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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months

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How to shatter the class solidarity of the ruling class

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me WEDNESDAY (Apr 11) at UCLA, then Chicago (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Audre Lorde counsels us that "The Master's Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master's House," while MLK said "the law cannot make a man love me, but it can restrain him from lynching me." Somewhere between replacing the system and using the system lies a pragmatic – if easily derailed – course.

Lorde is telling us that a rotten system can't be redeemed by using its own chosen reform mechanisms. King's telling us that unless we live, we can't fight – so anything within the system that makes it easier for your comrades to fight on can hasten the end of the system.

Take the problems of journalism. One old model of journalism funding involved wealthy newspaper families profiting handsomely by selling local appliance store owners the right to reach the townspeople who wanted to read sports-scores. These families expressed their patrician love of their town by peeling off some of those profits to pay reporters to sit through municipal council meetings or even travel overseas and get shot at.

In retrospect, this wasn't ever going to be a stable arrangement. It relied on both the inconstant generosity of newspaper barons and the absence of a superior way to show washing-machine ads to people who might want to buy washing machines. Neither of these were good long-term bets. Not only were newspaper barons easily distracted from their sense of patrician duty (especially when their own power was called into question), but there were lots of better ways to connect buyers and sellers lurking in potentia.

All of this was grossly exacerbated by tech monopolies. Tech barons aren't smarter or more evil than newspaper barons, but they have better tools, and so now they take 51 cents out of every ad dollar and 30 cents out of ever subscriber dollar and they refuse to deliver the news to users who explicitly requested it, unless the news company pays them a bribe to "boost" their posts:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

The news is important, and people sign up to make, digest, and discuss the news for many non-economic reasons, which means that the news continues to struggle along, despite all the economic impediments and the vulture capitalists and tech monopolists who fight one another for which one will get to take the biggest bite out of the press. We've got outstanding nonprofit news outlets like Propublica, journalist-owned outlets like 404 Media, and crowdfunded reporters like Molly White (and winner-take-all outlets like the New York Times).

But as Hamilton Nolan points out, "that pot of money…is only large enough to produce a small fraction of the journalism that was being produced in past generations":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/what-will-replace-advertising-revenue

For Nolan, "public funding of journalism is the only way to fix this…If we accept that journalism is not just a business or a form of entertainment but a public good, then funding it with public money makes perfect sense":

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/public-funding-of-journalism-is-the

Having grown up in Canada – under the CBC – and then lived for a quarter of my life in the UK – under the BBC – I am very enthusiastic about Nolan's solution. There are obvious problems with publicly funded journalism, like the politicization of news coverage:

https://www.theguardian.com/media/2023/jan/24/panel-approving-richard-sharp-as-bbc-chair-included-tory-party-donor

And the transformation of the funding into a cheap political football:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/poilievre-defund-cbc-change-law-1.6810434

But the worst version of those problems is still better than the best version of the private-equity-funded model of news production.

But Nolan notes the emergence of a new form of hedge fund news, one that is awfully promising, and also terribly fraught: Hunterbrook Media, an investigative news outlet owned by short-sellers who pay journalists to research and publish damning reports on companies they hold a short position on:

https://hntrbrk.com/

For those of you who are blissfully distant from the machinations of the financial markets, "short selling" is a wager that a company's stock price will go down. A gambler who takes a short position on a company's stock can make a lot of money if the company stumbles or fails altogether (but if the company does well, the short can suffer literally unlimited losses).

Shorts have historically paid analysts to dig into companies and uncover the sins hidden on their balance-sheets, but as Matt Levine points out, journalists work for a fraction of the price of analysts and are at least as good at uncovering dirt as MBAs are:

https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2024-04-02/a-hedge-fund-that-s-also-a-newspaper

What's more, shorts who discover dirt on a company still need to convince journalists to publicize their findings and trigger the sell-off that makes their short position pay off. Shorts who own a muckraking journalistic operation can skip this step: they are the journalists.

There's a way in which this is sheer genius. Well-funded shorts who don't care about the news per se can still be motivated into funding freely available, high-quality investigative journalism about corporate malfeasance (notoriously, one of the least attractive forms of journalism for advertisers). They can pay journalists top dollar – even bid against each other for the most talented journalists – and supply them with all the tools they need to ply their trade. A short won't ever try the kind of bullshit the owners of Vice pulled, paying themselves millions while their journalists lose access to Lexisnexis or the PACER database:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/24/anti-posse/#when-you-absolutely-positively-dont-give-a-solitary-single-fuck

The shorts whose journalists are best equipped stand to make the most money. What's not to like?

Well, the issue here is whether the ruling class's sense of solidarity is stronger than its greed. The wealthy have historically oscillated between real solidarity (think of the ultrawealthy lobbying to support bipartisan votes for tax cuts and bailouts) and "war of all against all" (as when wealthy colonizers dragged their countries into WWI after the supply of countries to steal ran out).

After all, the reason companies engage in the scams that shorts reveal is that they are profitable. "Behind every great fortune is a great crime," and that's just great. You don't win the game when you get into heaven, you win it when you get into the Forbes Rich List.

Take monopolies: investors like the upside of backing an upstart company that gobbles up some staid industry's margins – Amazon vs publishing, say, or Uber vs taxis. But while there's a lot of upside in that move, there's also a lot of risk: most companies that set out to "disrupt" an industry sink, taking their investors' capital down with them.

Contrast that with monopolies: backing a company that merges with its rivals and buys every small company that might someday grow large is a sure thing. Shriven of "wasteful competition," a company can lower quality, raise prices, capture its regulators, screw its workers and suppliers and laugh all the way to Davos. A big enough company can ignore the complaints of those workers, customers and regulators. They're not just too big to fail. They're not just too big to jail. They're too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

Would-be monopolists are stuck in a high-stakes Prisoner's Dilemma. If they cooperate, they can screw over everyone else and get unimaginably rich. But if one party defects, they can raid the monopolist's margins, short its stock, and snitch to its regulators.

It's true that there's a clear incentive for hedge-fund managers to fund investigative journalism into other hedge-fund managers' portfolio companies. But it would be even more profitable for both of those hedgies to join forces and collude to screw the rest of us over. So long as they mistrust each other, we might see some benefit from that adversarial relationship. But the point of the 0.1% is that there aren't very many of them. The Aspen Institute can rent a hall that will hold an appreciable fraction of that crowd. They buy their private jets and bespoke suits and powdered rhino horn from the same exclusive sellers. Their kids go to the same elite schools. They know each other, and they have every opportunity to get drunk together at a charity ball or a society wedding and cook up a plan to join forces.

This is the problem at the core of "mechanism design" grounded in "rational self-interest." If you try to create a system where people do the right thing because they're selfish assholes, you normalize being a selfish asshole. Eventually, the selfish assholes form a cozy little League of Selfish Assholes and turn on the rest of us.

Appeals to morality don't work on unethical people, but appeals to immorality crowds out ethics. Take the ancient split between "free software" (software that is designed to maximize the freedom of the people who use it) and "open source software" (identical to free software, but promoted as a better way to make robust code through transparency and peer review).

Over the years, open source – an appeal to your own selfish need for better code – triumphed over free software, and its appeal to the ethics of a world of "software freedom." But it turns out that while the difference between "open" and "free" was once mere semantics, it's fully possible to decouple the two. Today, we have lots of "open source": you can see the code that Google, Microsoft, Apple and Facebook uses, and even contribute your labor to it for free. But you can't actually decide how the software you write works, because it all takes a loop through Google, Microsoft, Apple or Facebook's servers, and only those trillion-dollar tech monopolists have the software freedom to determine how those servers work:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/04/which-side-are-you-on/#tivoization-and-beyond

That's ruling class solidarity. The Big Tech firms have hidden a myriad of sins beneath their bafflegab and balance-sheets. These (as yet) undiscovered scams constitute a "bezzle," which JK Galbraith defined as "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."

The purpose of Hunterbrook is to discover and destroy bezzles, hastening the moment of realization that the wealth we all feel in a world of seemingly orderly technology is really an illusion. Hunterbrook certainly has its pick of bezzles to choose from, because we are living in a Golden Age of the Bezzle.

Which is why I titled my new novel The Bezzle. It's a tale of high-tech finance scams, starring my two-fisted forensic accountant Marty Hench, and in this volume, Hench is called upon to unwind a predatory prison-tech scam that victimizes the most vulnerable people in America – our army of prisoners – and their families:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The scheme I fictionalize in The Bezzle is very real. Prison-tech monopolists like Securus and Viapath bribe prison officials to abolish calls, in-person visits, mail and parcels, then they supply prisoners with "free" tablets where they pay hugely inflated rates to receive mail, speak to their families, and access ebooks, distance education and other electronic media:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

But a group of activists have cornered these high-tech predators, run them to ground and driven them to the brink of extinction, and they've done it using "the master's tools" – with appeals to regulators and the finance sector itself.

Writing for The Appeal, Dana Floberg and Morgan Duckett describe the campaign they waged with Worth Rises to bankrupt the prison-tech sector:

https://theappeal.org/securus-bankruptcy-prison-telecom-industry/

Here's the headline figure: Securus is $1.8 billion in debt, and it has eight months to find a financier or it will go bust. What's more, all the creditors it might reasonably approach have rejected its overtures, and its bonds have been downrated to junk status. It's a dead duck.

Even better is how this happened. Securus's debt problems started with its acquisition, a leveraged buyout by Platinum Equity, who borrowed heavily against the firm and then looted it with bogus "management fees" that meant that the debt continued to grow, despite Securus's $700m in annual revenue from America's prisoners. Platinum was just the last in a long line of PE companies that loaded up Securus with debt and merged it with its competitors, who were also mortgaged to make profits for other private equity funds.

For years, Securus and Platinum were able to service their debt and roll it over when it came due. But after Worth Rises got NYC to pass a law making jail calls free, creditors started to back away from Securus. It's one thing for Securus to charge $18 for a local call from a prison when it's splitting the money with the city jail system. But when that $18 needs to be paid by the city, they're going to demand much lower prices. To make things worse for Securus, prison reformers got similar laws passed in San Francisco and in Connecticut.

Securus tried to outrun its problems by gobbling up one of its major rivals, Icsolutions, but Worth Rises and its coalition convinced regulators at the FCC to block the merger. Securus abandoned the deal:

https://worthrises.org/blogpost/securusmerger

Then, Worth Rises targeted Platinum Equity, going after the pension funds and other investors whose capital Platinum used to keep Securus going. The massive negative press campaign led to eight-figure disinvestments:

https://www.latimes.com/business/story/2019-09-05/la-fi-tom-gores-securus-prison-phone-mass-incarceration

Now, Securus's debt became "distressed," trading at $0.47 on the dollar. A brief, covid-fueled reprieve gave Securus a temporary lifeline, as prisoners' families were barred from in-person visits and had to pay Securus's rates to talk to their incarcerated loved ones. But after lockdown, Securus's troubles picked up right where they left off.

They targeted Platinum's founder, Tom Gores, who papered over his bloody fortune by styling himself as a philanthropist and sports-team owner. After a campaign by Worth Rises and Color of Change, Gores was kicked off the Los Angeles County Museum of Art board. When Gores tried to flip Securus to a SPAC – the same scam Trump pulled with Truth Social – the negative publicity about Securus's unsound morals and financials killed the deal:

https://twitter.com/WorthRises/status/1578034977828384769

Meanwhile, more states and cities are making prisoners' communications free, further worsening Securus's finances:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

Congress passed the Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act, giving the FCC the power to regulate the price of federal prisoners' communications. Securus's debt prices tumbled further:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

Securus's debts were coming due: it owes $1.3b in 2024, and hundreds of millions more in 2025. Platinum has promised a $400m cash infusion, but that didn't sway S&P Global, a bond-rating agency that re-rated Securus's bonds as "CCC" (compare with "AAA"). Moody's concurred. Now, Securus is stuck selling junk-bonds:

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/117/s1541

The company's creditors have given Securus an eight-month runway to find a new lender before they force it into bankruptcy. The company's debt is trading at $0.08 on the dollar.

Securus's major competitor is Viapath (prison tech is a duopoly). Viapath is also debt-burdened and desperate, thanks to a parallel campaign by Worth Rises, and has tried all of Securus's tricks, and failed:

https://pestakeholder.org/news/american-securities-fails-to-sell-prison-telecom-company-viapath/

Viapath's debts are due next year, and if Securus tanks, no one in their right mind will give Viapath a dime. They're the walking dead.

Worth Rise's brilliant guerrilla warfare against prison-tech and its private equity backers are a master class in using the master's tools to dismantle the master's house. The finance sector isn't a friend of justice or working people, but sometimes it can be used tactically against financialization itself. To paraphrase MLK, "finance can't make a corporation love you, but it can stop a corporation from destroying you."

Yes, the ruling class finds solidarity at the most unexpected moments, and yes, it's easy for appeals to greed to institutionalize greediness. But whether it's funding unbezzling journalism through short selling, or freeing prisons by brandishing their cooked balance-sheets in the faces of bond-rating agencies, there's a lot of good we can do on the way to dismantling the system.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/08/money-talks/#bullshit-walks

Image: KMJ (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boerse_01_KMJ.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

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semimole · 6 months

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reading the transcript of james somerton's video and here's some notable stuff for people who dont want to watch the 34 minute long thing:

it opens with him saying his media blackout is because he was in the hospital for "trying to do something really stupid"

the first thing approaching an apology in this apology video is at the timestamp 2:20

immediately after saying "i'm really really sorry" he says that in title cards he tried to put "this is based on this person's research or this person's book" but he "knows that isnt enough now"

"there were a lot of times that stuff just got put in and there was no attempt at crediting anybody and i'm really really sorry" nice passive voice james

he claims he didnt know he was hurting people doing this

he spends two minutes explaining how long he's been friends with nick and all their history and that nick has not spoken with him since "this happened"

"I also want to apologize for the misinformation and just outright lies that ended up in the videos I can honestly say that I never intended for any of that stuff to be in the videos. And most cases I didn't write it but I should have […] I should have been more diligent about factchecking" he never intended lies to be in the video, just pure good research that he stole. research that he later says he took for granted

he briefly thanks harris and his team for the fund set up for victims of plagiarism and says he wants to help but doesn't know how

less than a second later he's saying that all claims and estimations of how much he makes online are overestimated and that he split everything 50/50 with nick

he says his plan moving forward is to reupload all the videos, put credit in the description, and then somehow send the ad revenue for those videos to the authors whose research he stole. do those authors want that? wonder if he even asked them. i mean if he stole my shit for a video i wouldnt want him to reupload with a credit in the description and whatever paltry cents i get from the few views he'll manage after this

"I never thought anyone thought that I was doing like journalism on stuff. I don't think anyone did, but the people who actually were doing it should have been given the credit they deserved." wild sentence bro

he once again defends his title card citations in two videos and appends "but now I know that's not how citation works" so why are you still saying it...

at some point he'd like to do videos again, and his plan for that is "videos that are fully sourced where I will put a link to the script where you can find all of the sources so that everyone is properly given the credit that they deserve." now i could be reading this purposefully negatively but this just sounds like a description citation again but with extra steps

he wants to be a "really good example" of proper citation

"People think that I hate ace people and women and bisexual people and lesbians and that's not true. I'm sorry that stuff made it into the videos. I promise you I did not write that stuff. I should have been a lot more extracting when Nick and I would be editing scripts but I promise you that I don't think those things […] when it came to that I would just kind of run with Nick's judgement and his observations and stuff like that." SO THE ONE THING THAT HARRIS SAID WAS NOT PLAGIARIZED AND SEEMED TO BE JAMES'S REAL OPINION HE WANTS US TO KNOW THAT HE DEFINITELY DOESNT FEEL THAT WAY AND WAS JUST PARROTING NICK'S OPINION. but dont worry right after this he assures us he's not trying to "throw Nick under the bus"

he says he thinks they were just trying to do videos too fast and writing and editing too fast

"Telos was never a scam. It was never a grift or anything like that I swear it was not. In the next couple of days I'm going to send out a message to the supporters on Indiegogo and explain the whole situation in more detail to them." can't wait to read that explanation

he spends more time talking about the videos he'd like to make in the future

"I actually liked doing research. I loved doing research, reading the books and articles and stuff like that. The part of me that was lazy was the copy and paste part. I wasn't trying to be malicious that was just laziness." james. that's not as great of an explanation as you might think. it just shows how blatantly you dont respect or care for other creators. you only did it because you believed you could get away with it, not just because you were lazy

he says the reason he's reactivating his patreon is because there were several people online theorizing that his plan was to relaunch in january to pull surprise billing and run with the money. so he said he's relaunching now to give people time to leave ("which i imagine will be the vast majority" can't pass up the opportunity to be self-deprecating)

he ends the video restating what he said earlier in the video

notably he's crying the whole time

one thing i'll say is that i didn't see anything that indicated he communicated with harris or kat or anyone. it sounded like he was coming up with that plan on the fly. i'm not surprised if he claimed it elsewhere or has failed to follow up on that promise, but it has only been 5 hours since release (at the time i'm typing this). so at least he's not making claims quite as bold as "i've been in communication with hbomberguy"

#james somerton #hbomberguy

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vbecker10 · 6 days

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Language (Part 1)

Part 2 (in progress)

Pairing: Loki x female reader (Y/N)

Summary: Captain Rogers thinks you curse far too much at work so he came up with a way for each word to cost you fifty cents no matter where you are in the Tower. You are desperate for it to stop and go to Loki to see if he has a spell that can help you outsmart J.A.R.V.I.S.

