explain.

“He's a guy in econ class, a complete loser. He doesn't look anyone in the eye and walks around like he wants the earth to swallow him all the time."

“And why do y'all put it in the pile?” If you were going to call someone, it had to at least be worth it.

Bobby Joe and Liss look into each other's eyes and smile knowingly. BJ's bubblegum-pink coated index fingers come together and then spread alongside her smile.

“Several of the guys on the team have seen him in the showers.”

“I don't believe any of the men on the football team, that's what they said about Marc and he had a micro dick.” Steph looked pointedly at the camera. “Plus he doesn't even get up from the stands, I've never seen him play.”

“Jimin started calling him Junghood.” BJ played with her gum, twirling it around on her finger.

Jimin had never mentioned the guy to you.

“Junghood?”

“He likes to play with his bow and arrow in his free hours, like a Robin Hood.” Liss looked for another light, she wanted tried to see every line that formed on your forehead.

“The name is so stupid…no offense.” Steph finished her drink and handed you the heavy book.

You grabbed the phone directory and headed to J. The last name was easy to find and the dial easy to rotate, until your nerves choked you listening to the buzzing on the other end of the line. You wished he didn't answer, but you were also intrigued by the description. How is it that one of the players on the football team, who was supposedly well-hung and caught the attention of your little elite, was so relevant? And why didn't you know about him?

Your friends didn't focus on dragging unfortunate people through the mud, that's a high school girl thing. In college it was a matter of continuing to climb the ladder, maybe marrying a stockbroker from New York or becoming an intern at Vogue just so you could rub it in other people's faces.

And unfortunately for you, it was a Saturday night and of course this Jungkook guy would take the call. ‘I Can’t Quit You, Baby’ reverberated softly in the room, his breathing hitched and heavy. Had you woken him up? Suddenly, you were aware of all your senses, of the sense of the cassette filling up with frames of your stupid face trying to do a function as human and basic as talking, of the two shots running through your system. But oh…

"Hello?" His voice was raspy, sweet, a little nasal and whiny.

BJ squeezed your chin shaking it from side to side, enjoying your cowardice. Your face was toasted with a simple word.

“Jungkook?” You swallowed, your finger curling around the phone's pink cord.

"Who is it?" Complainant moved between the sheets until he was silent. “Fuck, it's two in the morning. Is this another one of the evangelical whores trying to sell me Bibles? I already told you what I would do to y'all if you called me again.”

And the threat sounded like a foreign promise that you wish you had heard alone. You looked at Steph who was drawing a cock next to his name, her eyes closed sensually as she stuck her tongue out.

“I just heard a rumor a couple of days ago and, you know, I haven't been able to sleep thinking about it being true.” Your voice turned to molasses, your eyebrows curled and your shoulders tensed in acted innocence.

“No, I don't sell pot. Is that it, princess?”

“Is it true that you have a big dick?” Steph, Liss and BJ were shocked. You stole the Malibu from one of them, you didn't even have the courage to talk to Jimin like that when you two were alone.

The girls ran as quietly as possible out of the room and down the stairs, opening the other phone to listen to Jungkook. But it was useless, since the person questioned did not respond. The camera already forgotten on the bed, you kneeling on the carpet hugging Liss's pink Care Bear between your legs.

A small laugh, the click of a lighter, a drag.

"What?" You could hear him reposition himself in his pillows. " You would like to know how big the weirdo in your class is, you fucking slut.”

No, ew.

“Yes, I say, if it is true.”

“How much would you like to know, mm?”

This wasn't the answer you were looking for, you thought maybe he would hesitate on your question or just hang up out of embarrassment. Maybe you should have stopped five more minutes and brought Clue or Guess Who? that was in your closet.

You thought about every face in the college hallways, about your boyfriend's friends, and about those you met at the mall or behind the movie theater on Sundays. None matched his voice.

“I told you I haven't been able to sleep for two nights, isn't that enough?”

“Maybe with a proper fuck you would relax, don't you think?”

You swallowed, letting your eyelids droop. Your hand approached the camera and you turned it to the wall so it could record its own reflection in the mirror.

“Can't talk, love? I thought you were the one who was going to play a lil' prank on me and leave me hard as a log on the other end of the line. What happened, do you really want me to crash this dick into your pretty pussy?” His laugh was mocking, he knew what he was saying and how he said it: with his hisses, deep tones; all through the smoke of an improvised cigarette in the late night.

You squeezed the bear between your legs and sighed.

“I've never been so…”

"Dirty? Badly spoken? Pleb?"

“So direct.”

“Isn't it so fucking good, though? Being able to say out loud that you think about my cock at night” The bass solo repeated itself like an angelic tune intertwined with his words.

It was hard to follow the joke when your panties started sticking to your lips with every word that came out of his mouth. Your friends had abandoned you so theycould listen downstairs and in the darkness of the room you could only imagine a headless body stretching your legs up to your shoulders, your pussy trying to make room to choke on the throbbing veins of an unknown dick.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” His question sounded like a command and your hips leaned forward, rubbing against the rough carpet.

"No."

"Ya' sure? Because just with your absence of words you have me squeezing my base. Can you imagine if you could take it all like a champ? I know whores like you, they dare to take on a whole team if they feel like it.”

His sly laugh was the last thing you could hear before hanging up the phone. You rose from the carpet searching for the cassette in Liss's camcorder, your thin fingers trembling as you destroyed the evidence of your pusillanimity and lust.

The three girls walked slowly to the room, all grouped on the bed like judges of the case. Looking for an explanation in your features but there was only one order.

“Nobody talk to Jimin about this, okay?”

The judges looked at each other, nodded in unison. Apparently bedtime approached earlier than expected and you were grateful that the alcohol had knocked out your friends so quickly.

You ran to the bathroom with the memory of his voice still fresh. The humidity still warm between your legs, you held onto the sink while you held back your moans, your forehead pressed against the mirror and your drool falling into the drain with the voracious hunger that only imagination can give.

#jk.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡#❗slasher! jk thoughts #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts smut #jungkook smut #bts #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #jungkook x oc #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you

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libraryofgage · 9 months

Text

@holyangelstudentuniverse requested the following: Steve working at Bath & Body Works while Eddie is the mall pianist?

I love it omfg, your brain is fantastic I hope I did the idea justice

(if you see any typos no you didn't <3)

The old food court pianist was...okay. Technically, she was good; she knew how to play and rarely made mistakes. She was also clearly just there for the bi-weekly check (not that Steve can blame her), and her playing reflected that. The piano became the ideal white noise, loud enough to lessen the awkwardness of any silence but not so amazing that people couldn't ignore it in favor of conversing with each other.

The new food court pianist? He's a fucking enigma.

He's very clearly skilled, and he seems to actually enjoy the job. He plays like Billy Joel and Elton John met one night, had a piano contest, and then had a baby to create the perfect pianist. He's great and energetic and can play anything from Mozart to fucking Cardi B, and Steve wishes he'd quit already so he can actually focus on his own shitty mall job instead of getting absorbed in the guy's playing.

"You should just hook up with him," Robin says one day, hip-checking Steve as she passes by with a box of Cherry Blossom products. She restocks the soap bottles first, then the perfume, then the lotions, and finally the tiny hand sanitizers with their shitty little plastic flip-caps that Steve swears break for the fucking fun of it.

Steve, meanwhile, is replacing last week's sales signs with new ones. They're the exact same. They rarely change, actually. The only difference is the "expiration" date at the bottom, which changes if only to continually sell customers that sense of urgency that results in them buying $50 worth of products they'll forget about until the holidays come around and they need white elephant gifts.

He's almost done, too. All that's left are the signs by the metal gate pulled down over the store's entrance. They'll open it in about an hour to prepare for the mall's opening, but for now, it's staying down to discourage the mini-bodega clerk in the middle of the hall from flirting with Robin and trying to sell her shitty perfume like she can't just steal shitty perfume from Bed Bath and Beyond at the end of the day.

He waits until after he's switched the sign to turn around, arms crossed over his chest. His back is to the gate, and Steve would normally be too fucking paranoid about a blind spot to withstand it, but he's in argument mode.

"I barely know the guy," he says.

Robin snorts as she crouches, stocking extra hand sanitizers in the tiny drawers at the bottom of the shelf. "Yeah, but I know you, dingus," she says, her voice light and bouncing. "You hear the guy's muzak version of a Lil Nas X song and you're ready to marry the guy."

"I can just recognize artistic ability! Have you ever tried to make a pop song sound like a classic?" he asks.

"My point," Robin says, pushing some hair out of her face, "is that you should ask him out. Maybe you two can play piano together."

If she hadn't already heard it before, Steve would be immediately launching into an explanation of why that wouldn't work. Steve has never met someone he liked or trusted enough to actually play with them. Sure, he's tried playing with a partner before if only to say he gave it a shot, but it sucks. Especially when you don't like the person. You're squished together on an uncomfortable bench, sharing sheet music, elbows bumping as you both try to reach the proper keys to keep the song from sounding horrendous. It's Steve's personal version of hell on earth.

But Robin has heard that rant before, so Steve graciously spares her from hearing it again. For now. Until he's drunk, probably.

"What, I'm just gonna waltz up to the piano and ask if he's free on Saturday? Or, I don't know, try some dumb pick-up line like asking if he comes here often?"

"I'll be honest, it's not the worst pick-up line I've heard."