Warnings: swearing lol... obviously?

A/N: I'm so sorry @soubi001 lol and you know why. I've been kicking this idea around in my head for a while because I'm very aware that I swear way more often than a normal person lol hope you enjoy it 💚

You knock on Loki's door and wait anxiously for him to answer. A few seconds later, the door opens.

"Can I help you?" he asks you with his typical annoyed expression.

"I hope so," you respond. "Can I come in?" You take a step small forward.

"I don't see why that would be necessary," he crosses his arms and leans on the door frame, blocking your path into his room.

You sigh, "Fine, I guess I can show you my problem out here." He raises an eyebrow and waits for you to continue. "Damnit," you swear then look down.

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from your upcoming paycheck as you are in violation of SHIELD's Inappropriate Language Policy, per Captain Rogers' orders," J.A.R.V.I.S. announces from a speaker overhead. A small holographic screen appears next to you, showing your name and SHIELD photo ID at the top, the fifty cent charge in the center and a running total at the bottom.

Loki chuckles and shakes his head, "So the Captain finally made good on his threat."

"Yea. He thinks this high tech swear jar is going to stop me from cursing all the time but all it's doing is annoying the shit out of me," you complain to Loki.

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from your upcom-," J.A.R.V.I.S. announces again.

"Shut up," you tell the program, cutting the announcement short.

Loki smiles at your outburst then says, "What is it you expect me to do?"

"I have no idea honestly," you shrug. "Don't you have a spell for everything?"

"I have a spell for almost everything, yes," he says then he is quiet for a moment as if he is thinking. "I do think I may have a solution to your... issue." He waves his hand vaguely towards the speaker J.A.R.V.I.S spoke from.

"Really?" you ask excitedly. "That would be awesome." You thought it was going to be way harder than this to convince Loki to help you.

He leans towards you and looks you straight in the eyes. "Stop swearing," he says then he goes back in his room and closes his door in your face.

You stand in the hallway, looking at his door and mumble, "Fuck."

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from-"

"Shut the hell up!" you yell, cutting it off again.

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from your upcoming paycheck-"

"I know! I get it," you tell J.A.R.V.I.S. You can hear Loki laughing loudly through his door and you glare at him even though he can't see you. You turn, ready to give up then you suddenly get an idea. You walk close to the door and say, "Just so I know, it would really piss off Steve if I figure out a way to get around this. Tony too, he helped set it up."

He opens the door a second later and you do your best to hide your smile. "It would aggravate them wouldn't it?" he says almost to himself and you nod but try not to look too excited. He sighs and takes a step back to open the door further, "Very well. I think I might have a spell that could work."

Loki closes the door and you stand awkwardly in the middle of his living area, unsure what to do. You've never been in his apartment before and as far as you know, no one else on the team has either. Loki isn't known for being a fan of having people in his personal space or of people in general.

You look around his living area. One wall is lined with tall, overflowing bookshelves and a leather couch is set against the other wall. A dark wood coffee table matches the end tables, one of which has a short stack of books and a steaming cup of tea. You walk over to the end table with the books and open the cover of the top book, assuming it's what Loki was reading before he opened the door.

"Sorry, I was just-" you suddenly feel nervous being alone with him, maybe this wasn't a good idea.

"Don't touch anything," Loki says from behind you and you close the book quickly, turning to see him standing closer then you expected.

"Sit," he motions towards the couch and you do as he tells you. You sit quietly on the middle of his couch with your hands on your lap, watching him search through the numerous books scattered about. While you wait, your mind wanders to a meeting yesterday morning with the team.

---------------------------------------

You take a seat at the rectangular table across from Thor and Bruce, scrolling through your tablet to find the notes for this meeting. Natasha and Clint walk in, followed by Loki then Steve and Tony. Without a word, Steve places a glass jar that says 'Y/N's Swear Jar' on in it between you and Clint.

You look up at him as he sits. "Seriously Steve? I haven't said a damn thing yet," you tell him then groan when he gives you a disappointed look. You reach into your bag to find your wallet and drop in your last two quarters. "Happy?" you ask him as you sit back in your chair.

"I would be happier if you stopped using inappropriate language so frequently," he answers.

"I think the odds of my brother voluntarily attending one of Stark's parties is higher than Y/N giving up swearing," Thor jokes. Loki roll his eyes as his brother nudges him playfully.

You look at thor, "Did you know that people who swear lie less often then people who don't?" Thor shakes his head and you turn to look at Steve, "They've done studies that suggest that people who curse are more honest because they use fewer social filters when they are expressing their opinions."

"Is that true?" Clint leans towards you.

"I have no idea, I read it online," you whisper back.

"That may be, but it is still not appropriate for a work environment," Steve lectures you.

"I send out super professional emails, isn't that good enough?" you ask.

"No," he answers sternly.

"That's bullshit," you cross your arms and look at him. He doesn't say a word, simply looking from you to the jar and back at you. "Ugh, fine." You grab your wallet and take out a bill, "Does anyone have change for a five?"

"Just put the five in there," Fury says when he walks in. "We all know you'll use it today."

"Hurtful," you tell him but you fold up the bill and put it in the jar then you smile at Steve.

"I don't like that look," Tony says and Steve agrees.

"It's like prepaying for ten words," you laugh, "I just have to use the damn things well."

"Nine," Clint says.

"Ah shit," you look at him and Natasha laughs.

"Eight," he smiles.

"Good thing someone is keeping track," Bruce says.

"Is it ok with everyone if we start this damn the meeting now?" Fury asks annoyed from his seat at the head of the table.

"How come he doesn't get a jar?" you ask, leaning across the table towards Steve and pointing at Fury.

Tony laughs, "Believe me, Steve tried."

---------------------------------------

Loki smirks as he looks up from one of his books, "This spell may help, it will render you utterly mute."

You stand up quickly, "Yea, no, fuck that."

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted-" J.A.R.V.I.S says.

"Oh, come the fuck on," you tell it and Loki laughs again.

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from your-" it repeats.

"Just forget it," you tell him. "You don't know how to help me anymore than anyone else did. Coming here was a waste."

You walk past him towards the door and he says, "Maybe you should ask for a raise."

"Thanks," you tell him in an annoyed tone and open his door.

He sighs loudly just as you step out into the hall. "Fine," he says and you turn to look at him. "I'll help."

"With another stupid suggestion?" you ask.

"No, I'm sure I have a spell here we could use," he tells you, gesturing towards his books.

"Why are you changing your mind?" you ask, unsure if you can trust him.

He shrugs, "Honestly I'm bored."

"Seriously?" you ask, crossing your arms.

"Were you hoping for a different reason?" he asks, crossing his arms to mirror your body language.

You unfold your arms, "I mean... yea. You could see least feel a little bad for me?"

"But I don't," he says with a light shrug.

"Oh... well I guess I'll take it," you tell him and close the door. He nods to acknowledge your decision but doesn't reply.

You sit on the couch while his focus returns to his books. You watch him pick up a hardcover book then put it back, taking the one next to it. He flips through the pages slowly and you ask, "Your not gonna turn me into frog or anything, right?"

He looks up at you confused.

"Thor said you've done that to him before," you explain.

He groans, "It was one time and we were children."

"I'm just checking. I don't know how any of this works," you tell him.

"Clearly," he rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. He looks up again and adds, "If I wanted to turn you into a frog I would have done so already."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you ask.

"Yes," he says matter of factly then he goes back to reading.

You try to get comfortable on Loki's couch but you can't seem to relax, you are afraid to touch anything including the pillows. After a few minutes of silence he sits next to you and you shift away from him a bit. He doesn't seem to notice your reaction and hands you the open book.

"Read this," he says.

"It's in Spanish," you tell him.

"Very observant," Loki nods.

"I can't read this. I took three years of Spanish in high school but it didn't really stick," you explain.

"Humans are so dull without the Allspeak," he mumbles.

"Do you always need to be annoying?" you ask him.

"No," he smiles at you.

"What was your point with the book?" you ask, trying to get back on track.

"I will explain after. Read this part," he points to a specific paragraph.

You give the short paragraph your best attempt. Based on the way Loki flinches at how you pronounce almost every word, you assume you did awful. J.A.R.V.I.S remains silent so you ask Loki what you said.

He smirks, "Something that should have cost you more than a few dollars."

"Really?" you ask and look back at the book. You grab your phone and use it to translate the text. Your eyes go wide at the excessive swearing and insults the character uses to describe another character. "Wow," you laugh, "You weren't kidding."

"Now that you know what it means, try it again," he suggests.

You read it again, your pronunciation still off but when you finish J.A.R.V.I.S charges you for eight words. Loki laughs and you look at him annoyed, "Great, thanks. That was annoyingly useless."

"I thought it was funny," he smiles. "And it wasn't useless. Now we know that it only works if you know what you are saying."

"You're an ass," you tell him.

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from-" the program repeats.

"You owe me $4.50," you cross your arms and lean back on the couch.

He waves his hand and a five dollar bill appears between his fingers. He hands it to you, "I'm sure you'll use the other word soon enough. I want to try one more thing."

"I don't think I trust you anymore," you say, putting the money in your pocket.

"I didn't think you trusted me in the first place," he says.

"I... yea, that's a good point," you tell him.

"Here," he conjures a small notepad and pen before handing them to you.

"Where do you keep this stuff?" you ask looking at the objects.

"A pocket dimension," he explains.

"Right, sure, super normal," you laugh. "What the hell am I doing with this?"

"Y/N, fifty cents has been deducted from your upcoming-"

You groan and put your hand over your face.

Loki smiles and says, "I honesty thought you would keep those fifty cents a few seconds longer."

"You know, no one likes you right," you tell him in response.

"And I am truly devastated by that," he says, putting his hand over his heart.

"Whatever," you roll your eyes. "What do you want me to do with this?" You hold up the pen and notepad.

"I'm looking for a loophole," he says. "Go ahead, write some of your favorites."

You sigh and write a word but nothing happens. You write another and still nothing.

"Interesting," he says then J.A.R.V.I.S activates. "What did you do?" You hold up the notepad and he smirks as he read it. "Well now that's rude," he says, shaking his head.

"It's accurate," you smile then cross out what you wrote.

"Do you eat pizza?" you ask.

Loki looks up from the book he is reading as he stands in front of the bookcase. "What?"

"Pizza," you repeat.

"Yes, why?" he furrows his brow.

"Its 8:30, I'm ordering food," you tell him. "I came here right after work so I missed dinner."

"No," he says and goes back to his book.

"What do you mean, no?" you ask, looking up from your favorite delivery app.

"I've heard humans are like stray animals, if you feed them, they return," he says.

He sighs but doesn't argue, putting another book in the pile of what you imagine are useless books.

You laugh, "First off, who told you that? And Secondly, if I'm ordering the food, technically that would make you the pet I'm feeding."

"What do you want on it?" you ask him. "Pepperoni, veggies, or are you one of those weird pineapple people?"

"Cheese is fine," he mumbles.

"One cheese pizza it is," you say, ordering from a place nearby. "It'll be here in half an hour," you tell him.

"Wonderful," he says without a smile. "I was so hoping you would be here all night."

"You can always tell me to leave," you say getting up from the couch.

He looks over at you and says, "I could but I won't."

You sit back down, "Okay, I really need to ask... why are you doing this?"

"I'm bored," he answers with a shrug.

"You said that before," you tell him.

"Because that is the answer," he insists but for some reason you don't believe him. You feel like there is more to it but you can't figure it out.

"I thought you were supposed to be good at lying, being the God of Lies and whatever," you say.

"I am the God of Lies and Mischief, not whatever," he corrects you. "And I am not lying. Why else would I want to help you?"

"Because you like me?" you smile and he scoffs. "You have to admit, I'm pretty awesome."

"I do not," he says but you see a hint of a smile on his lips. "Now, will you please be quiet and let me think."

"Can do," you give him a thumbs up.

You put the pizza box on the coffee table and he sits next to you. "You owe me for half," you say. Before you can tell him how much it is he flicks his wrist and a brown leather wallet appears in his hand. He opens it, takes out a twenty dollar bill and gives it to you. "Wait," you say before he makes it vanish again. "Is that Thor's wallet?"

"Hmm," he opens it. "It would appear so."

"He's been looking for that for like a week," you laugh.

"I'm aware of that," Loki responds.

"Of course you are," you shake your head.

"Do you want to money or not?" he reaches to take the bill back from you.

You pull it away from him and put it in your pocket. "I'm going broke from this fucking thing," you tell him as J.A.R.V.I.S activates again.

"Ah damnit, I forgot to ask for plates," you say, ignoring J.A.R.V.I.S. Loki holds out his hand and two plates appear. "I've got to admit, you are pretty useful," you tell him. He smiles but then you add, "You would be more useful if you could fix my stupid problem though."

"I already told you the easy way is to just stop swearing," he takes a slice.

"That's no fun though," you tell him. "Plus, I really don't want Steve to win."

"What do you mean?" he asks.

You shrug, "Sometimes I do it more when he's around cause I know how much it bothers him."

He laughs, "I can appreciate that type of attitude."

"I thought you might," you smile. "So any progress with the massive pile of books or am I fucked?"

He looks up mid-bite and J.A.R.V.I.S goes off again. "I have not given up yet," he tells you but his attention is focused on the screen that popped up. "Do that again," he says. You sigh, and he flicks his wrist, putting another five dollar bill on the table between you.

"Fuck," you say and the screen appears again with J.A.R.V.I.S 's announcement.

"I'm sorry, the total says $47," he sounds shocked and you cringe. "I thought you said they only turned it on at noon."

"Yea," you take a bite of your pizza.

"You have said 94 swear words since noon," he says.

"Apparently," you shrug but he continues to look at you so you put your food down on the table. "When Steve and Tony first told me about it I was kinda pissed," you admit. "I might have lost a few bucks before I left Tony's office."

He tries not to laugh, keeping his hand over his mouth while you talk.

"Then I went back to my office to try out a few things," you tell him.

"Like what?" he asks.

You take a list out of your pocket and hand it to him. "What counts and what doesn't," you say. "Some words only count in a specific context so there's that."

"That still doesn't account for all of this," he says.

You shake your head, "I wanted to see how far it reached outside of the Tower." You sigh, "It's about half a block in all directions."

He laughs, "I imagine you were quite a sight trying to figure that out."

You laugh too, "You would think so but this is New York. I don't think anyone noticed the weird woman cursing every few feet, followed around by a hologram yelling at her."

"This city truly is very odd," he agrees.

"And yet, you still tried to take it over a few years ago," you shrug and take a bite of pizza.

"Technically, I was trying to take over your whole planet," he reminds you.

"That's not better," you tell him and he shrugs.

"I found a few spells I would like to try when we finish eating," he changes the topic a moment later.

"Think one of them will work?" you ask hopefully.

"I certainly hope so," he says. "Of course, I could accidently turn you into a frog if something goes wrong."

"That's not funny," you tell him.

"I wasn't joking," he smirks.

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munson-blurbs · 11 months

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

Summary: After you attend Harris's birthday party, Eddie's forced to confront some big feelings, and a Valentine's date has the two of you navigating a much different type of big feeling.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral (f! receiving), fingering, protected p in v, slight breeding kink, very fluffy smut, brief mention of parental abandonment

WC: 8.6k

Chapter 12/20

Eddie's card credit to @girlwiththerubyslippers Mixtape credit to @lofaewrites Divider credit to @saradika

The mingled scents of wood polisher, stale cigarette smoke, and old frying oil invade your nostrils the second you step into Hawkins Lanes. Bowling balls thud as they make contact with the fiberglass lanes, subsequently crashing into the waiting pins. You offer a smile at the exasperated teenager clearly nursing a hangover, holding back a dry heave as he sprays a pair of red and blue shoes with a can of deodorizer that, given the undertones of pungent sweat permeating the air, is likely well past expired.

“I’m here for Harris Munson’s birthday party?” It comes out like a question rather than a definitive statement, and you hold up the gift bag in your hand like it’s some kind of evidence.

The teenager jerks a thumb towards the back left of the building, not bothering to look up. “Party room’s down there,” he mumbles, and you thank him as you walk along the pink and purple carpet.

You’ve arrived a little early, hoping to steal a few moments with Eddie before the chaos of the day begins. Wayne is the only one in the small room, stretching to hang up a sign proudly declaring ‘Happy Birthday,’ each letter a different color of the rainbow. He grins when he sees you approaching, and you hold one end of the sign in place as he adheres it to the door frame with Scotch tape.

“Good to see y’again, darlin’.” Wayne greets you with a grin, taping your side of the banner.

You put your arm down and return his smile. “You, too!” you chirp, glancing around the room. “Where can I put Harris’s present?”

The older man points to an empty table off to the side. “Right over there should be good,” he figures aloud. “Ed just took Harris to the little boys’ room, but they’ll letcha know otherwise.”

You nod, gently placing the bright yellow bag atop a table covered with a Hot Wheels-themed cloth. Amusement dances on your lips at the realization that Eddie must have splurged on decorations; it’s far better quality than one from the local 99-cent store.

“Ms. Sweetheart! You’re at my birthday party!” Harris’s enthusiastic voice captures your attention, and you spin around just as he’s launching himself into your arms. A tiny human rocketship.

“I am!” You laugh, motioning towards the gift table, “and I left your present over there.”

Harris’s face lights up and he starts towards it, arms outstretched and ready to tear through the tissue paper, but the sound of his dad clearing his throat stops him in his tracks.

“Remember,” Eddie says, keeping his tone calm but firm, “we’re gonna open everything once all your friends are here, after we eat cake.”

Harris juts out his lower lip in a pout. “But Daddy,” he protests, “I wanna open it now!” He stomps his foot indignantly, and you have to suppress a laugh at how silly it looks with the clown-esque bowling shoe on.

“Harris, can you wait until you open the ones from your friends?” You phrase it like a favor, hoping to appeal to him that way. “I’m really excited about what I got you and I want them to see you open it, too.” Of course, you couldn’t care less about what a bunch of random four- and five-year-olds think about your gift, but you had to think quickly before the whine escalated to a tantrum.

He releases a sigh of exasperation but ultimately concedes. “Okay, I guess I can wait.”

Eddie mouths thank you and winks as the four of you walk out to the lanes to wait for Harris’s friends. You feel a hand slip into yours, too small to be Eddie’s, and beam when Harris looks up at you with pure joy.

“Daddy! Grampa Wayne! I’m holding Ms. Sweetheart’s hand!” he exclaims, baby teeth on full display

Eddie ruffles Harris's hair. “I’m jealous.” If prompted, he’ll claim that he’s envious that his son chose to hold your hand instead of his. But you and him–and Wayne, let’s be real–know the real meaning behind his statement.

As Harris’s friends arrive and the birthday boy greets each of them with a hug, you and Eddie spring into action and line them up to get fitted for shoes. There are five kids, three boys and two girls, and though you recognize them as Ms. Marion’s students, you don’t know any of them by name. The bowling shoe laces are flimsy, and a few of them struggle with the fine motor skills necessary to tie them.

“Can I help you with that?” you ask one boy, who nods and extends his leg towards you. You crouch down and rest his foot on your knee as you double-knot the laces. When you finish, you look up to see that the rest of the kids have formed a line for your shoe-tying expertise.

Eddie returns from dropping off the guests’ gifts in the party room, laughing when he stumbles upon the queue of children. “You don’t have to do all that, Sweetheart,” he tells you, using his hands to assess the weight of different bowling balls before distributing them to the kids.

You shrug as you finish tying the last shoes. “I don’t mind.”

Eddie has reserved two lanes for the party, and before anyone can figure out who will be bowling where, Harris is tugging on his Black Sabbath t-shirt.

“We wanna play in teams,” he reports matter-of-factly. You’re not sure who ‘we’ refers to, since you didn’t see him corroborating with any of his friends, but you don’t question it aloud. “Team Harris and Team Daddy.”

Eddie gasps with feigned offense, bringing his palm to his heart. “What? You don’t want me on your team?”

“Nope.” Harris shakes his head, curls swaying back and forth. “I want Ms. Sweetheart on my team.” He pauses as he glances around the group, eyes brightening when his gaze lands on the eldest Munson. “You can have Grampa Wayne.”

“Old man’s probably gonna break a hip.” Eddie grumbles teasingly, picking up a red marbled bowling ball and hoisting it up to his chest.

Wayne scratches the top of his head. “And yet I can still kick your ass.” He keeps his voice low so that little ears can’t hear, but you and Eddie can, and you tuck your lips into your mouth so none of the kids catch on.

Harris is up first, squatting down and using two hands to roll the ball down the lane. His method proves to be somewhat effective when he knocks down a few pins, and the scoreboard screen flashes a giant number 5.

“That’s how many years I am!” Harris proudly announces, skipping back to where the rest of his team is standing. He cocks his head at the ball return’s open mouth for the neon green ball that Eddie had handed him earlier, eagerly scooping it up when he spots it. Assuming the same stance, he once again rolls the ball and successfully topples two more pins.

Eddie raises his brows incredulously. “Hmm, let me try that strategy.”

“I don’t think there’s enough pins for all of your years,” you quip, and Eddie sticks out his tongue in your direction before mimicking Harris’s approach, knees aligned with his toes. He draws the ball back between his legs and releases it a few inches ahead of him, smirking as it cascades down the lane.

His cockiness is apparently earned, since he gets a strike. He attempts a victory moonwalk, clumsily dragging one foot behind the other in a manner that would make Michael Jackson regret ever making the move popular. The heel of his shoe catches on the floor and he stumbles backwards, landing on his ass.

The kids burst out into peals of laughter, and you and Wayne join in once it is evident that Eddie’s not hurt, only embarrassed. You stoop down, clutching your ball between your palms as you grin. “That’s what you get for gloating,” you whisper in his ear, a joking lilt in your voice. “Try setting a good example for the kids next time.”

Unbeknownst to you, one of the kids, Kelly, strikes up a conversation with Harris while you’re up to bowl. “Is that your mommy?” she asks him, strawberry blonde pigtails softly swishing as she looks over at you.

“No, but she’s gonna be my mommy soon!” Harris replies happily. “She and my daddy are gonna fall in love and then she’ll be my mommy.” His voice lowers as concern mars his words. “But don’t tell anyone, okay? Because it’s my birthday cake wish and I need it to come true.”

Kelly nods, taking this obligation seriously, and she averts her gaze when she spots you walking back to the ball return. Since you’d only knocked down eight pins, you take another turn, slipping your thumb, middle, and ring fingers into the holes, frowning when you don’t get the spare you’d hoped for.

Harris’s chipperness brings a smile back to your face. “Ms. Sweetheart, can you teach me how to bowl like a grown-up?” He blinks a few times, hammering in his naturally docile nature.

“Of course!”

When it’s Harris’s turn again, Eddie watches you go up with him. It’s noisy, but he zeros in on your sweet tone among the clattering of bowling pins and cacophonous conversations.

“See, you put your middle finger and ring finger here, and your thumb here,” you’re gently explaining. “And then you lift the ball back just a bit, bring it forward, and let it go.” You go through all of the motions without actually letting go of the ball, Harris’s eyes glued to your every move. “You try.”

Harris follows your instructions, pink tongue poking from his mouth in sheer concentration, and knocks down a single pin. Eddie braces himself for his disappointment, maybe even escalation to a tantrum, so he’s pleased when his son spins back with a wide, toothy smile.

“I did it! I knocked it down!”

“You’re amazing! I’m so proud of you, Harris.” Eddie’s posture softens as Harris runs into your arms and gives you a giant hug, tiny fingers digging into your biceps as he squishes the side of his face just below your collarbones. When he does this, Eddie notices that Harris’s cheeks have lost some of their chubbiness; his son’s baby-like features subtly disappearing to make way for attributes of the older child he’s growing into. It brings a slight pang to his heart, and he swallows the emotion and focuses instead on the bonding moment between you and the not-so-little boy.

There’s a shared love; more than that, there’s trust. Harris knows he can rely on you to teach him with kindness and patience, that you won’t berate him or yell at him for doing something incorrectly. You’re his Ms. Sweetheart.

Wayne takes note of the goofy smile adorning his nephew’s face, nudging him before he drops the bowling ball on his foot. “I know you’re in love with her, but she ain’t worth losing your toes over.”

Eddie’s face flushes pink, the tips of his ears burning now that he's been caught. “I’m not in love with her, Wayne.” At least, I didn’t think I was yet, but now I might be.

“Whatever you say,” Wayne mutters under his breath, taking careful steps towards the lane. “You, uh, might wanna wipe the drool from your chin before you take your turn, though.”

Team Harris ultimately wins, mostly because Wayne throws the game so the birthday boy can have a victorious moment. You, Eddie, and Wayne quickly corral the kids into the party room, seating them at a large rectangular table for cake and presents before anyone can take offense over the game results. The three of you breathe silent sighs of relief when you easily shift their focus to the next activity.

Eddie pulls his lighter from his back pocket, flicking it on and lighting the five thin blue and white striped candles unevenly jabbed through the chocolate frosted homemade cake. He picks up the plate, supporting it from the bottom as he leads the group in a hilariously off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.

Harris squeezes his eyes shut before blowing out the flames with gusto, a big grin on his face when he opens them again.

Feeling a hand clap on his shoulder, Eddie swivels his body to see his uncle armed with a disposable Kodak camera. “Let me get a picture of you and the birthday boy,” Wayne insists, peering through the little viewfinder and snapping a photo. Eddie’s crouched down, right arm slung over Harris’s shoulders. Both of them wear matching smiles; the only difference is that Harris is still sporting his baby teeth.

“Now Ms. Sweetheart!” the little Munson declares. Eddie goes to leave, pressing his palms to his knees and standing up, but Harris grabs his wrist and pulls him back. “No, Daddy. You and me and Ms. Sweetheart together!”

You shuffle over to stand on Harris’s other side. When you place your hand on his upper back, Eddie’s slides over yours, the two of you and Harris chiming “cheese!” in enthusiastic unison.

Blinking from the brightness of the flash, you extend your arm and make a ‘gimme’ motion with your hand. “Let me get one of the three of you,” you say to Wayne, who begrudgingly places the camera in your outstretched palm.

Eddie pulls him in closer. “Alright, Munson men. Flex those muscles!” You giggle as the three of them bend their arms to show off whatever biceps they have.

“Ms. Sweetheart, who’s got the biggest muscles?” Harris asks as you lower the camera.

You scrunch up your nose as though seriously contemplating the question. “Um, me, obviously!” You smack your own bicep, sending Harris into hysterics.

“That’s so silly!” he cackles, glancing up at Eddie. “Daddy, isn’t Ms. Sweetheart so silly?”

You expect him to agree with his son, but he just puts his hands on his shoulders and gives a quick squeeze as he says, “Nah, she’s the strongest person I know.” Your stomach flip-flops when he peers at you through his impossibly long lashes. He picks up the plate and brings it over to the smaller, empty table. “Let’s cut this cake before the kids start revolting.”

The two of you use plastic knives and forks to divide the cake into slivers and toss them onto paper plates. Once all of the kids have their slices, Eddie licks the excess frosting from his fingers and hands you a plate.

“Havin’ fun?” He carefully wraps the question in a joking tone, but you can tell that he’s genuinely curious about whether you’re enjoying yourself.

You spear a piece of your slice with the plastic fork. “I am, actually.” The chocolate melts in your mouth, and your tongue glides over your lips to catch any crumbs. “I haven’t been bowling since I was a kid.”

“And it shows,” he teases, wincing when you flick his cheek. “Hey, now—violence is never the answer. What values are you instilling in these impressionable young minds?”

Harris pops up from his seat, waving an empty plate. Whatever cake bits were left on it have tumbled to the floor. “Daddy, I’m done! Can I open my presents now?”

“Jesus, did you inhale that thing?” Eddie wonders aloud, but ultimately agrees. He grabs a bunch of thin napkins and wipes Harris’s hands and face, laughing when the boy sputters as the paper presses against his lips. “Har Bear, you don’t wanna get your presents all messy.”

Once he’s all cleaned up, Harris grabs each of the gifts and brings them to his seat at the head of the table. He tears through brightly colored wrapping paper at lightning speed. Eddie tries to keep track of who gave what as his son unveils a Hot Wheels track from Charlie and his brother Brendan, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure from Kelly, a G.I. Joe from Emma, and—regrettably—a tub of Gak from Zachary. He makes a mental note to pick up a harmonica or a kazoo or something else noisy when that kid’s birthday rolls around.

The last gift left is from you, and you twiddle your thumbs as you await Harris’s reaction. Should I have gotten him a toy?

“It’s a stencil kit,” you feel the need to explain, as though you wouldn’t be able to handle the embarrassment of him asking what it is. “So you can trace shapes for your art. It’s got all different ones: food, animals, holidays…” You clamp your mouth shut, willing yourself to stop talking.

Your panic is short-lived; Harris’s brown eyes light up as he runs to you and wraps his arms around your legs in another giant hug. “I’m gonna draw you so much things!” he promises, gazing up at you excitedly.

“I can’t wait to see what you make me.” A drawing from Harris holds a deeper meaning than you ever realized. It’s more than a simple display of creativity; it’s a symbol of love and acceptance into his life.

He looks at his dad now with pleading eyes. “Can Ms. Sweetheart come to our house after the party so I can draw her a picture? Please?” He stretches out the last word so that it has at least five syllables.

Eddie looks at you expectantly, a timid smile on his lips. “Well?”

“I think that’s a great idea.” Your response earns you another quick squeeze from Harris before he darts back to his seat to further inspect his gifts.

Eddie’s warm voice is low in your ear, his fingertips ghosting the small of your back in a manner that lets you—and only you—know how starved he is for touch. “And you can help me get rid of that slime thing, too.”

Once the party has ended and you, Eddie, and Harris are back at their apartment, the cherubic boy takes the stenciling kit into his room.

“I’m gonna do art in here so you can’t peek,” he declares, clutching the kit to his chest as though there’s already something to hide.

Eddie chuckles, raking a hand through his curls. “Okay, bud. We’ll be out here, watching TV. You go be a little artíst.”

Once he hears the bedroom door click shut, Eddie puts the TV on a random channel and plops on the couch with a soft oof. You sit down next to him and he puts his arm around you, allowing you to snuggle in closer. The shirt fabric against his underarms is slightly damp with the day’s sweat, but you’re far too comfortable to even consider it an issue.