Steve and Robin jump, both whipping their head to look at the grate to see the food court pianist grinning at them (well, more specifically, he's grinning at Steve) from the other side. He's wearing a button-down black shirt with ripped skinny jeans, old Converse, and more accessories than Steve can count. There are chains on his jeans and a guitar pick hanging from his neck and an ear cuff and a stud through the edge of his eyebrow and so many chunky rings that Steve could use as an excuse to stare at his hands for an hour.

Robin is the one who breaks out of the shock first. She jumps to her feet and walks over to Steve, resting her arm on his shoulder and leaning against him. "But would it work?" she asks.

The guy grins wider, obviously looking Steve up and down to check him out before looking at Robin. "From Stevie here? Yeah. He's really rocking the apron," Eddie replies, winking at Steve.

Steve is about to ask how the guy knows his name, but then he remembers the name badge on his apron. He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away to glance down at Robin.

She seems to be having the time of her life right now.

"Well, uh, I'd prefer to know your name before trying any pickup lines," he says.

"Eddie Munson at your service," Eddie says, bowing to Steve with a dramatic flourish that he finds more endearing than anything else.

One look at Robin and her scrunched nose tells him she thinks it's a little over-the-top and, dare he say, cringe. Her opinion doesn't actually matter, though, since she'd be down bad for any girl that curtseyed at her.

Steve looks back at Eddie, noting the now expectant gleam in his eyes. He can't help an amused smile as he says, "Well then, Eddie," Steve says, stressing his name a little just for the fun of it, "come here often?"

Robin groans next to him. "Fucking hell, Steve," she mutters, slapping him upside the head. "I know you suck at flirting but you really couldn't come up with something better?"

"No, no," Eddie tells her, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm into it."

"And I'm out of it," Robin says, raising her hands in surrender before scurrying back to her Cherry Blossom products.

She's definitely still listening, though.

Steve rolls his eyes are her reaction and focuses back on Eddie. "So, uh, are you free on Saturday?" he asks.

"Completely free," Eddie says, taking a step closer to the gate and shoving his hands into his pockets. "How about lunch?"

"Yeah, I know a great pizza place."

"It's a date then," Eddie replies, winking at Steve. "By the way, any song requests?"

Steve blinks and thinks for a minute before asking, "Do you know Vienna?"

Eddie's grin tells Steve that he does, in fact, know Vienna. "Vienna it is." With that, he winks at Steve once more before heading back to the food court.

"That was painful," Robin says once he's far away enough.

Steve rolls his eyes and flips her off. "You're just jealous I've got a date and you're still too chicken shit to approach the Nike girl."

Robin practically squawks at him. "Oh, fuck you," she says.

"I'll leave that to Eddie, thanks," Steve says, laughing when Robin gags.

#steddie #steddie fic #platonic stobin #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #lovingly gonna call this one the BBB Mall AU #steddie request #my writing #thanks for the idea btw i fucking love it hfjkds

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carlossainzwho · 9 months

Text

do you get deja vu?

yep, it's part two time!

pairing/s: carlos sainz x ex!reader

warnings - swearing, not proof-read (sorry to my english teachers) and sexual references. (i sound like netflix help)

note - i'm really sorry you've had to wait so long for a fic!! this is part two, you can read part 1 for a little more background before reading this one. i really hope you enjoy! please reblog/like for support, it really makes me smile!!

car rides to malibu strawberry ice cream one spoon for two and trading jackets laughing 'bout how small it looks on you (ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha)

long long car journeys with carlos were the best, blasting out billie joe and queen all day, all night.

going to the same ice cream shop in mallorca

to get the classic ice cream

strawberry

with chocolate sauce

stuffing it all in carlos' face

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

feeling cold

wind blowing

exchanging your denim jacket for carlos' much thicker one

he looked funny

and handsome

and

he was hers, she was his

oh, ain't it funny

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

watching reruns of glee being annoying singing in harmony i bet she's bragging to all her friends, saying you're so unique, hmm

glee

making fun of his name

carlos science, carlos heinz tomato ketchup

singing 'smooth operator' till your throat hurt

but now rebecca's the one doing it with him

tight black dresses

at clubs

getting drunk

leads to

making out

leads to

the bed

So when you gonna tell her That we did that, too? She thinks it's special But it's all reused That was our place, I found it first I made the jokes you tell to her when she's with you Do you get déjà vu when she's with you? Do you get déjà vu? (Ah), hmm Do you get déjà vu, huh?

no amount of

kissing her

hugging her

fucking her

could change how he felt in his head

he knew

carlos knew

he did all that with y/n

with rebecca snoring by his side

he knew that the jackets

the singing

glee

he did it all before

with

someone

else

Do you call her Almost say my name? 'Cause let's be honest We kinda do sound the same Another actress I hate to think that I was just your type

rebecca, y/n

rebecca.

y/n.

they both had kind of similar accents

search her up

rebecca donaldson: model, actress and carlos sainz's new girlfriend!

y/n was nothing

she meant nothing to carlos

I'll bet that she knows Billy Joel 'Cause you played her "Uptown Girl" You're singing it together Now I bet you even tell her How you love her In between the chorus and the verse

how many more times should she say

how much she missed him?

through the singing

crying

laughing

he was there by her side

but now y/n knew

that carlos was singing and crying and laughing with someone else

Strawberry ice cream in Malibu Don't act like we didn't do that shit, too You're trading jackets like we used to do (Yeah, everything is all reused) Play her piano, but she doesn't know (oh, oh) That I was the one who taught you Billy Joel (oh) A different girl now, but there's nothing new

y/n drove past mallorca

past the same ice-cream shop

that sold the strawberry ice-cream

the wind blowing

clutching onto her denim jacket

the one that would never fit carlos

now he's doing all that with someone else

but she doesn't know

that

it was all y/n

and now

he probably seemed funny

and handsome

not long ago

he was hers

she was his

but not anymore

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

taglist: @styles-sunflower @marsinout @queers-of-marybelltownship @alonsogirlie @hoeforevery1 @charlosgoggles @albonsluvr

hope you loved it! so sorry it took long :(

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toomuchracket · 5 months

Note

little idea for the 3rd part (in the event you decide to make one)

maybe mrs mac and ross are doing one of those cute anniversary vow renewal things. for a 5 year anniversary or something. matty and girlie both go after not seeing each other for a couple of months and they both figure out the other one has broken up with their partners. (or to make it more angsty, matty and taylor broke up but girlie is still with her bf and maybe he came with, but she still misses matty a lot.) either way maybe girlie ends up going home with matty (after breaking up with her bf if she still had one.) and he spends the whole night making it up to her (a little arguing beforehand though.)

i edited this slightly, and the making up is still yet to come... but this part has a happy ending, i promise. hope you enjoy <3

gone four weeks, part 3 (d word matty x reader angst/fluff)

the breeze lifts your hair from the nape of your neck as you check your phone one final time, just to make sure you're at the right address. it's nice, the warm early summer wind, but you quickly make your way inside the restaurant and follow the signs towards the function room and your friends.

music - billy joel, you think - spills out of your destination through the half-open door; you can see ross swaying to it with baby keir in his arms, smiling at his wife cooing at the little boy. you smile, too, speeding up and hurrying over to join them. “hi! happy anniversary, you two! you look amazing!”

mrs mac cheers when you appear, hugging you and kissing your forehead in an extremely big-sisterly way. “thank you, beautiful girl! god, look at you,” she tugs the floaty skirt of your dress gently, face wondrous. “look at this dress! gorgeous.”

“thank you, lovely. hi, ross,” you hug him quickly before diverting your attention to keir. “and hello to you, sweetheart. oh, i've missed you! well,” you grin at his parents. “i've missed all of you while i've been away, but you and your sister most of all, keir, definitely.”

“speaking of,” mrs mac scans the room, while her son giggles at you adorably. “where is eilidh?”

ross tilts his head towards the back of the room. “busy teaming up with her cousin to terrorise hann.”

you turn, giggling when you see adam sandwiched between his son and eilidh at one of the tables, the two toddlers having an animated conversation across him. he smiles and waves when he sees you, though. so does carly, half-standing with an almost empty aperol spritz in one hand; she raises her eyebrows, pointing at you and then the glass, and smiles again when you nod and mouth a “thank you”. after briefly scanning the half-full room, you turn back to the macdonalds. “nobody else here yet?”

“nah,” ross shakes his head. “surprised you're here by yourself, actually.”

“what?” your brow furrows. “but i told you nothing developed between me and mi-”

“no, no, we know that. just figured you and matty might get a lift in together, you know? since he'd have to go past yours to get here and all.”

your stomach tenses involuntarily at the mention of him. “oh. no. i haven't spoken to him in couple of weeks, actually.”

thought about him every day, though. been wracked with guilt at the memory of him crying as you drove off. cried at it yourself, too.

you dig your nails into your palm to snap yourself out of it - he'll be here soon, after all - and try to focus on what mrs mac is saying. “you fell out, or something?”

“something like that, yeah.”

“about him mugging you off and flaunting his relationship with taylor in front of you? or something else?”

did he tell them? no. he can't have. he wouldn't even tell them - his best friends - that you were together. fuck, you are so confused. you must look it, too, because she keeps speaking. “well, we all thought that after new year, you and matty might… become something.”

“especially after the body shots you did off each other,” ross interjects. you give a small smile at the memory, tinged with sadness like all of your old ones involving matty are.

“the body shots, yeah. christ,” his wife shakes her head. “but seriously - we thought he was really into you. i felt a bit blindsided when he just started seeing taylor, to be honest. didn't want you to feel like he'd led you on, you know?”

bless her. “it's not that, no,” you hug her. well, you suppose, it kind of is. but your friends don’t need to know that. “we just have, um, opposing ideas about stuff, let's say.”

ross smiles. “which is code for he was an arsehole and had a tantrum, isn't it?”

his wife sighs. “ross, the baby.”