Your unsuccessful attempt at stifling a yawn has Eddie grinning. “Can’t hang with the kids anymore?” he goads, lips flush against your scalp.

“It’s exhausting being on the winning team,” you playfully retort, adding in an over-the -top fake yawn to drive home your point. “Not that you would know.”

“Oh, yeah?” He pulls you closer to pepper kisses across your neck and cheek until you’re a giggling mess. Satisfied with his handiwork, he allows himself to sink deeper into the cushions and lets out a yawn of his own.

You rest your head on his shoulder, gently brushing his curls back so they’re not in your eyes. A hum of contentment escapes you as you fully relax for the first time today.

You feel a slight nudge on your chin as Eddie tilts it upwards and kisses your lips. The gloss you’d applied before the party is long gone, a casualty of conversation and cake consumption, but he has no complaints.

“Been wanting to do this all day,” he murmurs, shooting shivers down your spine. “And when I saw you helping Harris? Baby, I just…” he searches for accurate words. Nothing he can think of seems to fully convey the depth of his feelings, but he tries his best. “I’m so fucking lucky. We’re so fucking lucky.”

The feeling of your body against his relaxes him further; a marvelous white noise replaces the plethora of overanalyzed problems constantly buzzing through his brain. The heaviness of sleep falls over both of you, and you shift your body even closer to his in a primitive quest for the safety his presence brings. Whatever show is on the fuzzy TV set is now a dull hum until it’s muted by the dreams your subconscious brings.

Eddie only stirs fifteen minutes later when the bedroom door hinges give a soft squeak, ears trained to pick up on Harris’s innocuous noises that often precede chaos. Grogginess overpowers attentiveness, so he misses the smile on his son’s face and the way he whispers, “my birthday wish is coming true.”

Gray clouds cover Hawkins the next day, drenching the small town in cold rain. And while Eddie is certainly grateful that it’s not snowing, this means that he has to find indoor activities to keep his endlessly energetic son occupied.

Luckily, Harris is still enamored with his birthday gifts, particularly the stenciling kit you’d given him. He sits at the kitchen table now, tracing an outline of a cow on a Valentine for his classmate. Eddie’s not quite sure of the correlation between the animal and the holiday, but he’s learned that some battles are best left unfought.

“That looks great, Har Bear.”

“I know.” Harris agrees, not looking up from his drawing as he says, “Daddy, you should make a Valentime for Ms. Sweetheart.” Before Eddie can answer, Harris slides over a piece of red paper and a black marker.

“I should, huh?” Remembering a trick he learned back in elementary school, Eddie folds the paper and draws half of a heart against the crease. He has to use Harris’s blunted safety scissors, much too small for his fingers, to cut the paper. Pleased when he sees that it actually resembles a heart, Eddie taps the marker against his dimpled chin as he contemplates what to write. “You really like Ms. Sweetheart, don’t you?”

Harris nods, putting down the blue marker he’s using and reaching for an orange one. “Mhm. I love her, Daddy.”

Eddie’s heart soars at the confirmation of Harris’s adoration of you, but he tries not to make it obvious. “That’s, uh, that’s good.” He finally decides on a simple message: Be Mine, and he signs his name underneath with a dash. It feels a little less impersonal than “from,” but isn’t as strong as “love.” Do I love her? He wonders. No, it’s only been one date. He can’t fall in love this quickly. It’s not possible. “How’s this? Be mine,” he reads aloud, underlining each word with his finger.

“Oh, I like that.” Harris picks up a green marker and writes the same two words on a pink sheet of paper. The letters are a little too big for the paper’s limited space, and he ends up squishing the “e” in “mine” very close to the edge. “How do you spell ‘mommy’?”

Eddie’s throat goes bone-dry. “You wanna make a card for your mom?” Harris has never wanted to make anything for his mom before; never brought her up, really, but maybe that was changing now that he was in school and surrounded by children with present mothers.

But Harris shakes his head. “No, it’s for Ms. Sweetheart. I wanna write ‘Be Mine Mommy.’”

It takes Eddie a second to realize that Harris means “be my mommy,” and he massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Um, Har, you can’t just ask her to be your mom.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t want to tell Harris that wants to make sure you’ll stick around, nor does he want to make a promise neither one of you can keep. “Because you…you just can’t, okay?” It comes out harshly, and he sputters to fix his tone when he sees Harris’s lower lip quiver.

“But it’s not fair! You didn’t have a daddy, so you got Grampa Wayne as your daddy. I don’t have a mommy, so I want Ms. Sweetheart as my mommy!”

Eddie flash backs to their zoo trip, when Harris had innocently asked him if Wayne had taken him out on father-son days. There’s no child-friendly way to articulate that Wayne had initially been legally obligated to act as his guardian. “I know, bud. I know you do–”

“Then why can’t I ask her?” His expression shifts from anger to confusion, brows pinching together.

Because she could say no, Eddie thinks. Because the responsibility of being a mommy was too much for your biological mother to handle; why would Ms. Sweetheart take it on? What if she doesn’t have a problem being your mommy, but she finds issue with the idea of being connected to me?

He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “Look, Har. I know you want her to be your mommy. And between you and me, I’d love for her to be your mommy, too.”

“But–”

“But, grown up feelings are weird sometimes,” he presses on, borrowing your verbiage from Thanksgiving, “and feelings like love take time. But I’m gonna make you a promise right now.” He sticks out his pinky finger. “I promise that if me and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love, I’ll tell you, and I’ll let you ask her to be your mommy. Is that a deal?”

Harris looks dubious, but ultimately hooks his pinky around his dad’s. Eddie breathes a sigh of relief that the crisis has been averted for now.

“Before we can ask her to be your mommy,” Eddie continues, “I need to figure out the perfect Valentine’s Day date to impress her. Wanna help?”

Harris purses his lips in concentration, resting his chin in his hand. “How about McDonald’s? They have a ball pit!”

Eddie has to tuck his lips into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “A definite contender,” he finally manages. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Friday night. Valentine’s Day.

You had been unsure whether Eddie wanted to do anything for the holiday; your relationship was still so fresh, and you didn’t want him to feel pressured. When he crept into your classroom Monday morning with a coffee and a heart-shaped note—far more conspicuous than he’d intended to be—you couldn’t hide the excitement on your face.

The card reads Be Mine and currently resides under a magnet on your fridge, finding a home among the plethora of drawings from Harris. It’s got some creases in it that Eddie had explained were the result of Harris shoving it into his backpack that morning. You thought it was perfect as is.

“Are you free on Friday? For Valentine’s Day?” he’d asked, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. When you answered in the affirmative, he visibly relaxed. “Great. I’m taking you out.” His smile lights up his face. “Wear something that you don’t mind getting messy, and I’ll pick you up at 6.”

You’d wanted to try and pry more information from him, but Carol Perkins and her son Frankie walked in just then, and you’d put away the heart as quickly as you could as Eddie scrambles from the classroom.

You stand in your bedroom now in your Levis 501s and a fuzzy red sweater, taking one last look at your makeup in the mirror reflection. You scrape your fingernail along the bottom of your lip to wipe off any excess gloss. Underneath your outfit is a special surprise, wishful thinking if the night goes well.

At 5:55, you sling your pocketbook over your shoulder and make your way down to the lobby. You spot Eddie the moment you step out from the elevator. He’s pacing, hands shoved in his dark wash denim pockets and lower lip pinched between his teeth.

Your voice draws him from his thoughts. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist and pulling him so your stomachs touch. “You look really, really handsome.”

“You’re…you’re beautiful.” He’s almost breathless as he says it, eyes roaming down your body and taking in the view. The way your sweater drapes the slope of your breasts has his heart leaping into his throat. He kisses you slowly before proclaiming, “My beautiful Valentine.”

You reach into your purse and pull out a tiny red gift bag, letting it sway and dangle from your fingertips. “I got you a little something.”

The tissue paper crinkles as Eddie rifles through it to pull out a silver lighter, much heavier in his palm than the usual plastic Bic he uses. “Sweetheart, this is…” He takes a closer look and reads aloud the engraved words etched on the front. “Fill my heart with song…”

“It’s from Fly Me to the Moon. Because of Thanksgiving, when you played the record, and Grandma…” you trail off, not wanting to get choked up, “and because you’re a rockstar. My rockstar.” You kiss his lips again, feeling his palm softly cup your cheek.

“I have something for you, too. Um, I didn’t get to wrap it, but I hope you like it.” He unzips his jacket, exposing the gray t-shirt clinging to his pecs. He digs into the inner pocket and clutches a cassette tape, handwritten label stating,“Ms. Sweetheart’s Mix.”

“‘S nothin’ crazy, just some songs that remind me of you.” There’s an array of genres and artists on there. Guns ‘N Roses, of course, as well as Frank Sinatra. There’s Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me, Un-Break My Heart by Toni Braxton, and a plethora of songs with ‘sweetheart’ in the title: Bob Dylan’s Sweetheart Like You, Bing Crosby’s Let Me Call You Sweetheart, The Spaniels’ Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight.

Tears prickle along your lash line, and you blink them away before you smudge your mascara. “Thank you, Eddie. I love it.” You hold the gift in two hands, giving it a small shake to emphasize your excitement.

A small pang in his chest has Eddie realizing that he wishes you’d ended that statement with you instead of it, but he tries to shove the thought down by kissing you, tongue parting your lips, hand traveling up your side. His hands aren’t even touching skin, only your sweater, yet it’s so electrifying that you feel your thighs clench in wanting.

“C’mon,” you urge him gently, “let’s go on this date before we end up making out in the lobby all night.”

Eddie cocks his head. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Eddie…” Truthfully, you’re thinking the same thing, but your desire for a romantic Valentine’s Day date with him propels you towards the door. You take his hand so he dutifully follows.

“Fine,” he relents with an exaggerated sigh, smile showing off the soft dimples in his cheeks. “But only because you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger, y’know that?”

“Oh, I know.”

Twenty minutes later, Eddie’s car pulls up to The Novice Chef. You’ve never been–taking care of Grandma didn’t allot you much time for hobbies–but Jess has told you about their incredible cooking classes. She and Robin went to one right before Thanksgiving and insisted that they’d perfected the art of turkey basting.

“Figured we could learn how to make pizza since we’re basically funding the local Surfer Boy,” Eddie grins, turning the key in the ignition. The car stills and the two of you unbuckle your seatbelts, pushing open the car doors. “Just, uh, no olives on my half.”

You find an unoccupied cooking station with two aprons on it, the venue’s cursive logo displayed on the front in an eager advertisement. You slip one over your head and Eddie does the same, twirling his finger in a turn around motion. You feel the brush of his fingers on the small of your back as he ties the strings in a bow. After returning the favor for him, you squeeze his waist, giggling when he yelps in surprise.

“What was that for?”

“I dunno; you’re just really squeezable.”

Eddie just shakes his head, already missing your touch after that brief moment. He slides a rubber band down his wrist and ties his hair in a bun at the nape of his neck before slipping his rings off of his fingers. He flexes his hands, almost taken aback by their nakedness, and you suppress a heaving sigh when you catch sight of the protruding veins, dark purple snakes that disappear amongst soft arm hair.

“All right everyone, let’s get started.” The unfamiliar voice brings your attention to the front of the room, where the instructor is standing behind his own station. “My name’s Argyle, and I’ll be your tour guide on our journey through Flavortown.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “First thing we’re gonna do is knead the dough.” He gives a demonstration and then invites the class to try on their own.

“Damn, that dude has some badass hair,” Eddie muses, noting the man’s long raven locks that are pulled back into a waist-length ponytail. He nods approvingly and flips the silver bowl of dough onto the table. A small puff of flour rises as it hits the surface with a thwack, and you’re very glad you’d heeded his warning not to wear something new.

Eddie presses the heel of his palm into the dough, kneading it with precision. Flatten, stretch, flatten, stretch, until he’s satisfied with the consistency. He shapes it into a thin circle, fingertips digging into the edges to form the crust. The movements are hypnotizing, and it’s not until he clears his throat that you bashfully realize you’ve been staring.

“Y’good, Sweetheart?” A sly, knowing grin stretches from one cheek to the other; now you’re certain that he’s caught you.

“Y-Yeah.”

The next step is to spread the sauce onto the dough, Argyle explains, and Eddie places the crust onto the pan and steps aside so you can take over. You dip the ladle into the pot, filling it to the brim. Bits of dried basil and oregano swim in a red tomato sea as you use the ladle’s base to evenly distribute it across the crust.

“Y’got a little somethin’ on your face.” Eddie whispers in your ear, making you stop mid-swirl.

“Huh? Where?” You use the back of your free hand to wipe at your cheeks and chin for any sauce that may have splattered, but a close inspection shows nothing.

Eddie leans over you, his chest flush against your back. You fight the urge to press the curve of your ass to the seam of his jeans, wiping a sweat-slick palm on your apron. “Right…” he swipes his finger down the ladle’s curved side, catching some sauce and dotting it on the tip of your nose, “here.”

“Eddie!”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got it.” He leans over and licks the sauce off, a quick lap of his tongue on your skin. The unexpected sensation makes you giggle louder than you’d intended. You clap a hand over your mouth, surely smudging the gloss, but you’ve already drawn the instructor’s unwanted attention.

“Lovebirds, are we here to flirt or to make pizza?” Argyle punctuates his rhetorical question with an exasperated sigh. You duck your head in shame and Eddie just coughs to stifle his own mischievous laughter.

“All right, now for the cheese,” Argyle continues, dipping a hand into a glass bowl and retrieving the ingredient. “Some people think that ya just pile it on; the more cheese, the better, but there’s an art to–hey, not cool, man!” He’s looking right at Eddie, and you glance over to see your date drop a handful of shredded mozzarella into his open mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through a mouthful of cheese, but you’re willing to bet that his apology is anything but sincere.

Argyle rolls his eyes, not even attempting to hide his irritation. “You got one more strike, and then you’re out.” He points one finger at Eddie and then jerks his thumb backwards to emphasize his point.

“Yes, sir,” Eddie salutes, and you elbow him in the ribs.

Once the cheese has been sprinkled across the sauce–whatever remains after Eddie’s impromptu snack, anyway–you reach for the mushrooms. Eddie’s sharp gasp makes you freeze up before you can grasp any.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands, placing his flour-coated hands on his hips.

You flick your gaze from the bowl of mushrooms to his impatient face. “Um, putting toppings on the pizza?”

“Not that one, you’re not,” he argues with a disapproving shake of his head. “Vegetables don’t belong on pizza.” He picks up the bowl of pepperoni and starts layering the slices on top, either unaware or indifferent to the fact that some of them stick together in a double layer of cured meat. “This is more like it.”

You nudge him, triumphantly layering mushrooms around where he’s placed the pepperoni slices. “It’s called compromise, Eddie. It’s how relationships work.”

His jaw drops and he places his hand over his heart like a southern belle who’s just been presented with extraordinary gossip. “Oh, this is a relationship?” He snickers when you give him a small shove. “I had no idea. I just thought we were two friends who make out sometimes.”

“God, I hate you.”

“I hate you, too.”

An hour later, stomachs filled with pizza that might rival Surfer Boy’s, you and Eddie return to your apartment. A tense stillness fills the air when he walks you to your door, daring either of you to speak your mutual desire into existence.

You’re the one to break the silence. “I had an amazing time tonight, Eddie.”

“Yeah?” he asks almost incredulously, as though he doubts the truthfulness behind your words. He pushes the insecurity aside with a joke. “Even though I almost got us kicked out?”

The memory brings a smile to your face, though you would imagine that the annoyed instructor would not share the same sentiment. “I still need to get you back for that.” You lick his nose and giggle, knocking his hand away when he lifts it to his face. “Don’t wipe it off!”

“And what if I do?” Eddie takes a step closer, resting one hand on the small of your back and putting the other on your cheek. He kisses you and you lean into it, pressing your body against his. His tongue parts your lips, and you hook a finger into his belt loop as you melt into each other.

“Do you wanna come in? Or do you have to get back home to Harris?” You’ve pulled the trigger. There’s no turning back now, and though you’re certainly in a healthier place than the last time you’d made this suggestion, the fear of a similar reaction has your heart in your chest.

He shakes his head, nose rubbing against yours. “Wayne’s staying with him tonight.” He omits the fact that his uncle was the one who’d offered to babysit overnight, a not-so-subtle hint at his expectations of Eddie’s evening plans.

“All night?”

“All,” he kisses you again, “night.”

You fumble with your keys and unlock the door, Eddie wrapping his arms around your waist from the back as though he never wants to let go. As soon as you get it open, its grimacing creak mere background noise to the pounding in your ears, you’re kicking off your shoes and pulling Eddie into the bedroom.

Your hands on his shoulders pin him against the door, only moving them to the hem of his shirt to begin tugging it over his head. It proves to be a difficult task as you try keeping your lips on his neck, but he wraps his fingers around your wrists and stops you.

“Been dreamin’ about worshiping this body…you,” he clarifies, pupils blown so wide that they overtake his chocolate irises. “Please,” he adds, a slight break in his voice. His begging starkly contrasts the bravado that dominated his personality the night you’d met. There was no patience or tenderness, just teeth clashing and hands searching for the fastest and easiest way to bring pleasure.

You nod. “I have a surprise for you first.” You take off your sweater, drawing it slowly up your torso to build up the anticipation, and toss it to the side.

Eddie goes slack jawed at the sheer mesh bra that leaves nothing to the imagination, just as you’d expected him to. He quickly snaps his mouth shut and swallows, a last-ditch attempt to salvage his machismo before he fully loses his mind.

“It’s a matching set, if you wanna see.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie walks over, pressing kisses to your collarbones that leave your knees weak. His thumbs graze your breasts, slipping the bra straps down and unhooking the clasp. It falls to the ground and he stoops a bit, bringing his mouth to one hardening nipple and sucking it before moving onto the other. “Perfect.” He trails kisses down your stomach, dropping to his knees as he does. “Perfect.” He lifts one hand, kissing each individual finger right on the first knuckle. “So perfect.”

He remains on his knees as his nimble fingers, still cold from the brief walk to your building, unbutton your jeans, and you shimmy out of them eagerly. His eyes widen when he sees that your panties do, in fact, match your bra: a red-tinted mesh thong that has everything on display.

“Baby,” he moans, grabbing one ass cheek in each of his big hands and pressing soft kisses to your clothed pussy. “Baby…f’me?”

“All for you, Eddie.” Your breath hitches when you feel his lips graze your most sensitive spot. He’s not intentionally teasing you, but logic has no place in your current state.

He kisses down your thighs. “Lay down f’me, yeah?” You do as he asks, laying your head down on the pillow as your body sinks into the mattress. Eddie climbs on top of you, slotting one knee between your slightly open legs. He brings his lips to your ear, gently biting your earlobe and singing in a low murmur, “got it bad, got it bad, got it bad…”

You giggle, the breath from his whisper tickling the shell of your ear, and you tilt your head slightly so you can see his face. “Can I undress you now?” He nods, and you wrestle with his shirt to expose the pale expanse of skin. There’s a dusting of curls across his chest, thicker in the middle and thinner around his nipples. You plant a kiss on his left bicep and drag your palm down his tummy, practically concave during his teenage years but now has a slight softness to it, stopping when you reach the bulge in his pants. He groans at your touch, and you feel his cock twitch slightly. Eager to alleviate his pent-up energy, you undo the button and tug down his zipper, cupping his erection through his navy blue boxers.

“Not yet,” Eddie mumbles, “not done showing you how much I l–care about you. How much you mean to me.” With a burning in his cheeks from what he’d nearly admitted, he drags your thong, a wet patch formed on it, down your thighs and past your calves until it drops to the ground unceremoniously. He balances your legs on top of his shoulders and pulls himself in closer, nudging your clit with his nose as he licks a stripe up your folds. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, brushing it with his tongue. Soft brown eyes peer up at you, desperately seeking your approval.

“F-Feels good,” you manage, words caught in your throat as pleasure seeps into your body. “Please keep going.”

Eddie needs no further convincing, reveling in your growing wetness against his face while slipping his middle finger into your pussy. You whimper at the feeling of him inside you, bracing yourself for a comment about how needy you are, but he just continues to draw you closer to your orgasm. His finger glides in and out, in and out, rhythmic but not too slow. The bed shifts ever-so-slightly, and you realize he’s rutting his hips against the mattress, desperate for relief.

Your hand finds purchase in the curls adorning his scalp, digging your fingers into them and giving a small tug. Eddie lets a second finger into your tight hole, curling them upwards and hitting your sweet spot over and over.

“Right there, th-that’s it, please, Eddie,” you beg, your moans barely audible over the sounds of him fervently fingering you and lapping at your cunt. “Fuck, Eddie, ‘m gonna cum!”

Eddie just lets out an “mmm,” in acknowledgment, the vibrations shooting through your core and bringing you right to the edge. Your release overtakes you and your thighs instinctively squeeze against either side of his head. He makes a mental note to ask you not to do that because he absolutely needs to hear every noise you make while you cum.

“Y’good?” he asks as you drift down from the high, still perched between your legs. He wipes his slick-glistened lips with the back of his hand before licking the taste of you from his fingers. “I can keep going, trust me.”

“Need you closer.” You try to sit up, but your legs fail you, and you flop back onto the bed. “I have condoms in the top drawer–”

“Brought my own,” he grins, reaching into his back pocket–now positioned just under his ass from the way he’d dry humped the bed–and pulls out three connected foil packages. “Ribbed, for her pleasure.”

“Such a gentleman,” you tease, but it’s the truth. The way he took care of you, made sure you were okay after, offered to continue eating you out despite the raging hard-on he’s sporting…his chivalry isn't lost on you. You watch as he strips down until his body is rid of any clothing, tearing one wrapper and rolling the rubber down his cock, and you bite your lip in anticipation of its delicious stretch.

There’s an unspoken disappointment at the addition of the barrier, regardless of its practicality. You want to be as close as you possibly can without anything in the way, but neither of you are in any rush to give Harris a sibling.

Imagine it, though, Eddie can’t stop himself from thinking. Imagine the intimacy of filling her up every night until she’s carrying my baby. Taking any little bit that drips out and stuffing it back inside to make sure it takes. Imagine kissing her growing bump every morning to greet her and our unborn child.

He puts one thigh on either side of yours, looking into your eyes as he asks, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

Eddie lines up with your entrance, pushing in gently and keeping his gaze trained on the way you take him in. Inch by inch, he disappears into your wanting hole until he bottoms out. He holds your hips while he finds a steady pace, and as soon as you arch your back, he’s slipping his hands around your waist just above the curve of your ass. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he whispers. “You make me so fucking happy.”

Your hands grasp at his shoulder blades and you kiss him, tongues intertwining while you moan into each other’s mouths. “I’m always yours, if that’s what you want,” you promise, wrapping your legs around his.

“Of course, that’s what I want. Most beautiful girl in the world, asking me if I want her to be mine.” He grins cheekily, burying his head in the crook of your neck and sucking on it lightly before asking, “do you want me to be yours?”

“Yeah,” you exhale as his cock presses against your walls. “Yeah, I want you to be mine.” You smile, moving your hands to the nape of his neck and deepening the kiss. You want to be the only one he touches like this, the one who goes to bed next to him every night and wakes up next to him every morning. The one who celebrates his wins with him and brings comfort during the losses. You want everything that comes with belonging to each other.

Eddie thrusts into you, pulling wanton moans from your lips. “Say my name,” he pleads. “Need to hear you say it.”

“Eddie,” you pant, not able to fathom a single thought beyond the pleasure you’re feeling and who’s bringing it to you. “Eddie, ‘m so close. You feel too…too good.” Good is an understatement; perhaps a more accurate adjective would be euphoric, but finding a more elaborate term is low on your priority list.

Eddie’s peak is not far behind, with the feeling of your warmth around him bringing him closer every second. “Always wanna make y’feel good, baby,” he says. His face hovers just above yours, a bead of sweat sliding down the bridge of his nose onto the tip of yours. “I gotta–”

“Cum for me, Eddie,” you tell him, and with your permission, he pistons his hips a final time and spills into the condom. Your walls contract around his length as you finish with him.

Eddie stays inside you as the two of you catch your breath, smiling and stealing kisses from each other. He’s never felt anything like this before; for him, the thrill of sex is typically fueled purely by the primal instinct to get laid, but he’s in no rush to let you go. His cock begins to soften and he slowly pulls out, chuckling when you whine at the loss of fullness.

“Gotta toss this,” he says, removing the condom with a soft hiss and tying a knot. “Then I’m gonna hold you, mmkay?” Part of him is waiting for the post-sex adrenaline to wear off and the inevitable crash down when he realizes he’s mistaken lust for passion, urgency for belonging, but that doesn’t happen. As much as he’d love to be inside you again, hearing and feeling your satisfaction as you unravel for him, what he wants more than anything is to lay next to you and keep you safe. Safe from what, exactly, he’s not sure, but something compels him to protect you.

He takes you in his arms, the two of you a tangled, sweaty mess of naked limbs. Perspiration mats his sparse chest hair to his skin, but you press your cheek to it anyway and breathe in his scent. Your body grows heavier as sleep overtakes you, but Eddie’s low voice pulls you back for just a second.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?”

I love you. The words want to flow freely but come to a screeching halt on the tip of his tongue. It’s only your second date, and his mind is clouded with the sappiness of Valentine’s Day and oxytocin; what if he just thinks he loves you? Or what if he truly does, but you don’t feel the same way? Would you tell him, or would you pretend to reciprocate to spare him the hurt? Which is worse?

I love you. But it’s too soon to feel that, to know it for certain. And if he rushes things, he’ll get Harris’s hopes up–get his own hopes up–only to be met with heartbreak and disappointment.

I love you. And what would that admission accomplish, anyway? Where would you go from there? What would it change?

“Get some rest,” is what he settles on, biting the inside of his lower lip in shame. He kisses your forehead and watches you drift off, grateful when the exhaustion of the evening hits him and he follows suit.

I love you, is his last thought before he falls asleep, but he convinces himself that he’s not ready to speak it into existence.

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deadsetobsessions · 4 months

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Listen, I know it’s not my usual thing, but I just re-read Dark Matter by mysterycyclone (iconic, so good, incredible, I’ve reread this at least ten times) and this newer work, Help Me, I Don’t Feel Like Myself Anymore by Astra_Nova_Kat (it’s off to a really good and fleshed out, very long start- it’s like 20k for the first chapter omg).

I just. Love?? Them??? They’re both, urg, so good. The writing style, the way the story moves, the natural progression of plot and their usage of tropes are so well done that rarely does it feel awkward. Amazing. Anyways, they inspired me to put my two cents into the proverbial offering hat and while this might not ever be a realized fanfic, here it is? This will have multiple parts.

Uh, I’m basing Peter’s personality off of the really tired millennial energy Tobey Maguire gives, the awkward but well meaning disaster vibes of Andrew Garfield, and the sassy acrobatic chaos gremlin of Tom Holland. All kind of mushed together with the hyper competence and maturity of both the PS4 spidey and pretty much most spider people. He’s 22, or something but that doesn’t really matter?? Background doesn’t really matter because I’m basically making my own spider-verse. Spider… past? Eh. New Peter!

Spider in Gotham AU- Pt.1

[Pt.2]

——

Spider-Man swung through the skyscrapers of his city, enjoying the winds and sounds of New York as he kept a sharp eye out for crime.

He remembered doing this without any of the fancy tech his suit had now, when he was dressed in less protective clothing. God, 100% cotton while crime fighting? The spandex was better but god ugly.

His spider-sense blared. Spider-man quickly shot a web to the top of the building, going towards the danger instead of away from it.

He goes in feet first, years of knocking common thugs to legitimate gods to the ground making short work of the people on the roof top. He flips out of the way, dodging a blast of crackling green energy.

“Heyyyy, common robbers! What’s up with shiny lasers, huh? Breaking and entering not doing enough for ya?”

Spider-Man dodges a couple more shots, flipping again to knee a guy in the face, gently. The man goes down in one shot.

“Stay still, you motherfucker!”

“Does that actually work for you guys?? Like I’m down to get killed but, man, I’m not gonna stay still to get downed by some two bit thugs?” Spider-Man kept his words light and mocking, webbing up a laser gun and yanking it out of the woman’s hands. He punches her in the face and knocks her out, using the laser gun like a mildly bulky baton.

“Eat shit, Spider-bitch!”

“Ouch! Oh no, my feelings! You’ve hurt them!” Spider-Man shoots a web at the lady who’d shouted and yanked, before smacking her straight down to the concrete of the rooftop. His hearing picked up two people coming up the stairway and Spider-Man tossed two web bombs, the metal mechanism attached itself to the wall, waiting for their unknowing victims.

Spider-Man ducked and weaved, downing goons as they piled on him while shooting bullets, lasers, and just charging at him with a bat or a crowbar. After eight years of pretty much this exact thing, Spider-Man had gotten the science of breaking up goon dog piles without hurting them too much to an exact measurement. He quipped at them until they got annoyed, which made them sloppy. Spider-Man sighed as another guy came at him with a crow bar and a gun that he was pretty sure was still stuck on safety. He crouched, kicking out their legs and dodging a swipe of a bat where his ribs would have been and webbed the guy to the floor. Yeah, he’ll wrap this up and end patrol. Maybe he still had Mac n’ Cheese at home, or he could stop by Angelo’s for a sub?

Huh. His options for dinner was limited.

“Take this!”

Even without the forewarning of his spidey-sense, Spider-Man would have ducked out of the way regardless.

“Shouting your sneak attacks isn’t actually all that sneaky, you know!” Spider-Man kept his voice cheery and mocking.

“Get him!”

God, why were there so many people trying to break into an insurance company? This definitely doesn’t smell like a regular B&E. With the shit he’s seen in New York, if it smells like a plot, acts like a plot, then it’s probably a villain with a tragic backstory with big, annoying plans.

Great.

Oh, speak of the devil!

“Spider-Man.” His senses blared.

He couldn’t move out of the way fast enough, not without risking the life of the goon he was currently fighting, so Spider-Man took the blast the punched the breath out of his lungs. The wide eyes of the goon made up for some of the pain.

“Ugh!” Spider-Man slammed into an HVAC, denting the metal. His suit, made special polymer blend from Wakanda that he saved for months to get, absorbed some of the shock. Shit, he hoped it didn’t tear. It would be a bitch and a half to dip into the back up stock he had in his hammer space.

The goons left standing quickly rushed him and held him down to face the new boss.

“You’ve been getting on my nerves, Spider.”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man coughed out, letting the two goons think they could hold him down on his knees as he recovered his breath. “I have that effect on people.”

“But you could be an asset, if you’d join me?”

“Uh, I don’t join or sign things without knowing what I’m joining or signing, my guy. My lawyer said so.”

The villain paused, helmeted head cocking to the side.

“You have a lawyer?”

“Yeah. Kind of? He does pro-bono work for the helpless cases. You know, like, a well meaning, crime fighting vigilante?”

“…Does he do cases against insurance companies?”

“Oh man, you too? Dude, this place sucks,” Spider-Man sighed.

“You’ve had trouble too? Then you must see why I’m doing this!”

This was a bit weird, but if there’s anything that brings people together, it’d be corrupt insurance companies. He’s almost tempted to let them break in, just to be extra petty.

“Nah, my neighbor? Sweet old lady. They’re screwing her out of her entire place. I totally get it, man. Hey, if you need a referral, you can tell my lawyer that Spider sent you. He’s real good.”

“How good?” The goons release him and Spider-Man stood up, stretching his limbs.

“Like, Dare Devil good.”

“You know Matt Murdock??”

“Sure do.”