“sorry, sorry - he was a not very nice person and had a tantrum.”

“better. thank you.”

“i was trying to be diplomatic,” you giggle, covering keir's little ears. “but yeah, basically. although, in fairness, i was a bit of a bitch to him in return.”

“you? never,” carly slots into the conversation, handing you your drink and kissing your cheek in greeting. “who's the him in question, by the way? that american boy?”

ross shakes his head. “matty. who could do with people being bitch- brutally honest with him, sometimes, actually.”

you suck air in through your teeth. “i made him cry, though.”

carly blinks in surprise, then waves insouciantly. “he's been crying a lot lately, i wouldn't worry about it.”

of course, you do. “he has?”

“yeah. moping about everywhere since he got home two weeks ago,” she sighs. “he says it isn’t the breakup with taylor, he's adamant about it, and i actually believe him. but he's definitely sad about something, something that he can't bring himself to talk about.”

shit. you take a long drink of your cocktail. and then another, for good measure.

“well, i'm sure we'll find out soon. or he'll get over it,” mrs mac shrugs. “you're all back to work next week, anyway. he'll feel better then.”

her husband and carly murmur in agreement, but you keep your mouth shut. months of international flights and hotel stays with you in tow? feeling better isn’t a likely thing for either of you. you wince at the thought.

carly notices; thankfully, she mistakes it for something else. “i know, darling, sorry for reminding you about work at a party! come on, we'll sit down and you can tell us all about what you got up to in new york.”

“yeah, ok.”

and that's exactly what you do - omitting the sections about matty and the breakup and the tears and the arguing, and doing your best to field eilidh's many questions about the horses in central park, you tell them everything. about orla's show, your apartment, taylor’s party (which stings a little, you have to admit), the shows you saw on and off-broadway, the food you ate, the people you met.

unfortunately, it's during the latter section that matty appears at the table, preceded by george and charli, who slots herself in beside you and hugs you as tight as she can without injuring eilidh on your lap. george reaches behind her to ruffle your hair and tell you how happy he is to see you. matty stays silent, diagonally opposite you, his only indication of you a curt nod which you respond to with a weak smile. you do your best to ignore him while you talk, which proves nigh on impossible; you've never been able to resist sneaking glances at him as it is, and he looks good in the slightly flowier than usual white shirt he's wearing. depressed, admittedly, but - as he does with anything and everything - somehow managing to make that look ridiculously sexy.

you can feel his eyes on you, too, but his gaze is always elsewhere whenever you look his way. and you know you shouldn't care, you know, but something inside you wonders if and hopes that he thinks you look good. it's nice to think that at least one of his opinions or thoughts about you might be a positive one.

still, matty doesn't give any indication of how he feels about you; that is, until you mention that you stopped things with michael before they could even develop, and his head shoots up to look at you so quickly you fear for his neck. “wait, really?”

you meet his eyes for the first time. something funny happens to your heart when you do. “yeah.”

“so, when you left the studio to go to that bar…” matty’s voice trails off, almost like he can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

you understand. it's a painful memory for you, too. shaking your head, you reply. “i didn't go. went back to the apartment, told him i wasn't in the headspace for the date,” you smile faintly. “or any date, actually.”

something seems to flicker in matty's eyes, an emotion you can't quite name. “and that was it? done?”

you nod.

matty nods too; he looks… satisfied. “well. i'm glad you made the right decision. for you and your wellbeing, i mean.”

“thank you,” your smile falters. “he was a bit miffed, to be honest. got quite angry over the phone, called me a selfish, cold, ungrateful… well, i won't say, because of eilidh. but i was glad i was going home the following night.”

“did he threaten you?” adam leans across to look at you, his pleasant face set into a stern expression. “he better not have.”

“no, it was just,” you look down at the table, busying yourself with fixing eilidh's pigtails and trying not to focus on the sight of matty's knuckles, white from how tightly he's holding his pint. “i didn't want to think about the fact that he was right.”

your friends clamour into conversation all at once, overlapping voices disputing your statement and reassuring you and berating michael. nothing really takes hold in your bowed head, until a specific voice cuts through. “darling, look at me, please.”

there he goes with that fucking pet name again. and there you go, reacting to it out of nothing more than muscle memory and something emotional you'd rather not address (again); your breath catches in your throat when you look up to see matty looking softly at you for the first time in months.

he smiles - really smiles - and your brain turns to mush. “those things he said… none of them are right about you, yeah? he got you all wrong. remember that, alright?”

thank fuck. thank fuck he's on the same page as you again.

you nod, smiling shyly (but genuinely) at matty. “okay,” you exhale. “now, can we please talk about something else?”

thankfully, george takes over the conversation with a mention of the next gig in dundee, and soon enough the chat devolves into ranking scottish bands from best to worst, which in turn devolves into ross having to mediate an argument between his wife and his best friend about the merits of cocteau twins and the blue nile. since you kinda-sorta made up with matty, the tension is dissipating from both your body and the atmosphere, but some of your anxiety remains; you think he might be feeling the same, because neither of you make any attempts to instigate conversation with the other. but it's better than it was - you can at least make eye contact with and smile at each other, and you're content enough with that, for the time being, at least.

eilidh, though, has other ideas. she sits bolt upright on your lap when the intro to atomic kitten's cover of the tide is high plays, wriggling - uncomfortably, but you'd never admit that to her - to sit on her knees on yours. “oh! matty?”

he leans across to his goddaughter. “yeah, bean?”

“dance with me?”

he grimaces. “to this?”

“uh huh,” her little pigtails bounce as she nods. “i like it.”

“well, alright then,” he stands, holding out a hand. “come on!”

you unclasp your hands so eilidh can climb off your knee. she grabs one of them once she's safely on the floor. “you dance too!”

your jaw drops. “me? really?”

eilidh nods very seriously. matty catches your eye and shrugs behind her.

“well, i did really like this song,” you sigh, standing up and letting the toddler pull you onto the dancefloor. “think i was about your age when it came out, actually, eilidh.”

“it's that old?” matty shakes his head. “christ. i feel ancient.”

eilidh smiles at him. “you are.”

despite the weirdness of the situation, you giggle. matty smiles knowingly at you, before turning his attention back to eilidh. “alright, miss. show us what to do, then.”

“okay!” eilidh starts doing a little toddler two-step thing that makes you and matty giggle; she grabs each of you again and frowns. “you too!”

“alright, we're doing it,” you grin, copying her and giggling again when matty does the same. “like this?”

she tilts her head exactly like her mum. “you hold hands too.”

you blanch, and open your mouth to protest - matty grabs your hand before you can, sending shockwaves up your arm to your brain. he brushes his thumb feather-lightly over your skin, and you relax immediately. “like this, bean?”

“yeah.”

“alright,” he turns to you, face placid. “you alright?”

“i'm alright,” you smile at him, then at eilidh. “means i don't have my hands free to teach you the dance from the music video, but whatever.”

matty throws his head back and laughs loudly at that; you quickly glance over at the table of your friends, all visibly dumbfounded by his change in mood. “you learnt the official choreography? at what age?”

“four, i think,” you shrug. “mum might still have the video.”

“i hope she does,” he squeezes your hand. “i bet it's adorable. you were so cute in those photos you showed me at your gran's.”

you look for the sadness in his eyes when he says that. but there's none, just… fondness. it makes you smile, lower your guard a smidge more, and reply with a joke. “cute past tense? god, i picked out the swishy dress so i'd match the most adorable person in the room and everything,” you shake eilidh’s hand, making her giggle. “but there's no catching up to you in those stakes, bean, is there?”

“nah,” eilidh shakes her head, grinning when you and matty all but collapse into giggles.

“i like the dress. it's very, well, you,” matty looks at you almost shyly; your stomach erupts into butterflies at the sight. “don’t think i'd describe you as cute, though.”

you deflate slightly. “no?

he shakes his head. “no. but i do think you're gorgeous.”

there he is.

“thank you,” your cheeks burn as you smile at him. “i think you look really handsome today, by the way. like the shirt a lot.”

“oh, thanks. got it in a vintage shop last week,” matty’s cheeks go pink, too. “you'd have liked it in there, i think.”

you nod. “maybe you can show me when we stop there for tour?” your voice is small, tentative.

he smiles, squeezing your hand again. “of course, darling. whatever you want.”

a wave of emotion washes over you at the familiar phrase - not a negative, painful one, though, rather something… reassuring. the weirdness still lingers between the two of you, but you know that your matty, the man who loved and cared for and about you so deeply, is still in there somewhere.

and, as proved seconds later, when the song changes to something slow and eilidh drops your hands with an “ugh, this is boring. daaaaaaad!” and runs off… your matty is closer to the surface than you originally thought.

he huffs out a laugh as he watches his goddaughter speed off, then turns to you. his eyes, those beautiful eyes, look at your still-conjoined hands and then trail up to meet your own. with another squeeze, he speaks. “considering she's left us out here on the dancefloor like this - shall we dance? i know you like this song, too.”

nostalgia floods your senses as you recognise the paolo nutini song playing. memories of sharing it with matty for the first time flash into your brain: the way the evening sun hit off the glass door in his living room, the welcome coolness of the concrete floor under your too-warm body, the unmistakable smell and hazy happiness from the joint the two of you passed back and forth, the adoration on matty's face as you sang and mime-played along and told him it was one of your favourites.

you zone out, lost in all of that, only coming to when matty nervously speaks again. “you can say no, of course, i just thought it might be nice. but no hard feelings if you don't want to.”

“i do,” you take his other hand comfortingly. “i just got distracted thinking about the first time i put this song on at yours.”

relief crosses matty's face, followed by wistful happiness. “that was a good day. wanted to dance with you then, too,” he blushes again. “but i was too high to move.”

you laugh. “you've got full range of movement today?”

“yeah. look,” he twirls you, grinning. “i won't let you fall.”

too late.

“right, then,” you clasp your hands behind his neck, and his slowly, tentatively make their way onto your waist; the contact sends sparks through your entire nervous system, making you stand up straighter and forcing you to look up into matty's eyes with a nervous smile. “lead the way.”

matty smiles back. “alright.”

with that, he starts to move, swaying softly from side to side, eyes still locked on yours. the old adoration is faint within them, growing as you blush and giggle nervously. “why are you looking at me like that?”

he shrugs. “can't help it. maybe you're just too gorgeous.”

“oh, stop it, please,” you hide your face in the crook of his neck on sheer instinct, and feel the terror building when you realise what you've done.

it dissipates before it even starts, though, because matty only laughs and pulls you closer to him - pulls you home. a content silence falls over both of you, both of you happy to listen to paolo and continue swaying; matty breaks it with a happy hum. “this is nice.”

“yeah.” you aren't lying.

“i miss this, you know,” matty moves his arms, so they're hugging you rather than holding you. a beat passes. “i miss you.”

your heart aches. you open your mouth to reply; matty, feeling your jaw move against his body, keeps talking before you can. “i know you'll have things to say, too, and i want to hear them, i really do, but please let me just say what i need to say first. please?”

you nod against him.

matty exhales. “thank you, darling. alright. well, first, i want to apologise,” his fingers trace little patterns into your dress, the way you know he does when he's scared. “i’ve been nothing but a cunt to you lately, and i'm truly, truly sorry for both just being that and for not realising it sooner…”

you quirk your eyebrows in agreement.

“...and i know you probably hate me, now - to be honest, i wouldn't blame you - but,” he sighs, and sniffles. “i love you. i really, really love you, darling, and i know this is going to sound silly and out of touch or whatever, because i know i made you feel like it was the opposite, but i do want you. just you, as you are, nothing else. that's my actual dream, you being with me and in love with me. always has been. i just didn't properly realise it, and i am so incredibly sorry that i thought and made you think it was anything else, and for the damage i caused in that.”

fuck. your jaw shakes as you speak, still trying to comprehend matty's words. “but you were just so adamant about the kids thing. and so quick to-”

“i know, darling, i know,” one of matty's hands comes up to stroke your hair. “i think i only reacted that way because, well, that was only my dream because i was dreaming about having them with you. so when it seemed like you were doubting it…”

“...you were scared i was going to end it, so you just, sort-of, sped up the process?”

he sighs. “yeah. it's a fucking stupid defence mechanism. but i'm working on it, in two hour-and-a-half-long sessions a week,” he laughs uncomfortably. “m'not trying to make you feel guilty, or anything, by the way. just wanna be honest with you.”

“i know, matty,” you gently pat his back. “thank you for telling me. and i'm sorry i ever made you doubt me, and worry, you know?” you sigh. “i wish i hadn't freaked out so much initially. then we wouldn't be in this mess.”

“no, darling, you were right in what you said to me in new york,” matty all but coos. “it’s a big conversation, the starting a family chat, and i did spring it on you - you weren't wrong reacting in the way you did. honest. and like i said,” he clears his throat. “that wasn't the real dream. you were - are, still. everything else is just, like, add-ons.”

you kiss his cheek, turning your head so it rests more on his chest and bringing your hand up to rest beside it. his heart is beating quite quickly, matching yours beat for beat. “it's a nice dream, though, with the add-ons. i had it recently, actually. when i got home from new york. dreamt we had a baby girl,” you say. you're so close to matty that you can see his chest tattoo through the fabric of his shirt, and you begin tracing it out of habit. “i'm not upsetting you by telling you this, am i? i can stop if you like.”

matty kisses your hair. “no. tell me about it, please.”

“well, she was perfect. your hair, my face, little chunky baby legs,” you smile, but your eyes are filling with tears. “it was so tangible i could actually feel her when i lifted her from her crib, and feel your head on my shoulder when you were talking to her and making her laugh,” your voice breaks. “and then i woke up, and neither of you were there. and it hurt. i forgot i couldn't just roll over and tell you about it excitedly; when i remembered, i couldn't stop crying. and thinking about the fact she wasn't real just made it worse,” your tears are turning matty's shirt transparent, and you do your best to compose yourself. “i love you, too, and i want you, us, again - that's basically what i'm trying to say. but i'm also trying to say that i’d happily start a family with you, if you still wanted that. i'm sorry it took me so long to realise.”

matty exhales shakily. you look up and meet his gaze, just as teary as yours. he smiles at you, though. “i want whatever you want, darling. but,” he carefully wipes the pooling tears from your lashline. “i really would like it if that baby girl from your dreams was real. at some point, that is. whenever we feel like we're ready. we can figure that out later, yeah?”

“absolutely. we'll take our time. that said, though,” you whisper, suddenly shy. “will you please, um, come home with me tonight? not like that, necessarily - i just, you know, sleep a lot better when you're beside me. haven't slept very well for the past few months, to be honest.”

he hugs you as tight as he can. “of course i will.”

#mads muses #matty asks #d word matty #angst asks #fluff asks #mads does writing #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy fic #matty healy angst #matty healy fluff #matty healy x reader #matty x reader #eilidh #keir

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lostloveletters · 3 months

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Leave a Tender Moment Alone (John Brady x OFC)

Summary: Private Kate Woodward and Lieutenant John Brady are reluctant to wear their hearts on their sleeves, but they're each starting to wonder if maybe they should.

Word count: 1k

Note: Meet Woody! Title comes from the Billy Joel song. For a little bit of context, this takes place before Damn Yankees, but you don't need to read that to understand what's going on in this fic. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Warnings: Light period-typical misogyny. Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies.

Private Kate Woodward had a child clinging to her leg, another hanging onto her back, both attached to her like little monkeys.

The village kids were always in the mechanics’ orbit. Woody wanted to be a good role model for them, even if she didn’t quite know what that looked like. She wasn’t exactly keen to admit it to anyone except Holly, but offering her expertise as a mechanic to the WAC wasn’t entirely out of love for country.

After years of wandering aimlessly up and down the West Coast, she woke up one morning and realized she didn’t like her friends (if she could even call them that), working almost exclusively on stolen cars because she couldn’t hold down a legitimate mechanic job, and especially not the type of person she’d become. So she signed up, expecting to be working on jeeps or trucks, but instead found herself applying her knowledge to planes.

Her first commanding officer, Lieutenant Deanna Seberg from Glendale, designated her Woody to differentiate her from the dozen or so Catherines and Kathleens who used Kate as a nickname.

She liked being Woody. Woody was tough and competent yet approachable, likable, even. She tried to be good. Helpful but not too imposing. Kept her cursing to a minimum. Checked her temper. Had to. She was part of something bigger than herself, bigger than any of them could have ever conceived of. Finally found a way out through it. She couldn’t afford to fuck it up.

While the handful of other mechanic girls had gotten their experience through family garages or the odd trade school, they accepted her claim that hers came from messing around with friends’ cars. She was good at what she did. No need to push it.

Thankfully, Kenny had their backs, the young Arkansan drawling that where he came from, women weren’t afraid of getting their hands dirty to get the job done by the end of the day, whatever it may be. If that also involved entertaining English laborers’ kids, fascinated by Americans and their planes, she’d try her damnedest.

“Miss Woody!” Billy shouted, making a running start toward her.

“Wait!” she yelled. “I can’t—“

Just before impact, which would have surely sent her directly to the ground with three children in tow, Billy was scooped up in Lieutenant John Brady’s arms.

“You could take off with that speed, buddy,” he said, flying the boy around for a moment before setting him on his feet and ruffling his hair.

Woody smiled as the other two children climbed off of her. “You saved the day, Lieutenant.”

“Miss Woody, now you’ve got to give the hero a kiss!” Sarah, the young girl who’d been hanging off her back exclaimed with a flourish of her hands. “That’s what happens in the stories.”

Brady shook his head. “Miss Woody doesn’t have to—“

Woody gave him a quick peck on the cheek, their small audience of Billy, Sammy, and Sarah giggling and cheering in delight. “Why don’t you kids go make some trouble for Mr. Kenny?”

The children ran off, arms spread out wide as they imitated planes themselves. God, had she ever been that carefree as a kid?

Brady cleared his throat. “I came by to see how the fort’s doing.”

“And just in time. That would’ve been a hell of a tumble if it weren’t for you,” she said.

“You’re great with those kids.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I try to be the kind of adult I wish I had around when I was their age, you know?”

“That’s good of you.”

“C’mon, I’ll show you what we’ve done so far.”

He stuck close to her as they made their way around the damaged plane, Woody taking care to let him know exactly what had been fixed so far and where they were having a bit of trouble. Shuffled a little closer to her when she pointed at one of the engines.

He smelled nice, a reprieve from the mix of fuel, motor oil, and sweat. Not to mention the occasional whiff of cow manure drifting through the air on a strong breeze. For a moment, she envisioned her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck while something soft and slow filled the room. Wondered how he’d hold her.

Shit. Stop daydreaming.