“He… he’ll take on our cases?”

“Dang, all of you?”

“Yes. We can pool enough money to pay him for one or two.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure he’ll take you guys on for free. But it wouldn’t hurt if you all went to meet him, just so he can decide which one of you has a higher chance to win in court?”

“We will. Uh.” The villain paused sheepishly. Well, not a villain, more like an unfortunately angry and poor decision making citizen. “Sorry about… you know, the blast.”

“It’s cool. I mean,” Spider-Man gestured to the rooftop, the bodies of unconscious people kind of laying around where he knocked them down. “You guys might wanna check on them, yeah? I’ll let you go for now, but if you commit a B&E again, I’ll leave you webbed up for GCPD to find.”

“Got it. Sorry.”

Feeling good about himself, and plotting corporate espionage, Spider-Man went to help pry some people from his webs.

And of course, because Parker Luck kicks in only when Spider-Man felt like life was looking up for himself, Spider-Man’s senses blared once more as he knelt down to pull at some webbing.

“Oh, shit!” He heard, right before a cold blast of something slammed right into his head, knocking him out.

And Spider-Man

——

Larry looked at the the empty space where Spider-Man, the guy who took a hit from his boss’ blaster so he wouldn’t get hurt, used to be.

He twisted.

“Boss, what the fuck?!”

“Shit! That was accident!” Boss pulled herself up from the concrete, where she just ate dirt.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know, Larry! That was the experimental warped mode! Crap!” His boss scrambled with the controls, desperately trying to see if the magic gun her magician friend had handed her years ago had a reverse button. It didn’t.

“Why would you bring a test weapon into the field?!”

“I gave you all of my other ones!” She threw up her hands. “Fuck, I feel so bad.”

Larry paled. “Dude, Dare Devil’s gonna kill us.”

“He doesn’t kill!” His boss hesitated. “I think.”

Larry pointed to the empty space. “Yeah? He might start with us. Spidey was a cool guy and you just disappeared him!”

“I know!”

Larry buried his head into his hands and tried not to hate himself for the entire situation.

——

Spider-man woke up, laid flat on the grimy ground of an alleyway.

“Ugh. Just my luck.” He kept his eyes closed for just a beat longer to allow himself time before having to pull his shit together. Why was his voice high? And a bit squeaky? He pulled himself together.

“Okay.” He whispered to himself, before sitting up and taking stock of the situation.

First thing that hit him was that it stunk to high heavens. Gagging, Spider-Man looked to the right and- yeah, that’ll do it. He stood up on wobbly legs to try to move away from the overflowing dumpster.

That’s when the second, more important and decidedly more troublesome, observation hit him.

He’s short. Shorter. And his suit was hanging off of him.

He could tell he still had his normal by now physiology, with the speeding heartbeat and the feeling of super strength. But he’s shorter. With a mounting sense of equal parts dread and resignation, he pulled at the hidden seam by his nape, relying on his both his enhanced senses and spidey-sense to tell if anyone was nearby or looking at him. He pulled the Spider-Man suit off, blankly folding it neatly as he stared dumbly at his hands. They’re small too. Shit. He stumbled to a nearby mud puddle and stared down, seeing his younger face in the contaminated water. Double shit.

He’s starting to loose his composure. He’d gone through a lot of bizarre things over the last eight years. But getting accidentally Detective Conan’ed by a person he just helped was a new low.

The black under layer of his suit, a slash proof and fire resistant polymer Peter had designed himself in MIT’s lab, was in a similar state.

With one hand, Peter Parker numbly rolled up his sleeves and pant hems. Great. Okay. Now what?

Ah. Shoes. He did not want to walk around in his too-big Spider-Man boots. He looked around. Well, there’s the laces of what looked to be like a pair of dumpster shoes. “Yeah, no.”

Shit. Does he still have access to his hammer space?

Peter reached into his pocket, and tried to reach for a pair of normal sneakers. His shoulder slumped as he produced a pair. Fuck yes. He still has access! And shoes! They’re ones he took off of a power line for a well off kid who didn’t want it anymore. He was going to donate them to F. E. A. S. T. but he’s thanking the stars he procrastinated a bit on swinging by the center. He put them on. They’re a bit big, but it’s better than the giant-in-comparison ones he normally wears. You know, as an adult.

He hesitated with his mask. He should at least figure out where he is. He hoped it was still in the states. His mask blinked, the HUD in his lenses informing him that it was trying to find a connection. “That’s weird.” He paused, grimacing at the sound of his voice. But it is weird, because he had his mask automatically connected to the world wide satellites Tony Stark had sent circling the globe for citizens without internet access as a back up option. So either he was somewhere even the Stark Satellites couldn’t reach or…

Peter swallowed, his mask pinging as it found a connection to piggy back on. He clicked his tongue twice to activate the voice controls.

“Connect to the local maps. Where am I?”

His masked followed the order. [Gotham. New Jersey.]

Peter stared at the words, gut churning.

Good news, he was still in the States. Bad news? He’s shrunk, in a totally different state, and possibly in a different world because he’s not connected to the Stark Satellites he knew operated in New Jersey.

Peter Parker tilted his head back and allowed himself one verbal, panic level six and up, curse word.

“Fuck.”

He took off his mask and leaned against a slightly cleaner part of the wall before hyperventilating.

——

Half an hour later, Peter smacked himself on the cheeks and pulled himself together.

“You’re Spider-Man,” he hissed to himself. “Have a mental breakdown somewhere warm, you dumbass.”

Peter Parker was a champion, world class expert at compartmentalization.

He slipped his mask back on, and pulled up his “So You’re Stuck in an Alternate Universe” list he had made with Ned so many years ago when they were high school kids and going through comic books to make contingencies because Peter was a little idiot vigilante hero.

“I didn’t think I’d actually ever need this kind of thing.” Peter muttered. He slipped his black back up gloves on to connect to his mask’s display in order to type.

“Okay,” he glanced at the side by side screens in his lenses. “Money.”

Five things.

1) The emergency cash he’d stashed on him thankfull matched the pictures of cash he’d found on this world’s internet. Yay!

2) He had $1000 tucked away. Not yay. Not if this might be a long term stay before he got back to his own dimension. Not if he wanted a place to sleep.

3) Luckily, thanks to his earlier search of where the hell he was, Peter figured out that due to the high crime rates- “Dang, that’s worse than New York on New Year’s Eve,” he had marveled- Gotham was dirt cheap and that that meant 1k dollars could actually last him a while and he could afford a room for a month on $250. A whole ass apartment for $550. Peter seriously considered staying in this universe just for the rent prices. So what if there’s rampant crimes? He’d deal with it if the rent was that cheap.

4) Problem? He’s fucking tiny. Who would rent to a person that looked like child? Not anyone upstanding, that’s for sure. He’s more likely to get mugged. Counterpoint: he’s in a city where apparently shady people are all around. Also? He doesn’t have an identity.

5) If the fact that he couldn’t connect to the Stark Satellites didn’t convince him he was either in another universe or an alternate dimension, the visual graphics of the websites he visited would. It was like looking at Windows in the early way before Stark Co. bought them out and improved the design. Nauseating.

Okay, so, money’s not too urgent of an issue. Next on Ned’s list: Places of Interest.

Namely, libraries, homeless shelters, crime hotspots, and the like.

Peter snorted when he came across an opinions article talking about how Park Row became Crime Alley. And then he frowned, because that story was not painting this place to be even remotely nice. Then again, considering the crime rates and the various Rogues this place seemed to have in spades, that wasn’t much of a surprise. Peter marks the place in his new mental map of Gotham as a potential area he could either disappear to or get a new identity at. He then marked the libraries, Gotham City Public Library and its many branches all funded by generous donations from a Bruce Wayne, the Martha Wayne foundations’ shelters and charities, two supermarkets near the library, and a coffee shop he thought looked warm and cozy from the shitty pictures they have uploaded online. He needed coffee, dammit, and he needed it hours ago. Alas, he probably wouldn’t get to go to one until he secured his finances.

Well, it’s not like he doesn’t have practice being poor.

3) Which brings him up to Ned’s next, surprisingly reasonable for a teenager hoped up on a mountain load of sugar, point. Level of Tech.

Peter hid next to the dumpster, melding in with the shadows, as he continued his research.

Tech here was… well, he probably wouldn’t have to worry. The thought of not having a Starkphone, even his older model, was painful considering the new versions of these WaynePhones were really… behind. Peter doesn’t remember the last time he had buttons on his phone or let alone a touch screen that didn’t use facial tracking and biometrics or even have a holographic display mode.

“Ugh. Okay. Not the end of the world, Parker.” Peter muttered.

Now… People of Interest.

This was underlined three times with Ned’s red pens, with extensive subcategories.

Subcategory A? Villains, because “what if they put out a warning for a known villain and you get your butt kicked because you didn’t know about them, Peter? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

He had replied, half focused on the list and the other on savoring the Millennium Falcon Lego set May had saved up for months to get him for his birthday, “I feel like if I was getting my butt kicked by a villain, I’d probably have better things to worry about than my utter humiliation, Ned.”

“True that,” Ned had snicked and jotted it down anyways.

And… well, Gotham had a lot of villains. The Joker (ew, that’s a crusty man in crustier face paint. This guy could learn so much from the cool mimes busking in Central Park. Like, how to do face paint. Or how not to be a massive murderous jerk. There’s Clayface, Two-Face, a bald guy in “Metropolis” (a name Peter couldn’t help but snort at because a city named city? That’s like na’an bread being bread bread. Or chai tea being tea tea) named Lex Luthor, and Scarecrow. He tabbed all of them and marked them for further perusal at a later date. From experience, he knew villains with a prominent M.O. and themes usually did more damage. Case in point: Rhino, and the million dollars of property damage the guy did everytime he escaped the Raft. Peter was seriously considering petitioning for the Raft to be placed further out just so he could have more warning the next time some assholes decided to free the prisoners and helped them escape.

He narrowed his eyes at the screen, his mask’s lenses following the movement. He’ll have to pick up a gas mask. Apparently bio-weapons are just a regular thing here and he really didn’t want to get dosed with this “fear toxin.” It’d be dangerous for everyone involved. Maybe if he gets his hands on a sample, he could build up tolerance and see how his immune system and metabolic rates affected the normal progression of the toxin. Ah, off topic. He’s gotta focus.

Subcategory B: Local celebrities.

“Why would I need to know local celebrities?” He’d asked.

“If someone came up to you and asked “Who’s Tony Stark?”, wouldn’t you clock that as super weird? You gotta blend in, Peter. Plus, you gotta keep up with the pop culture, dude. It’s important.”

“You just want alternate universe memes,” Peter grinned.

“That too. If you ever go to an alternate universe and come back, you’d better bring me a truckload of memes or I’ll never forgive you.”

Yeah. So. Wayne? Super important. Like Tony Stark levels of important. He found threads about them and the local vigilantes and their charity works. Peter’s brain instantly catalogued the info, all but memorizing the deluge of pictures he found of Bruce Wayne and his kids. Maybe the man had an adoption problem? Conspiracy threads and memes popped up alongside his research. He tabbed one on secret societies, because as Spiderman, he had fought a disturbing amount of secret societies that, on hindsight, had been theorized about on threads he’s read on his free time. Somehow, somewhere, somewhen, a conspiracy theorist could be right. Peter’s not about to dismiss that. He also saved like thirty different memes to send to Ned when he got back. If he got back.

Peter smacked that thought away. He’ll get back to his city or die trying.

Subcategory C, underlined and starred: Other Superheroes and Vigilantes.

Yeah, Peter’s excited about this one too. After Matt stopped being Dare Devil (but did he actually ever stop?) and Wade dipping in and out of NY, Peter’s gotten lonely as Spider-Man. He missed training with them. Of course, the fantastic four were still operating, but he doesn’t actually interact with them or the Avengers at all. Miles hasn’t been cleared (by his mom) to go out as Spiderman with near as many hours as Peter cleared a night. Peter stood behind that because he remembered how horrible it was to work as Spiderman and try to balance school on top of it. Also, he was terrified of Mrs. Morales and would never endanger her son more than he already does. He did wave to Black Widow from a rooftop once, spider to spider, and that was pretty much the coolest moment of his life.

So. Uh. The amount of vigilantes and heroes in this world? Amazing. In Gotham? There’s like, a whole team of them.

Batman, Nightwing (who, Username: Draken Draken had theorized, was the first iteration of Batman’s sidekick Robin), Red Hood, Black Canary, Huntress, Red Robin, Spoiler, the “day vigilante” Signal, the current Robin, and whispers of a “Black Bat.”

And their unfortunate “No Meta” rule with the singular exception of Signal. Peter figured their term of Meta was essentially the same thing as his world’s mutants. He’s not sure which term he liked more. Eh, he’ll worry about that later.

And there’s a Justice League! Which, to Peter, is just a bigger Avengers. There’s aliens on this world too. Superman. Martian Manhunter.

Peter grinned from his place crouched next to the dumpster. Yeah, this is awesome. He quickly memorized everything he could find, cross referencing posts and picking out the nuggets of truth or at least popular truth from the posts he viewed. Like, Red Hood operated in Crime Alley and was a crime boss with morals. Cool.

He’ll go down the spiral later. He mentally thanked Ned who was the best guy in the chair a teenage vigilante could ask for. He should really text his friend when he got back.

For now, he’ll head to the library and see if he could use their computers. He might need a card though… Peter quickly pulled up the search engine and found an Internet cafe. Ah, 24 hour internet cafes, the savior of his college days. There first, and then library, Peter decided. He memorized the instructions and pulled his mask off, tucking it away in the hammer space.

He walked out the alley and turned left, only to double take at his reflection in a shop window that was partially boarded up. Holy shit, he’s a baby. He’s like. 10!

Oh my god.

Peter twitched, tearing himself away from the window before the shop owner decided he was less curious and more potential mugger before promptly remembering that he looked less of a threat than ever. Mixed feelings.

Peter hurried his way to the internet cafe, paying the guy at the front a little extra so he’d ignore the obvious minor without a guardian thing Peter hasn’t gotten used to. Ugh. That was going to be annoying. He only paid for two hours and pulled up as many listings for a room as possible. By the end of it, he came out with $1 worth of fliers printed out and having funneled some billionaire’s offshore accounts into a new bank account he’d made by hacking into the bank servers. Does he feel bad about stealing? Yeah. But Peter’s a vigilante. He’s done worse than nabbing a monthly sum of a couple of hundreds from Lex Luthor’s off shore accounts. He’s not gonna get caught, and considering the guy’s rants on meta humans, Peter’s not feeling particularly guilty about it. He’ll do something good later to make up for it. Once he gets his footholds and can prepare his way back, he’ll even return to the rest of the money. Probably.

Peter left the cafe with his sheaf of flyers, stopping by an informational stand with free tourist maps and plucked one quickly from its plastic holder. He’ll pick something up from the food vendors on his way to the apartments. Peter began walking, taking in the sights of the gargoyles and-

“Nope!” He caught the wrist of a pickpocket. It’s a kid and he immediately felt bad.

“Lemme go. I ain’t done nothing to ya, ya Yorker tourist.”

“Okay,” Peter shrugged. “Don’t get caught the next time?”

The kid gaped at him. “Shi’, you must be really good at it. I’ve never been caught before.”

Peter wisely refrained from telling the kid it was due to his spidey-sense. He let go of the kid’s wrist and let a bit more of his accent out. “Why’d you need money anyways?”

“Food, duh.”

“Dude, I’m starving. Tell you what. You show me the best sub shop nearby and I’ll pay for your food. Deal?”

The kid stared at him, wide eyed. “You’re fuckin’ nuts. Why’re you being nice?”

“I’m hungry? Do we have a deal, kid?”

“… Fuck it. Fine. And don’t call me kid, shrimp. You’re like what, eight?”

Oh. Yeah. Peter’s a kid now. He shrugged.

“I’m older than you. I’m twelve.”

Peter blinked, frowning at how thin the kid’s wrists were.

“I’m Peter!”