She glanced at him every so often. His expression didn’t change much. Brows furrowed, handsome face etched with concern as he scrutinized the state of his plane.

“Really, I’ve seen worse,” she said.

He scoffed. “That’s reassuring.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

Certainly wasn’t the first plane he crash-landed, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he could practically hear his mother’s voice, ‘John Brady, I did not raise you to speak to young ladies that way.’ Except he’d hardly consider Woody a young lady. She was a mechanic with a mouth when she got a few beers in her. More rough-and-tumble than any of the girls he grew up with.

Everyone seemed to like her, though. Hell, he sure did. Hambone already made a stupid comment about how he should ‘ask Woody to kiss it better’ when his fort, so comically named Brady’s Crash Wagon, went up in smoke. Probably why it smarted to feel like she pitied him or something.

Smarted worse to see the way her lips pressed in a thin line. Kept her gaze anywhere but him.

“Kenny told me you stay out here late working on it. Thank you,” he said, a stubborn substitution for an apology. “I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence.

Wasn’t sure what else he could say, and she was doing everything but telling him to buzz off.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Woody.”

She nodded. “See you around, sir.”

He tried not to kick himself too much as he walked off, not entirely sure where he was going.

“Hey Lieutenant!” Woody shouted when there was a few yards of distance between them.

He stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at her. “What is it?”

“You got something—“ She gestured to her own cheek.

He wiped the spot on his cheek where she had kissed him and fought back a smile at the grease smudged on his fingertips.

#john brady x oc #john brady x ofc #masters of the air #masters of the air x oc #john brady #masters of the air x ofc #mota x oc #mota #mota x ofc #mota fanfic #hbo war fanfic #hbo war #ch: woody #let's hear it for emotional constipation and mutual pining

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 11 months

Text

Nightlife 13

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, touching, coercion, manipulation. Proceed with caution.

Note: I know what you’re thinking, why the fuck are you doing this? Well, you wanted bouncer Lee and I did too. Also, short!reader, not sorry.

Part of The Club AU

You have to make the call. You have no choice. One way or another, your father will find out and it will be worse if it’s not from you.

Another D and you're below water. You have no chance now. You’ll be lucky to finish with a C average for the semester and with that, you’ll lose your entry scholarship. You don’t understand where you went wrong. You try so hard. It doesn’t matter, it seems the more you try, the more wrong you are.

You hit the green button and wait for the line to pick up. You wait.

Waiting.

Still waiting.

The voicemail answers. You’re not surprised. You often have to leave several before you hear back. Yet when your father calls you, you answer. You don’t hesitate.

“Hey dad, it’s me. I called because… because I need to talk to you. Please call me back. Love you.”

You hang up after leaving the message and blow a raspberry. He hasn’t even told you when he’s picking you up from campus after exams. Another week and you’re going to be done. You already have half your dorm packed.

In those short spurts where you’re not at Lee’s, you're sorting everything into the donate and take piles. Most of it you’ll leave behind, things you won’t need at your dad’s place. Things you can replace.

As soon as you put your phone down, it vibrates. You huff and pick it up. You need to study, even if it doesn’t matter.

Lee. Again. You’re not surprised. You almost admire his persistence given your own inconsistency.

‘Still coming over, sweet thing?’

Shoot. You don’t remember him asking. That’s the thing about Lee. He seems to frame demands as questions. Or maybe you really or that hopeless. You answer him. Sure. Why not? Not like anything will change if you do.

You get your bag ready to go and head down. Your dorm mates are bogged down studying, a few already gone as their exams finished early. Life seems easier as them. You suppose that most people see the world like that; they want to be someone else, though no one would ever want to be you.

You sit on the curb and wait. You tune out the world with your headphones. It’s been a while since you listened to music. Really listened without any distraction.

Your head pops up as you see the familiar car approach. You stand and cross the street. You get in the car. The routine is just that. You’re used to it. You haven’t told Lee yet either. He doesn’t know that you’re going home for summer. You don’t expect him to be happy to hear it but it can’t be a big surprise. All the college students are leaving.

“Hey, darlin’,” he leans over to kiss your cheek as you pull your earbuds out, “whatcha listening to?”

“Oh, just…nothing–”

“Nah, go on, put it on,” he insists as he hands you auxiliary cord, “I could use something new.”

“Really, it’s–”

“Come on, I wanna listen.”

You don’t argue. Why? It’s a small thing. It’s nothing. You unplug your headphones and shove the cord into the port. Your music plays automatically.

So come on, Virginia, show me a sign Send up a signal, I'll throw you the line The stained-glass curtain you're hiding behind Never let's in the sun

Billy Joel croons from the speakers as you place your phone in the cupholder. You sit back and buckle in as he hums and gives a thoughtful nod. He taps his fingers on the wheel before he pulls out.

“You got a taste for the classics,” he muses, “I ain’t heard this in a while.”

“Uh, yeah, I like it,” you shrug.

“Good song,” he remarks, “I’m a fan of You May Be Right, myself. But I’m not too picky. You listen to Seger? How about Elton? You seem that sorta girl.”

“Some, yeah,” you cling to your bag and watch through the window.

“Hickory missin’ ya,” he says, “ain’t ya excited to see him?”

“Yeah,” you answer glumly.

“Whatsa matter, then? Don’t know why you’d be so down when you got that rascal waiting on ya… and me.”

“Just school,” reply evasively.

“Ah, yeah, you were saying you’re having some troubles. Wish I could help.”

“Ugh, well… no one can help me now,” you plant your elbow on your door and put your chin on your fist.

“Now, don’t be moping ‘less you gonna tell me what’s going on,” he says grumpily.

You sigh. You can barely admit it to yourself. You don’t even know if you can say it out loud.

Your vision turns bleary and you sniffle. It’s too late. You should’ve asked for help months ago. You made promises you didn’t keep and now you have to accept the failure. You wipe away your tears and sit back.

“My GPA is garbage. I’m gonna lose my scholarship and my dad– my dad’s gonna kill me.”

“Oh, honey, kill you? Don’t talk like that. I’m sure he wouldn’t, not a sweet thing like you. Besides, if he’s an ass about it, you still got me, don’t ya?”

You nod but refuse to look at him. He’s sweet but he can’t understand. Your dad isn’t the type to just say oh well or to give second chances. This semester was a second chance and you blew it.

“Maybe it just isn’t for you. Schoolin’ and all. I know lots of people who never did it,” he speaks as he drives. “Or maybe you’re in the wrong kinda school.”

“Maybe,” you grumble and pick at the zipper on your bag.

“You can change, can’t ya? Pick something else. Something you’re better at,” he suggests. “Like I said, I went into the military. They offered me some school but I told ‘em not to waste the time.”

“I don’t know what I’m good at,” you sigh.

“Well, you’re good to me,” he says brightly, “you know I’ll help ya. I’ll take care of ya no matter what.”

“But you don’t have to.”

“I wanna. Why are you sayin’ that?”

“Cause… cause it’s a lot. Don’t you think?”

“No, wouldn't say it if I thought it was too much,” he rebuffs, “don’t get no attitude with me, now.”

“I– I’m not but… but… I don’t want to…” you shake your head and stare at the dash, “I’m going home for the summer, Lee. I have to go home. And I feel bad with you doing all this–”

“Going home?” He says so quietly, his voice almost cracks, “but, darlin’, I’m taking you home right now. Ain’t I?”

“That’s your home. I mean, my dad. I gotta… I gotta figure this all out. When he finds out–”

“You’re a goddamn adult,” he growls and grips the wheel tight, “you shouldn’t be so worried about him and damn it, he should be treatin’ ya a lot better.”

“I know, but he’s my dad. He– he paid my tuition. He’s gonna want me to work that off at the restaurant–”

“Work? He– What the heck is wrong with ya? You shouldn’t be workin’? Silly little thing. He’s your dad, he should be supportin’ ya, not takin’ from ya,” he seems angrier with each word, “what kinda man– and you’re gonna leave me for him?” He snarls, “just like that. You’re gonna hurt me?”

“Hurt you? No, but… but I have to.”

“You don’t gotta do nothing. Sounds to me like he don’t want anything to do with ya anyhow, so maybe you should stay in town.”

“My lease is over at the end of the month.”

“Mine ain’t,” he insists.

He’s quiet. You squirm and bite your lip, “Lee?”

“You said you was gonna marry me. How’re you gonna do that if you’re all the way somewhere else?”

“I know I said but… I’m nineteen. I thought you meant later.”

“I’m a lot older than nineteen,” he scoffs, “I’m not waiting til later.” He sneers through the windshield, “you said. You promised!”

“I did, but–”

“But? But you were just lyin’, I get it.”

You nearly choke. You weren’t lying. You just were caught off guard and didn’t know what to say. Like now. You're not just stunned by the sudden shift, you're scared.

“I didn’t lie,” you croak, “please…”

You cover your face and take several deep breaths, trying to hold back. He huffs and you feel his firm touch on your leg. He squeezes as he slows the car.

“Don’t cry, darlin’, alright? Don’t do none of that. I know you meant it. Let’s just figure this all out first, schoolin’ and all that. Alright?” He coaxes, “you know I’ll be there for ya, don’t ya? No matter what your dad says.”

“Yeah,” you drag your hands from your face.

“And I know you’re not gon’ leave Hick. He needs ya around.”

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #the devil all the time #drabble #au #nightlife #series

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poorlittlegreenie13 · 2 months

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Scenes From an Italian Restaurant:

WC: 2,000

Syd/Carmy falling in love to the soundtrack of Billy Joel, idk

It's past midnight, but Carmy & Syd still haven't finished closing. It might have something to do with the fact that neither of them can sleep without nightmares at home, and that there's something uniquely comforting about having another person with an equally fucked up sleep schedule to silently work with well into the early hours of the morning. They rarely talk while they're working like this; a blurry, unfocused period somewhere between opening and closing, things that do not strictly need to be done, but that they both take pride in doing anyway. It's their fucking restaurant, they both seem to enjoy treating it like a child they're co-helicopter-parenting.

This particular night, Carmy is in the kitchen doing food prep & Syd is sweeping up the dining area. It's quiet enough to hear herself breathe in, and the silence is getting annoying, so she finds herself sweeping toward the kitchen, peeking through to look at Carmy. As she gets closer to him, she hears him... muttering to himself, maybe? No, that's not it. She walks closer, slipping into the kitchen as quietly as she can, and realizes he's... singing. Carmy Berzatto. Singing. In the kitchen.

Her first impulse is to laugh but she stops herself.

He's kind of... good.

She listens for a little while, mesmerized, trying to make out the lyrics.

A bottle of red, a bottle of white. It all depends on your appetite. I’ll meet you anytime you want, in our Italian restaurant.

She moves slightly and Carmy freezes like a scared deer in the fucking forest, of course. His eyes are so wide and scared, Syd almost feels bad, so she tries to break the tension.

“Didn’t realize you moonlighted as a singer,” she says with an awkward smirk, leaning on her broom. “Did you write that?”

Carmy’s eyes narrow. “Did I— did you just ask me if I wrote that?”

Syd shrugs slightly, sensing she’s made an error.

“It’s Billy Joel,” Carmy says, looking genuinely concerned that she’s lacking this crucial piece of information.

“Okay, sorry, I’m not, like, Italian… and into 70’s music,” Syd says, with a dry, sarcastic smile.

“No, no, but this is a classic song,” Carmy says, “I mean, this is just a good song.”

Sydney just stares at him blankly. “I wouldn’t know,” she says.

“Alright, something’s gotta be done about this,” Carmy says with a disapproving shake of his head, tone as serious as it might be if he was noticing a typo on a menu or a smudge on a plate. He unplugs his headphones from his phone, walking to the restaurant’s sound system and connecting his phone.

A jazzy piano song overtakes the speakers, Carmy pausing to crank up the volume to far above their normal level before turning back to Syd with a smile on his face.

“Cold beer, hot lights, my sweet romantic teenage nights,” the voice of Billy Joel (apparently) sings out over the speakers of their restaurant. Carmy looks at her expectantly. Syd raises an eyebrow.

“It’s… loud,” she says.

“No, no, no,” Carmy says, rolling his eyes, infuriatingly smooth Italian-American vowels softening out as he speaks, an unquantifiable accent that Sydney is pretty sure is going to actually kill her one day. “It tells a story,” Carmy insists, turning back to his prep, chopping vegetables to the beat of the song, talk-singing along with the song, back turned to Sydney. “Brenda and Eddie were still going steady in the summer of ‘75, when they decided the marriage would be at the end of July.”

Sydney can’t help the laugh she lets out. Carmy spins around, an indignant smile on his face.

“Stop looking at me like I’m crazy,” he says, “you’re the one who doesn’t know Billy Joel.”

“I do know some Billy Joel,” Syd says. “Just not this Billy Joel.”

“Well I'm showing you this Billy Joel,” Carmy says. “Listen. Come on, you’re not listening to it. This is good music.”

He sets down his knife, walking over to her, holding out a hand.

Something in the pit of Sydney’s stomach fires off like an over-excited fire-cracker.

“Are you seriously trying to dance with me right now,” she asks flatly, glancing between his face and his extended hand, trying her very best to hold her sarcasm out in front of her like a shield against whatever fuckary this is.

Carmy’s smile fades, just for an instant. Sydney can’t stand it. She rolls her eyes, and takes his hand. Immediately, he grins, spinning her around him. She can’t help but smile. Carmy reaches out for her other hand, pulling her in on one side and pushing her away on the other, awkward high-school-dance moves that a grown man should probably not be pulling on her right now, and should certainly not be working as well as they are.

She meets his eyes, wide grin, slight flush, hair even more disheveled than usual. For a second, she just stares at him, forgetting to dance, forgetting to smile. Carmy, oblivious, is still singing.

“They parted the closest of friends, then the king and the queen went back to the green, but you can never go back there again, no no.”

Fuck.

She shakes her head ruefully, spinning him around to break their eye contact. And okay, maybe she spun him away from her slightly too hard because his hand slips out of hers and he stumbles a few steps away from her, laughing, and then, in a flash of movement, moving back to her, one hand coming to her lower back, the other settling around her shoulders pulling her into his chest, still laughing, still red in the face, breathing slightly heavier than usual, vocalizing Billy fucking Joel right into her ear.

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck?

Is she slow dancing with Carmen fucking Berzatto in their kitchen right now?

He’s ridiculously warm in a white tee shirt and jeans, solid and impossibly, weirdly soft, leaning heavily against her, breathing against her neck, smelling like kitchen spices and sweat. This is simply not fair. This is… seriously outside anything normal or manageable. Carmy’s hand on her lower back is keeping her in place against him, stomach to stomach, fingertips splayed out across her back.

She’s stopped moving, she realizes. Carmy stops too after a moment, but he’s still pressed against her, still smiling slightly. Syd lets out a short, nervous laugh.

“Is this weird?” Carmy asks, voice low, unsure, still holding her close—maybe so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye, maybe so he can just rest his chin against her shoulder for a little longer.

Very slowly, Sydney brings a hand to the space between Carmy’s shoulder blades, just resting it there. “Kind of, yeah,” she says. “But not bad weird.”

“Fuck, sometimes… it’s like I forget to be nervous in front of you,” Carmy says—quick, breathless words, slowly pulling back from her, an embarrassed little smile on his face. “And I make a fuckin’ fool of myself before I realize I’m doing it.”

Sydney smirks back at him. “Well it’s kind of too late to fool me into thinking you’re cool,” she says. “Might as well stop being nervous about it. I mean, that ship has sailed.”

Carmy laughs, shaking his head, going a bit redder in the face. “I just really want you to like Billy Joel,” he says.

Syd smiles. “No, I do,” she says. “I totally do like him. I really like him.”

“He has other good songs,” Carmy says. “I always liked this one though. I was like fourteen, thinkin’ I was gonna meet a girl and take her to an Italian restaurant and get… fucking married at twenty. Talk about a ship that’s sailed.”

He goes quiet.

Over the speaker, Billy Joel is still singing.

“A bottle of red, oh a bottle of white, whatever kind of mood you’re in tonight. I’ll meet you anytime you want, in our Italian restaurant.”

“It kind of did work out though,” Sydney says, over the last few chords of the song, “I mean, you do in fact own an Italian restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Carmy says, a boyish smile crossing his face. His expression lingers on her for a long moment.

The song ends, and abruptly, loud guitar chords blare through the kitchen.

“Oh my God,” Carmy says, grinning, the tension of the moment entirely shattered. “Fuckin’ love this one.”

He crosses back to his prep station, picking his knife and returning to his work like nothing happened, bobbing his head and singing, “You had to be a big shot, didn’t you?”

Syd watches him for a little while longer before going back to her sweeping, making a mental note to never think of this night ever again. She’s not sure she could withstand the sheer force of her own stupid fucking yearning. Minutes pass. Half an hour. Carmy cycles through ten odd Billy Joel songs, and then—

“Hey, Syd!” Carmy calls from the kitchen.

Sydney turns, white-knuckling her broom handle, collecting herself for a moment before walking toward the sound of his voice.

When she reaches him, he gives her a crooked, slightly unsure smile.

“If it’s not bad weird," he says, "can we keep doing it?”

Her face burns. She stares at him for a long moment, trying to gauge whether he’s joking or not.

“I mean, can you come here again?” Carmy says, quieter, sounding slightly desperate, while she’s still trying to gauge his sincerity.

Wordlessly she steps toward him, heart pounding. He wraps his arms around her waist, exhaling heavily, chin returning to its place on her shoulder, An Innocent Man playing through the empty restaurant.

“Some people live with the fear of the touch, and the anger of having been a fool.”

Sydney’s not entirely sure how the night ends. It sort of blurs together; Carmy holding her against him, clasped hands, kitchen knives, food prep, sweeping, laughing, blushing, Billy Joel and Carmy’s singing voice. Eventually, Sydney in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, Carmy flushed and breathless from laughter, Sydney mentally filing away exactly how it sounds when Carmy says her name, out of breath and slightly desperate.

“I feel like I should apologize to you,” he says, but he's still smiling.

"Yeah you should apologize for not finishing your prep," she says, clinging to the remaining shreds of her self-respect as she stares at him. "Get that done. I need some fucking sleep."

"Yes, chef," Carmy promises softly, with a rueful look on his face. She turns to leave, but he speaks again. "Hey. "Thanks, Syd."

She turns back.

"For what?"

He shrugs, looking down at his feet.

"I just had a nice night."

"Yeah, me too, Bear," Sydney says, and then forces herself to walk away from him, out the door and into the Chicago cold.

Maybe the sleeplessness is making them both crazier than she realized.

Or maybe it's not just the sleeplessness.

Because she's pretty sure she's going to be thinking about exactly how Carmy's arms felt wrapped around her for the rest of her fucking life. And if that's not insanity, she doesn't know what is.