“… Frank.”

He let Frank lead the way. Stranger danger doesn’t apply to him, he’s a grown ass man. In the body of a ten year old him, but still. A couple of minutes, four sandwiches and a load of chips later, Frank was watching wide eyed as he demolished three four dollar subs.

“Holy shit. Where are you packing that away? You’re a stick!”

Peter took a big bite of the sandwich as an answer. Frank looked down at his meal.

“Uh. Hey.”

Peter made a muffled noise of question, mouth stuffed full of steak and cheese.

“Sorry about. Uh. Trynna nick from ya.”

Peter chewed faster.

Frank continued, looking like he hated himself. “I wouldn’t… normally steal from shrimps like you but I was desperate and… really hungry, so. My bad.”

Peter finished chewing. “All good, dude. Eat your sandwich.”

Peter had the sudden urge to adopt Frank. Unlike Wayne, he’s not a billionaire, so he smacked that urge down. He could use a friend though. Now… how to be friends with a literal child!

“If you feel that bad about it, you could… be my friend?”

Peter took in the wide eyed gaze from the twelve year old in front of him. Abort! Abort! That was too direct!

“You’re fucking weird. But… okay.”

“That was easy.”

Frank scowled, kicking Peter’s shin.

“Ow!”

“Whatever, shrimp.”

Peter scowled. On his baby face, it came out as a pout.

Do not start beef with a twelve year old, Peter. You’re a grown ass adult.

“Hey, you know I’m new here, right?”

“Duh.” Frank took a bite of his food.

“Can you tell me which one of these are legit?” Peter handed Frank the flyers. He took them, an odd look passing his face.

“You’re looking for a place?”

“Yeah? Why?”

Frank stared at him. Looked back down. He instantly got rid of four listings out of the ten. “These are too close to the Alley. They’re probably traffickers.”

Peter hummed in agreement. Frank paused.

“You’re just gonna trust me on that?”

“Yeah? I can tell when people are lying.” Well, his spidey sense could, when he cared enough about the subject.

“What the fuck.” Frank shoved the rest the papers at him and guiltily munched on his food. “Are Yorkers all just like you?”

“Dunno? Probably not.”

“… Whatever. The rest of the places should work. They probably won’t ask questions.” Frank flapped a hand at Peter’s new situation. Yeah, the shortness was getting to him too.

Peter nodded. Obviously, they were the more expensive places, but considering the new found resources he’d… acquired during his time at the cafe, it doesn’t really matter.

“Cool! Wanna go see it with me?”

Frank immediately took on a suspicious glare. “Why?”

“I dunno? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought since you know your way around…”

“Ugh. Fine. But if there’s anything shady, I’m fucking dipping out.”

“Okay!” Peter grinned for the first time the couple of hours he’d been trapped in this new world.

——

They’d found an apartment with a landlord that got a weird, sad face when she was talking to them about the apartment. After like, an hour of walking around and Peter’s spidey sense screaming at him not to even go near the places Frank had left in the pile of maybe’s.

“We walked all the way here. Ya not even gonna go in?”

“The vibes are off. It’s a no.”

And because Peter’s a genius idiot with no self preservation, he’d marked the places to investigate later.

Frank had blinked at him, mildly offended and nonplussed. After a while of spluttering, he just gave up. Eventually, they got here.

“I don’t normally rent to kids,” the landlord lady said. Peter immediately liked her. “But I’ll make an exception if you’ve got the cash.”

“I’d like to see the unit first, please” Peter said. He’s not stupid, and Gotham’s renting scene is both easier and harder than New York.

They toured it. Peter? He’d seen worse. He’d lived worse. Also, it had two bedroom and was $620. Yeah, Peter was really considering just staying here full time and commuting to his New York when he wanted to be a vigilante.

“I’ll take it, ma’am.” The landlord and Frank both snorted, sharing a Gothamite look.

“It’s Georgie, to you, brat. You just need the first month’s rent, since I’ll wave the deposit for you shrimps. Utilities included. Your friend stayin’?”

“No-” Frank had started.

“Yep!” Peter beamed, interrupting his new friend.

“What?” Frank turned, gaping again at this weird little kid who had enough money to rent a place and then invited a whole ass street kid he just met to live with him. “Are you stupid?! What if I rob you? Huh? I don’t need charity!”

Peter slowly looked around the empty unit.

“Uh.”

“No, that’s not the point!” Frank pointed a finger at Peter. “That’s how you get yourself killed!”

“But that’s why you should stay! I don’t know my way around Gotham so…”

Peter looked up at Frank, using his shortness for maximum devastation. “Please?”

Georgie leaned back on the heels of her feet, silently laughing. It’s not every day she sees a Gothamite street kid get out stubborned by an outsider, but she knows better than anyone that Gotham is weak to genuine kindness. And this Peter kid, the one that reminds her so much of her own? He’s practically filled with it.

“Yeah, kid,” she said to Frank, snickering. “Look at him. He’s gonna get mugged two steps into the Alley. Or anywhere.”

Frank flailed, but eventually, Peter handed over the money to an amused Georgie who gave them two keys in return and a move in gift of a pot pie.

“I gotta. Uh. Go get my stuff.” Frank had mumbled, dazed at whatever the hell just happened.

“Okay! I’ll see if I can go get furniture!”

“And lift them with your shrimpy arm? You wish.”

“I can use a cart.”

And really, he could, because Gotham had a lot of abandoned carts laying around. Like a concerning amount.

“Can you even reach the handle?”

“I’m not that short!”

Frank snorted, Georgie’s own chuckles following a beat after. Peter scowled at them.

“Be right back,” Frank promised, holding the key like it was treasure. He had been homeless for two and a half years now, so in his eyes, that key was as good as gold. He had somewhere warm to stay. Trying to pickpocket Peter was the best mistake he’s ever made in his short life. But he didn’t want to take advantage of that, well, no, he did want to, but he doesn’t want to take the genuine kindness for granted so he’ll see if there’s any street furniture he could haul back on his way.

“Okay!”

Georgie watched him go and turned to Peter.

“If you need stuff, there’s a thrift store and a grocery store that way.” She gave him the directions.

——

As soon as Frank and Georgie left, Peter immediately left his new place (and holy shit, he really didn’t expect things to be this easy. In New York, he had to spend at least a week checking out places because he had to figure out whether the problem that cause subtle twinges with his spider sense was worth living with. Here? It’s too obvious.) to buy supplies. He had $400. Until his new card came in, at least. He’d put his new address into that bank account addressed to a “Anthony Benjamin” before ordering a “replacement card.”

Peter ran to the thrift store, hurrying before the last traces of the sun dipped below the smog of Gotham. A frankly absurd amount of blankets, towels, pillows, clothes, packaged boxers, socks and shoes around his size went into the cart. To his chagrin, Peter couldn’t actually see much over the cart. Why the hell was he such a short ten year old? He blasted through the store, also guesstimating Frank’s sizes. He tossed in curtains, a used set of glow in the dark stars, and a lamp.

He also grabbed mismatched mugs, bowls, a bundle of cutlery, and a dented microwave he casually pretended to struggle getting onto the bottom part of the cart. It’s like lifting grapes for him, but he looks like a ten year old so…

He, guiltily, bought a mildly fancy camera in a set, with two separate lenses, even if one was cracked.

Not bad, for $150 total. Peter is going to definitely seriously consider commuting to New York. They didn’t even care when he walked out with the cart! Well, that might be because of the cashier who gave him a pitying glance.

He stopped by a general store on the way back, parking his cart in a rapidly shadowy alleyway. He swung by the new section of the store that reminded him of a Dollar Tree and got cleaning supplies, toiletries, and two pans and a pot. He grabbed some canned food and a couple of frozen meals in the back. Seasonings, ramen, general pantry staples went in. A role of paper towel. Nice. Venom would have loved this store. With half of his budget blown for essentials, Peter quickly cut his spending off and

He quickly gathered his stuff and went back to the apartment, using his strength a bit to lift the full cart up the stairs at the front doors and into the elevator. It creaked like the first time they used it to go see the apartment, but it worked. Peter set everything up in the living room, pillow and blanket wise, and put everything in its proper place. The lamp was put up, giving more light than the old bulb in the ceiling light.

All Peter wanted to do was pass out, but since his dumbass took in a child, he couldn’t sleep until this place was relatively fit for a kid to live in. He also wanted to wait for

So, that’s what he did. Taking a sponge and the cleaning supplies he’d picked up earlier, Peter tackled the living room, scrubbing away at old stains and spraying mildew. He marked trouble spots- like that splinter worthy piece of floor next to the doorway leading to the hall between the bedrooms. Then the kitchen. By the time Frank cautiously peeked his head in from the front door, Peter had already finished scrubbing the over.

“Hey.”

Peter turned, grime on his face but grinning. “Hey!” I bought some stuff!”

Frank snorted at his face before glancing around the living room, eyeing the cart parked neatly on the side.

“So you did. Didn’t get mugged, did ya?”

“Rude. No, of course not.”

Frank gave him a… frankly… unimpressed look and dumped his bag next to the pile of blankets and pillows Peter had piled onto the floor. Sue hi’, they didn’t have beds yet.

“Got somethin’ for ya,” Frank said neutrally before dragging in…

“A coffee table!” Peter bounced towards Frank, hugging him before lugging in the heavy wooden table in. “You’re the best! Where’d you find it?!”

The tension, anxiety about Peter’s reaction, in Frank’s shoulders relaxed and the kid grinned. “Alley. Some asshole just left it there for anyone to hit with their car so I took it.”

“Nice! We can eat on this!”

——

When they were getting ready for bed, Peter insisting on showers for both of them, Frank had reared up at the clothes Peter bought for him. Peter pretended like he didn’t see anything and shove a whole tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush at him.

“Ew. Do I have to?” Frank asked, wrinkling his nose but taking the items anyways.

“Yeah.” Peter said seriously. Frank gave a moment to wonder why he was taking orders from an eight year old before shrugging. He could brush his teeth in exchange for a roof over his head, food, and clothes. It’s not even a fair trade, for Peter, anyways. Frank was enough of an alley rat to take advantage of that.

——

When Frank passed out, Peter couldn’t sleep. He’s exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep.

So he took his new camera and climbed the fire escape to the roof top.

An hour later, he met his first vigilante.

“Hey, kiddo. I’m gonna need you to back away from the edge.”

“Woah!” Peter startled, jolting slightly off of the ledge he was balanced on. He twisted around to see Red Robin, hand outstretched and panicked look in his eyes.

“Dude. Warn a guy!” Peter said, even though his spider sense warned him of an approaching person that was actively watching him.

Red Robin held his hands up. “My bad. Would you- uh, not be on that ledge?”

“Yeah, sure. My bad, bro.” Peter obligingly stood up and stepped away from the ledge. Red Robin relaxed then did a double take. Peter frowned. Is there something on his face?

“What are you doing up here, kiddo? It’s late.”

Peter decided to scope out the vigilante. “Couldn’t sleep,” he held up his camera. “I’m taking pictures.”

“Oh. That’s cool! Can I see?” Red Robin approached warily, but relaxed when Peter didn’t spook and try to take a shortcut to ground floor.

“Sure! It’s a new, well, not new but new to me, camera so I haven’t had all that time to mess with the specs but the pictures turned out pretty good-”

“Oh, woah. This one’s great. That composition? Amazing. You caught the light perfectly,” Red Robin complimented. Peter brightened, knowing a photography fan when he hears one.

“Photography buddy!” He cheered.

They talked for an hour after that, but Red Robin quickly sent him to bed once he remembered the time.

“Ah, shi- crap. It’s like 2AM. You’ve gotta go to bed.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry if I interrupted your patrol, Mr. Red Robin!”

“No problem, kid.” Peter slipped back down the fire escape, not caring if the vigilante saw where he lived.

——

Up on the rooftop, Red Robin pressed a hand to his comm.

“Red Robin to Nightwing.”

“What’s up, Red?”

“Do you have a kid you don’t know about?” Tim said, bluntly.

“… What?”

“Oracle, can you share my cowl footage?”

“Copy. Oh, that kid…”

“Looks exactly like Wing?” Tim said, peering down at the empty fire escape. “Yeah. Talked like him too.”

“Oh my god, he’s adorable.” Oracle said. Tim agreed. That curly hair? Baby face? Adorable. A bean. “Did you get DNA?”

“Ah, shit, I knew I forgot something.”

“Do not break into his place and nab a hair,” Nightwing reprimanded, but his voice sounded distracted.

“Holy shit, you guys nerded out about camera placement and lighting for an hour?” Hood piped up.

“Get some rest, Red Robin. You’ve been working too hard,” Batman grunted through the comms. Awkward… but he’s been getting better at communicating his worry for his kids.

“Sure thing, B. Heading back to the main cave. Red Robin out.

——

Peter: lay low and get home

Also Peter: talks to a vigilante

None of them think Peter’s Nightwing’s yet. Peter will know before them… eventually. Once this world’s version of him gives up his memories to be absorbed by AU Peter.

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corrodedcorpses · 1 year

Text

Boys on Film. Part iv

Pairing: PS!Steve x PS!Eddie x Virgin!reader

Summary: It's been a year since you last saw Eddie and Steve. The last place you expected to see them again for the first time was at a club while you were out with your new boyfriend. The night does not go how you imagined it at all.

Warnings: Smut (18+ MDNI), public sex (ish), fingering, angst, cheating (sorry)

Word count: 6.8K

a/n: I hope this kind of makes up for the ending of the last chapter but also I'm sorry in advance. (also as always a massive thank yous to my babies @andvys @wroteclassicaly @usedtobecooler @bimbobaggins69 for all of your help I love you all so much)

Taglist is closed but if you want an update on when I post the next chapter you can follow my fic account @corrodedcorpsesfics and turn on notifications🖤

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4.5

Steve and Eddie stare at your closed door that had just been slammed in their face moments ago. It had all gone so wrong, so fast. Neither of them had meant for it to go that way or to fight like that with you. All of their (and your own) long harboured emotions coming out during the fight, all of the love turning into hate in order to protect your hearts from - what you all assumed - would no doubt be rejection.

Eddie is the first to break eye contact with your door. Scoffing and walking toward his van as Steve leans his head on the door, closing his eyes trying to will you to open it again. He’s almost sure he can hear tiny sobs coming from the other side and it feels like his heart is breaking all over again.

He can hear Eddie behind him, pacing and grumbling out “shit”, “fuck” and mumbling “that was so stupid” over and over again. Steve is frozen in place, he knows as soon as he breaks away from your door that it’s all over, that he’ll have to face the reality of what just happened. He doesn’t know if he can do that yet.

A loud smack, that was obviously Eddie’s palm hitting his car, finally jolts Steve out of his self pity. He finally turns to him, watching as Eddie continues to pace and mumble expletives under his breath, his ringed fingers running through his hair with so much force Steve thinks he’s about to rip it all out.

“Eddie,” he tries, too quietly as the other man doesn’t stop.

He glances at your door one more time before sighing and walking up to Eddie.

“Eddie,” he says more firmly, standing next to where he continues to pace, “come on man-”

“Don't you ‘come on man’ me,” Eddie interrupts, whipping around to finally look at Steve, “what the fuck was that, Harrington.”

Steve flinches at the use of his last name, something Eddie only uses to tease or hurt him.

“What the fuck was what, Munson?” Steve throws his own surname back at him with just as much venom, Eddie squinting his eyes into a glare.

“All that,” Eddie explains, wildly gesturing to your house, “bullshit you pulled in there. ‘At least you wouldn’t have been a virgin in your twenties’,” he mocks what Steve had said to you.

“The bullshit I pulled?” Steve almost shouts back, “What about you, huh?” He asks, a finger poking into Eddie’s chest to reiterate his point. “You didn’t break that shit to her gently at all! No wonder she went straight into ‘defence mode’.”

Eddie just rolls his eyes at him, even though he knows Steve's right.

The action only angers Steve more. “I wasn’t even in that stupid argument until you dragged me in with your bullshit about hanging out with King Steve.”