#the bear #sydcarmy #carmy x sydney #sydney adamu #carmy berzatto #i had a vision and wrote this in two hours on the train #bon appetit #the bear fx #sydney and carmy #featuring: carmy's inexplicable brooklyn accent that's never explained in canon #that boy is NOT from chicago #he is from new york #i can tell

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brightside-of-the-upsidedown · 11 months

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I'm not sure how I'll continue it yet, but this is the infamous pastel grunge punk!Steve I ended up writing instead of tentacles, so enjoy XD

Sparked by this beautiful post

By @discodeviant because while I was reading, Beggar's Song by Matt Maeson started playing in my head.

Steve looked into the backroom bathroom's cracked mirror and fixed his hair for the seventh time in the last thirty minutes. It was practically a ritual at this point when he was nervous. Well, maybe it'd become his lucky thing after tonight.

He brushed the hair away from his face and clicked his tongue ring pensively. From one side, his new haircut still had his usual thick brown voluminous waves with highlights that nearly brushed his shoulder. From the other side, he'd had it trimmed down into a disconnected undercut and dyed baby pink. He'd originally been planning on dying all of his hair pink and getting both sides shaved, but had chickened out. He'd still been thrilled by the outcome though.

Or at least he had loved it just this morning. But would everyone else? Had he made a mistake and fucked up one of the only good things about him-

A fist banged on the door and Robin's voice came through the door. "Come on, dingus, you're already pretty. Stop spiraling and let's go!"

Steve smiled and let her in. "Aw, Buckley, I'm pretty? Even pretty enough for you?"

Robin snorted and wrinkled her nose. "Don't push it. Now get your ass up on stage before it escapes those pants and makes a run for it. You're never going to throw those out, are you?"

Steve looked down at his worn thin jeans and yeah, maybe they were a bit tighter than usual in the ass, but their new apartment had a lot of stairs, okay! Despite it being almost more holes than pants, they were comfortable and definitely something his parents would never have let him wear when he'd still been under his dad's thumb. So of course that made them his favorite.

He turned and washed his hands once more. Robin let out a choking noise and pointed at his ass. "That's a new hole."

For a split second, Steve thought she was talking about something else until she poked at a spot on his ass not covered by the pants. There was a new hole in his jeans that showed off a not small peek of his ass and thigh. But it was low enough that Steve wasn't too worried about it.

"Buy a guy dinner first, jeez." Steve teased her.

She just slapped his ass. "Yeah, sure, I know a great little place on Easy Street called Cafe Puttana."

"Did you just call me a whore in my own mother tongue, Buckley?!" Steve gasped dramatically. "And maybe if you dressed like this more often, you'd stop having to resort to handing out free drinks to get a girl's attention." Steve hip checked her as she giggled at him and opened the door. "Now let's get this show on the road before everyone notices their favorite bartenders are both missing. My public awaits." He adjusted his pink jean vest over his Nirvana t-shirt as he stepped out, still picking, still-

"Your 'public' is a bunch of drunks, punks, burnouts, and half dead partiers." Robin hugged him from behind just before they got to the stage in the bar. "So don't let the nerves get you. Just have fun and sing me a song, piano man."

That got a genuine laugh out of him. "I'm no Billy Joel, but I'll see what I can do, uptown girl."

Robin went up on stage to announce him. She hyped him up as best she could given her audience and got a not too bad round of applause. Steve wasn't expecting much, this was a gig he'd just gotten only because he worked at the bar and the band that had been scheduled to play had canceled. He usually worked as their bartender and he was good at it. He probably wouldn't have gotten either job if Robin hadn't stepped up to bat for him.

Steve practiced his breathing exercises as the players they could find on such short notice got ready. He stepped up on stage, gave a friendly wave to the regulars who recognized and cheered for him.

He took a seat at the piano he'd had to tune himself before the show because it got so little use.

"Hey, you bunch of vagrants and drains on society." His words were met with proud hoots and hollers. "It's me, Steve, your favorite bartender." This was met with a loud boo from the bar, Robin playfully heckling him.

"That bunch of assholes the boss hired canceled, yeah, I know. So you get me instead, aren't you lucky? Usually you have to buy a drink to get to listen to my dulcet tones." Steve grinned as the crowd booed, whistled, and catcalled. "So enjoy the music, I wrote it myself. Yeah, that's right, fuck you, I have layers. Or if you don't like it, just shut the fuck up and enjoy the view you bunch of pervs." More catcalls.

Steve signaled the players and waited a moment, waiting for his cue, as they played the intro. They weren't bad for only two days of practice.

Jesus, come talk to me

I am but a blind mess, I am wild and free

I know that I need us more than I need me

One more whiskey, I am wild and free

Steve started playing as he continued singing.

Oh, but I'm a beat-down, washed-up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'ma be damned if I let it keep me down

Oh yeah, I'm a beat-down, washed-up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'ma be damned if I let it keep me down

Steve didn't hear any hecklers, not that he thought anyone was that willing to get on Robin's Shit List, but he still didn't dare look up.

Oh, my mother Mary, come walk with me

I am on four drugs, I am wild and free

I know that I failed less, the less I knew me

Wander through the darkness, and come walk with me

Steve felt good about the beat and the band seemed to be really getting into it.

Oh 'cause I'm a beat down washed up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'll be damned if I let it keep me down

Ay, yeah

Yeah I'm a beat down washed up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'll be damned if I let it keep me down

Yeah, yeah

He timed his breathing as the band trailed into the chorus.

Oh yeah, I'm a beat-down, washed-up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'ma be damned if I let it keep me down, yeah, yeah

Oh, I'm a beat-down, washed-up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'ma be damned if I let it keep me down, yeah, yeah, yeah

Steve nodded and belted the post chorus.

You know that it's not over

It's okay to let yourself hurt

Swimming in the murky water

Won't you come on out? Yeah, yeah

You know that it's not over

It's okay to let yourself hurt

Swimming in the murky water

Won't you come on out? Yeah, yeah

We sing a beat-down, washed-up beggar's song

And we sing it even louder when the money is gone

Because we'll be damned if we let it keep us down, yeah, yeah

Oh, I'm a beat-down, washed-up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'ma be damned if I let it keep me down, yeah, yeah, yeah

Steve blinked his eyes open when he felt a bit of an echo- no, there were people singing along. He recognized Robin's off key voice and smiled. Steve sang out the lyrics with his whole chest.

You know that it's not over

It's okay to let yourself hurt

Swimming in the murky water

Won't you come on out? Yeah, yeah

You know that it's not over

It's okay to let yourself hurt

Swimming in the murky water

Won't you come on out? Yeah, yeah

He could hear a lot more voices raise with his as he sang the last chorus as the band tapered off. "Come on, beggers!"

We sing a beat-down, washed-up beggar's song

And we sing it even louder when the money is gone

Because we'll be damned if we let it keep us down, yeah, yeah

Oh, I'm a beat-down, washed-up son of a bitch

I got one more cigarette and all my money is spent

But I'ma be damned if I let it keep me down

For an embarrassing moment, Steve thought he might fucking cry at the roars from the bar. Yeah, it was a few dozen regulars, drunkards, and partiers blitzed out of their minds, but it was leagues above his self doubt's worst case scenario. He had to swallow hard more than once before he felt confident enough to talk into the mic again.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it, you assholes?" Steve knew he was probably smiling like an idiot, but it was hard to care. "Give a hand to the band, they had like two days to fucking practice my crap, holy shit."

The bar clapped and yelled for them. The band looked pleased with the positive attention and a few waved back. One flipped off the audience much to their delight.

"Now, the rest of the songs are covers, the good shit, I promise." Steve announced. "So spend your fucking money, don't forget to tip, and enjoy."

They ended up playing some Nirvana, a little The Clash of course, Dead Kennedys, Siouxsie and the Banshees, through in a Motley Crüe song, and topped it off with his beloved Queen.

To Steve's honest surprise and giddiness, there was a demand for an encore of Beggar's Song. He led them through it one more time before ending for the night. Closing time was in less than an hour and he wanted to help Robin out with last call.

They got a decent amount of tips that he let the band take the lion's share of, but still got a sweet fifteen bucks on top of the thirty his boss had already paid him. He'd be able to buy some pretty good food for him and Robin this month.

That's all I got for now!

The backstory is Robin and Steve moved together somewhere after Robin got kicked out for coming out to her parents.

Maybe she stayed with Steve until her parents told his parents and they called to tell him to send her home, whatever. Robin and Steve decided to strip whatever they could from the house, sell it, sneak into her room while her parents were gone to pack, and they rode off into the sunset.

Now they have a shitty apartment, jobs at a shitty bar, and they've never been happier. ❤

I have plans to bring Billy and Eddie into it later.

Two Nights Ago

Robin: I volunteered you for a gig

Steve: I've only sang in front of you!

Robin: it's time to fly, I'm kicking you out of the nest, dingus

Steve: does this make you my mama bird?

-Robin throws a pillow at him-

Steve: how could you do this to your child!

#harle hums #they're little shits and i love them #robin buckley #steve harrington #punk steve harrington #punk steve au #future harringroveson #future metalsandwich

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fearmypaintbrush · 1 year

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Almost everyone who tries to make updated ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’ songs seem to forget a few things about the original:

First off, its in almost perfect chronological order. If I remember correctly only one or two verses are off, and not by much. I think I’ve seen one make an attempt at it, but not even close to what Joel did.

Billy Joel wasn’t simply stating events; he was using top headlines to make the lyrics. It was inspired by a comment made by a younger person in the studio shortly after he turned 40, implying that ‘nothing really happened in the 50’s’. He purposely adds more verses per year as time goes on because more stuff was happening, and because its in part a chronological timeline of his life; things seem to speed by faster when you get older.

So much shit has happened since then trying to cram everything in is a hard ask; but lots of folks try to add things in that really weren’t that significant; remember the original song was based on actual newspaper headlines, which definitely helped, but modern day internet news can junk that up real fast.

The song is made from events starting when Billy Joel was born (1949) to the end of 1989, the year the song was released, for a total of 40 years. Fall Out Boy is the first that I can think of that purposefully picks up at 1989 and continues onwards to the present, which I have to give credit for.

Billy Joel himself doesn’t like the song; musically/melodically its not much, so you either have to over exaggerate it or embellish it (which tends to ruin the original charm) nail down the perfect set of chantable lyrics (I’ve yet to see someone succeed doing this) or somehow pull off both.

When asking Billy Joel if he’d ever make an updated song he’ll reply with something along the lines of “I’ve already written one, it wasn’t even that good, no thanks”

Finally, I think anyone who tries to remake the song will suffer from being compared to the original, and get judged fairly harshly because of that. I personally don’t think the Fall Out Boys one is too bad, I’ve certainly heard worse.

Will the fact that no sequel will ever compare stop me from writing my own and releasing it in 2029, covering the 40 years after the original song? No, no it wont.

#we didn't start the fire #billy joel #fall out boy #painted rambles #music

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slowdownurdoingfine · 4 months

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Okay sooo I’ve got a Joel Miller fic on the back burner… but before I post I wanna get a feeler for how people would feel about it!!

So it switches through time periods (and bonus joel pov!), and the reader is a really famous country music star. By the time the outbreak hits shes kinda faded into obscurity (or that stage where famous musicians stay in pop culture but people don’t really listen to their music)… and essentially, and don’t cringe, reader and Joel happen to be going on the same journey to Jackson, Wyoming. And it’ll mostly be Jackson!Joel…. But I don’t wanna spoil anything so i won’t say anything more.

I will, though, give a snippet. (! PLEASE NOTE AND IDK WHY I DID THIS BUT I KINDA LIKE THIS: Belle is the stage name to the reader, and in the flashbacks I use 3rd pov (she blah blah) and in the present I use first pov (you blah blah) anyways. Be mean or judgemental but here’s u gooo

—

Fucking.

Taylor Swift.

Of fucking course.

She had a few years on her but still, fucking Taylor Swift? Picking her nails and brushing her blown-up hair out of her face, the swing of the guitar hits her ears almost too hard. It was overwhelming.

“Belle?” Her manager sitting next to her pushes through his lips quickly, forceful and strained.

She turns to him and his lips prick slightly, a slap in the wrist reminding her to maintain her facial expressions. Soft, but full of joy. Youthful and light. His words circled her thoughts spinning so fast it almost made her dizzy. Her hands fumble to pick the chain around her neck, gold and dainty, clearing her mind almost like a breath of fresh air.

The dust in her lungs makes her cough in only the way Nashville can in June. She has to turn her head away from the performance from the artist section, which allows much too of a close-up look.

“Billy, I need to step out.” It comes out before it even hits her head, drawl thick in her throat. She can see the question rising in his eyes, after years of working with him she just knows, but chooses to ignore it. Boots scuffing the ground she passes her way through the hot metal bars and serious stagehands to the freedom that comes with the smoking area. She lights her cigarette and pulls up her phone.

June 7th, 2013

She decided to never perform at another Country Music Festival at that very moment.

—

September 26th, 2013

The worst part of realizing you're no longer who you used to be, is when others begin to realize it too.

The pen rocks back and forth in her hand, trying to make sense of the line. She’s sitting in a limo outside a recording studio in Washington, DC where she created her first album. A country wonder, the sweetest voice with the most soul crushing lyrics. Her soft twang and breathy voice made the studio love her even more. It used to flow for her, it used to click. Now she can’t write a genuine line to save her career. Which evidently, is failing.

She slaps the notebook close, eyes turning up towards Billy who's on his phone pretending not to wait for her to give him something new.

“Nothing new, honestly Bill. My brain is just mushed up.” She hates it, but he shows no signs of mirroring that feeling. He just nods quickly, his sharp suit a little too tight around his wrists, clicking off his phone. He does notice though that, though. She does too.

“I didn’t have time to buy a new one.” He chirps out unbuttoning his pressed black blazer shifting uncomfortably in his seat, choosing to not push her for a moment. It makes her laugh, partially out of relief for the way her manager is still her closest friend.

“You’ve just been drinkin’ too much beer.” She starts, ringing her hands down her designer dress from two seasons ago.

“I’ve been eatin’ too much crab. It’s Baltimore, with the old bay.” He says then looks at her. It takes her back to when they both could afford to support their lives. They both just laugh.

She hated this, and when she was younger and more fresh eyed she would blaze a damn trail if this was presented to her. An impromptu performance at the White House with the president to uplift whatever political statement needed pushing - something to catch headlines, erase any world news. When she started off, and even to a degree still now, nothing else mattered but her music. That’s what got her here in the first place, outspoken to a point where she was even blacklisted from the most prestigious award shows after the release of her second album. But now in her early 30’s it's seemed as though the world had moved on. People didn’t seem to care about what she had to say, they just wanted to hear blank statements that meant nothing to be able to avoid the world around them. Or maybe, she was bitter. They had something she didn’t, something she over the past 10 years had given up for her career. Motivation, joy, or simply put; a life. She had made a bad decision, ran out of money, and signed her likelihood away to some big-name big-shot office. Nothing was hers anymore, not truly. So here she was: on the way to something her 25 year old self would not only despise, but reverently hate.

The limo ride there was alright, bit too bumpy and made it hard for her to gulp down the fizzy lukewarm bottle of champagne in the back of the limo. With the aid of bubbles allowing her to actually move her body and try to block this memory out she’s out of the car, shaking hands and greeting politicians in a breeze. So fast that by the time she stepped on stage to perform the national anthem she didn’t even remember how exactly she had got up there. The first few notes swell in her ears, she takes a deep breath ready to do what she does best, put on a show, cringing when the first few notes hit the air. Men standing close by her, sharp suits with walkie-talkies blasting loud enough to take over the whole room suddenly swarmed surrounding the president. Talking with urgency. Her eyes turned to meet Billy’s blue ones in the crowd, a question of should I stop? in them… before it all happened. It all unfolded right in front of her eyes too quickly to comprehend.

Damn her delayed flight or fight skills, she musta softened along the way on one of her worldwide tours. Soon she was being ripped away from the microphone, the band, the stage, Billy, and in a flurry of secret service she was crowded to an elevator which went down….

Down…

All the way to the bottom.

—

October 12th, 2023

Fuck.

I’m hungry.

You hated Iowa. You also hated how your map crumbles in your hands. You used to have a book with pages on pages of maps hidden cleverly within your brown backpack. That was before, when there was hope for everyone. This is the present. Hope is a laughable feeling. As the leaves crunch under your heavy boot a dilapidated highway sign peaks your interest. Maps Of The World. Maybe there is hope, afterall. Funny. Ducking back into the trees along the side of the road you make a note to turn at the next exit.

The store is dusty and rummaged through, obviously. That fact doesn’t stop the cough that enters your lungs as soon as you shove the door open. Fanning the particle filled air in front of your face, quick eyes land on a shelf of US maps which remain mostly untouched. Score. Walking over on the balls of your feet, your eyes crinkle when you step on a newspaper covered slab on the floor. Stopping for a moment, then ducking down to your knees and pushing your rifle out of the way, you look at the spot. It sounds almost hollow, like a travelingers hiding spot. You consider for a moment, then look towards the door like a person is about to walk through. You wait a long moment out of pure precaution. Then fan the newspaper away and grab your knife out of your boot, sliding the blade between the board and twisting up. To your surprise it gives and reveals a compartment. You just can’t believe your luck. Almost greedily you push the tile away and stare in awe. A pack of bullets. A handgun. Some beef jerky. It almost makes you cry. Zipping your bag you swipe the bullets and the jerky. Debating for a moment if to take the gun you hear light voices outside. Few minutes away, tops.

Quickly and as quietly as you can you slide the board and the newspaper back, zipping up your bag and hauling ass to your feet to grab a map and leave. Guess the owner was coming back to re-up, no way someone random would wind up there. Well, other than you. The two voices get louder as you hear the feet stop and a gun load. The door being open is a bad omen, you suppose. You slip out the back window which luckily leads into a dense forest, and you dash into the lush green trees finding refuge behind a patch of large grown out boulders and greens.

The logical part of your brain is screaming for you to run but the human part is telling you to stay and manically watch the havoc you caused unfold. Plus, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.

“Godamnit!” You hear a man shout, voice laced with a thick accent. Texan, you’d recognize your home state anywhere.

“At least they left the gun.” A younger voice calls out. From the large windows you can see them. A young girl, no older than 14 with a maroon jacket and beat up converse, Her brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail, backpack with keychains swinging. Behind her an older man comes up, beard patchy with salt-and-pepper hair, guff and hardened. You can’t look away from him, eyes glued onto his flannel and matching rifle with yours. He turns and you swear he sees you but then his eyes keep moving. Checking the area seemingly unconsciously and you can tell he's danger. Something you would write about in your songs. You let that thought wash over you as he turns and are met with his broad back. You should probably leave. Knees cracking you stand and continue the long journey to Jackson, Wyoming.

In another life, mystery muse.

—

K BYE

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