Eddie visibly cringes at the memory of using Steve’s old title, one he knew Steve loathed and has done years of work to be anything but. But, Eddie couldn’t let Steve ‘win’ the argument. If he did he would have to admit that all of this was his fault.

“Whatever,” Eddie scoffs, “the argument only turned nasty as soon as you put your 2 cents in! The shit you said was just—” Eddie pauses, remembering how Steve had teased him for not ‘making a move’ on you sooner, saying everyone thought you were Eddie’s ‘property’ during high school, outing him for scaring away anyone that dared to get close to you because he knew that weren’t good enough for you, “mean.”

Eddie whispers the last word. The only word he could come up with to express how he felt, how that whole argument transported him right back to his teenage years, something he truly thought he had gotten over from the help of you and Steve. Something he obviously was far from getting over.

Steve’s demeanour changes, he can see the hurt in Eddie’s eyes, the sliver of vulnerability that he’s been hiding behind his rage. He understands the weight that one word holds.

“I didn’t intend for it to be mean, I just, I don’t know, it just–-” he’s taken aback, stuttering through some sort of an explanation, but there isn’t one. He was mean.

“It’s like you wanted to hurt her,” Eddie continues, but he doesn’t mean just you, “hurt me.” He whispers so softly, he’s sure Steve wouldn’t even hear him. But Steve does.

“What? Why would I want to hurt someone I love!” Steve says too quickly in response, eyes widening when he realises what he just said, what he just confessed to Eddie. But when he looks at Eddie he only sees hurt in his eyes.

Eddie still doesn’t think Steve heard him say ‘hurt me’, so he takes Steve’s confession as a confession of love for you, not you and him.

Eddie just laughs with no humour, shaking his head. “I was fucking right, I fucking knew you hadn’t changed – you’re such an asshole, man.”

The cogs in Eddie’s head turn, thinking back to how Steve had said all those things against him, no doubt finally seeing his opportunity to put a wedge between you both, so Steve could finally have you all to himself.

Steve just stares at him in shock as whatever fragments of his heart that were left break even further. He didn’t think Eddie loved him back but there was some part of him that had hoped, that had at least thought Eddie would be nice about it, gentle with his heart even if he didn’t want to keep it.

He didn’t think Eddie would laugh in his face and call him an asshole.

“Wow,” Steve says to himself in disbelief, “okay.” He feels the tears well up in his eyes as his chest physically aches from all of the heartbreak tonight. He doesn’t want Eddie to see him break down, he'd no doubt laugh at his misery.

He starts to walk away from Eddie, it’s the only thing he can think to do. It’s only a couple of miles to his house, the air isn’t too cold and it’s not too late — he can easily just walk home, he thinks.

“Steve?” Eddie questions as the other boy starts to hurry away from him, “Steve!” He tries again, an air of worry in his voice as he calls out, “Seriously? You’re just gonna walk away from me too huh?” Eddie yells.

“Whatever man,” Steve yells back, already at the end of your driveway, stopping only when his shoes hit the road to look back at Eddie, “you basically just rejected me so, I don’t need this shit anymore.” Steve spits, mentally cursing the way his voice wobbles as he says it. He continues down the road, needing to get as much distance between him and Eddie before he can finally break down.

“What?” Eddie says too quietly, he realises when Steve doesn’t respond, “rejected you?” he shouts this time. But still Steve doesn’t stop.

“Steve! Would you — shit,” Eddie curses. He’s so confused about what Steve meant, he’s so confused about this whole evening but he needs to know. The tiny sliver of his heart that is holding onto hope needs to know what Steve meant.

Eddie runs around to the drivers side and launches himself into his van. Cursing when the engine turns over way too many times before it finally roars to life. He swings out of the driveway like a madman, thanking the universe that you live on a quiet street.

He catches up with Steve quickly, slowing the van down until he’s driving right beside him. He’s happy he never listened to you and Steve about needing to roll his windows up.

“Steve, would you just stop,” Eddie pleads.

“No,” is all Steve replies.

“Steve,” Eddie pleads exasperatedly, “what did you mean?”

But Steve doesn’t answer and he doesn't stop walking. He hopes if he ignores Eddie long enough that he will just leave him alone.

And he thinks his plan worked when Eddie suddenly drives forwards down the road. But, those hopes are shattered when Eddie parks a little bit ahead of Steve and hops out.

Steve finally stops walking as he sees Eddie running towards him. He should just turn around and walk away, circle back around at the other end of your street, it’s a longer way to walk but at least he wouldn’t have to see Eddie. But he doesn’t, his feet won’t let him move. He sees Eddie rushing towards him and his whole body aches for Eddie to just hold him as he breaks down and melts into his arms.

When Eddie finally gets to Steve he’s quick to invade his space, cupping his face tenderly in both of his hands. Eddie searches Steve’s eyes, he can see the unshed tears threatening to spill, the hurt and the tiny bit of hope Steve also holds. It’s enough for Eddie to ask again, even if it could mean more heartache.

“Steve,” he whispers so tenderly, it makes Steve’s knees almost buckle, makes it even harder to not just fall at Eddie’s feet and beg him to love him back, “what did you mean?”

Steve swallows, hard. He looks into Eddie’s big, brown, pleading eyes. He knows he’s about to get his heart smashed, completely obliterated when he explains himself, but he can’t stop his mouth from moving. God, he would do anything Eddie asked while he cradled his face so delicately and looked at him like that.

“I basically just told you I wanted you,” he whispers, eye’s never leaving Eddie’s “a-and you just told me to, to get fucked.” He closes his eyes trying to will his tears to stay at bay, the last sentence coming out all wobbly as he tries to stop his bottom lip from trembling.

“Steve…” Eddie says in a way that has Steve opening his eyes again. He’s met with confusion and yearning swimming in Eddie’s beautiful brown orbs. “You want me?” Eddie asks in disbelief, “I - I thought you were talking about her!” It comes out like a question, like a plea.

“I was,” Steve says, and he can see Eddie’s eyes start to fall, feel his hands on his cheeks loosen, Steve is quick to grab Eddie’s wrists, keeping his hands on his cheeks before quickly continuing, “I was talking about both of you, idiot.” He says the last word fondly, with a hint of a smile dancing on his still trembling lips.

Eddie can’t help but return a small smile of his own. Steve wants him too. He leans forward to capture Steve’s lips with his own. It’s the only thing he can think to do in the moment, the only thing his body will let him do. Steve returns the kiss immediately. It’s soft, so soft that it sears their lips, all of the passion and pent up feelings and anger from the last hour coming out in the way their lips and tongue dance together so slowly.

Eddie finally pulls back after they’ve run out of air, resting his forehead against Steve’s. “I like you too,” he whispers, just in case it wasn’t obvious, revelling in the way it makes Steve smile, “I like you both too.”

Steve pulls back to look at Eddie properly, he can see the mix of happiness and regret all over Eddie’s face.

“Oh.” Steve says. It’s all he can say, he sees the whole argument differently now, sees how stupid they both had been. He realises why Eddie said and did what he did and regrets the things he said to him. Knowing how much more they would have hurt now.

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Eddie replies.

“We're idiots.” Steve sighs.

“Yep.” Eddie agrees.

“Should we… go back inside?” Steve asks.

Eddie shakes his head knowingly, “give her some time, trust me.”

He thinks back to all the times you showed up at his trailer door, sheepishly asking if you could spend the day or the night or the weekend when you were upset. Always claiming to need space from your family after you fought. Eddie never realising what you needed wasn’t space, what you needed was him.

But you never told him that.

So, they do give you time. They give you a day to cool off, to sit with your thoughts before they call, but are only met with silence in return. They try again a day later — and again another day after that. They try to go over to your house a week later but you’re either not there or are pretending not to be.

They try again and again and again until trying every day turns into every two days, which turns into trying every week, which turns into trying every now and then over the next couple of months. The last time they tried was months later when they had had a particularly rough day and just needed you.

All of this was met with silence.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you kicked them out, but you hadn’t expected them to just leave. You had expected them to at least come back later that night or the next day.

Not call you late the next night like that would make up for anything and you didn’t expect it to take them a full week of calling before coming over to try and see you.

All of this just seemed to cement the idea in your head that they didn’t care about you as much as you'd been stupid enough to believe they did.

You didn’t realise how upset and borderline distraught this had also made them. You didn’t realise how upset they were after every failed attempt. How they had both sat on the kitchen floor in their new apartment months later and cried, surrounded by half unpacked boxes after that final time they tried, and failed, to call. Because none of this felt right without you.

And they didn’t realise how you’d done the exact same thing on the floor in your kitchen that night, cursing yourself for not just picking up the damn phone this time.

*******

You hold the two dresses up against your body, one at a time. Trying to decide between the black — tight, revealing and super uncomfortable or the dusty pink — a stark contrast, more modest, cute and comfortable.

You’d spent the last hour getting ready for your date with your boyfriend of about 6 months, Bradley. He was… nice… and fun… and, well, a good distraction. It was nice to feel needed. But, you know deep down that it ultimately won’t go anywhere.

There’s just something… missing. A spark? Passion? Familiarity? The fact that he’s not Eddie or Steve?

You groan at yourself for even having that thought, dropping the dresses back on your bed as your eyes land on the picture on your dresser next to your mirror. It’s a cute photo of you, Eddie and Steve, faces squished together and giant smiles plastered on your faces. A photo you still can’t bring yourself to get rid of.

You sigh and flip it over as you seem to before every date, the picture somehow making you feel guilty. As if the two people in the photo hadn’t completely broken your heart. But you know you’ll just put it back to its original position as soon as you get home again.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts, before you make the mistake of going down that black hole of missing them once again. You decide to just go for the revealing, uncomfortable dress — knowing Bradley would probably like it more, praise you for showing off the curves you mostly hid from him.

You’ll hopefully be too drunk to feel the discomfort anyway.

*****

The club is loud and packed when you arrive with Bradley, the bass and the stench of spilled sugary drinks overwhelming. You clutch the strap of the purse that’s across your chest nervously, there’s a split second where you want to turn around, hightail it out of there and cuddle up at home by yourself instead. You from a year ago would’ve, but you’re not that same person anymore.

“Drinks?” He yells at you over the music. He’s at least courteous enough to keep a tight arm around your waist, hugging you in close to shield you slightly from the rowdy party goers who already had one too many to drink.

“Please,” you yell back before you both make your way to the bar. Winding through the growing crowd of rowdy people, his hand heavy on your skin, feeling out of place.

You rest your forearms against the bar, wincing at the sticky feeling underneath. You watch as the bartenders flit around, making the various overpriced, overly sweet drinks for the other patrons who arrived long before you.

Your eyes wander as you wait, taking in the neon signs behind the bar, the shelves of alcohol with countless cheap labels, smiling as you see two girls overly excited to see each other, the guys next to you obviously getting rejected by the girls standing in front of them, the couple that can't seem to keep their hands off each other at the very end of the bar –- wait.

Wait.

You stare at the couple for longer than you should. Your brain taking a second to catch up with your eyes. You can only see the back of the guy as you take in his dark clothes, the chain bracelet on his wrist, the tattoos littered along his pale skin, the bats adorning his forearm, the long mop of curly brown hair- No. No no no no no.

Eddie?

Your head starts to spin, and not just from the overwhelming atmosphere of the club. Why is he here? Why now? Why is he with a girl? You curse yourself for even thinking that last part and for the pang of jealousy in your chest. You’re here with your boyfriend, you can’t be getting jealous of the guy who broke your heart being here with some other girl.

Even if he was your best friend for all of highschool, the only person who got you through that hell hole, one of the only people you’ve ever truly trusted, truly loved, who you definitely still love more than your own boyfriend as much as you try to pretend you don't, whose back is doing more things for you than your boyfriend has the whole time you’ve been dating, who kisses so much better than him, who looks really good right now kissing… Steve?!

It’s only then that Eddie turns slightly, giving you a glimpse of the ‘mystery girl’. You feel like you’re gonna be sick. What are they doing? Here? Together? God they look so good.

All thoughts fail you as you’re mesmerised watching them. The way their bodies press against each other, how Eddie has both hands lazily in Steve's back pockets as Steve's hands fist the front of Eddie’s shirt. Your cunt aches at the way their lips move together as though they’ve done this a thousand times.

They probably have done this a thousand times, you realise. They way they are standing, so relaxed with each other, like there's no hurry to the makeout session, like they have all night.

You're confused and hurt as you watch them. You can’t help but wonder if they’re together, they make a hot couple afterall. But you can’t help the awful feelings that that realisation arises. All of your fears from a year ago come flooding back, you were right. They never wanted you.

Before you can fully spiral you see Bradley’s hand wave in front of your face, it’s then that you realise he’s been talking to you and you see a stressed bartender give you a forced yet polite smile, as they wait for you to tell them what you want.

“Hello? y/n?” He asks, concerned.

“Huh?” You reply, dumb, unable to take your eyes off of them — it’s all your brain can come up with as a response, too absorbed in the scene taking place just feet from you.

“What would you like?” He asks, like he’s already asked you multiple times. You rip your eyes away from them, focusing on Bradley’s face that’s still soft and full of admiration, as if you hadn’t been actively ignoring him. As if time hadn’t just stood still, as you watched on in what could only be described as devastation.

“Oh-- ah-- just my usual,” you say finally, glancing back at Eddie and Steve. Watching as Steve’s hand curls into Eddie's hair, it’s longer now, you realise. I wonder if it would still be as soft or if - you shake that image out of your head. “Maybe some shots? Patreon or tequila, you like both right?” You add quickly.

Bradley seems surprised but compiles, ordering one of his own. You take the small glass in your hand, bringing it up to your lips, the strong smell already paralysing, before downing it as fast as you can. You make the mistake of glancing at Eddie and Steve again as you do, finding yourself making eye contact with Steve, realising they’re both looking at you now. You almost choke on the drink in your mouth, wincing at how the liquid burns more than usual as it slides down your throat.

You grab your drink and Bradley's hand, quickly leading him to the dancefloor. Needing to get as much space between you and the boys as possible.

Eddie and Steve watch you take the other guy's hand with dark eyes. You spare a glance back seeing Steve’s angry eyes as Eddie whispers something in his ear.

Angry? What does he have to be angry about?

You weave in and out of the crowd as they stumble and bump into you, the alcohol making them stagger on their feet and spill their drinks haphazardly on the floor. The further you get lost into the sea of people the more you try to shake Steve and Eddie out of your head, determined to still have a good time despite the anxiety that has wrapped its way around your chest.

Once you’re almost in the centre of the dancefloor, safely concealed by the thrawl of dancers, you turn to your boyfriend. You pull him in close, rocking your hips to the sound of the music and giving him a forced smile.

You dance with him for a while, getting lost in the music as you feel the alcohol seep through your body. Although it does nothing to settle the ugly feeling deep in your stomach. As much as you try you can’t help but spare little glances around the club, not being able to stop yourself from aching for just one more glance at them.

You finally see them, startled by the fact that they’re only a couple of people away from you. Steve is the only one actually dancing but Eddie is happily swaying with him, more than content with and touching Steve and placing gentle kisses all over his neck. Your chest tightens further at the need to tease Eddie about finally dancing, the realisation that you can’t joke with him like that anymore and the jealousy that he would come out to the dancefloor with Steve, even though he never would for you.

As these ugly emotions swirl around your stomach you realise they’re both watching you, stealing glances the same way you are, but a lot less subtly. Your blood boils at the looks they're giving you, they seem hurt and angry and almost… sad? They have no right to.

You turn your attention back to Bradley, you make out and grind against him, every now and then looking at them both and winking when you see them clench their jaws.

You’re confused as you continue your show. What do they have to be angry about? Why do they even care that you’re dancing with someone that isnt them? There was a time when they could’ve had you, a time when you would’ve done anything for them but they were the ones who threw you away. They have no right to be angry now.

Bradley leans down to whisper in your ear, you’re hopeful that he’s going to say something hot, a compliment or something, instead he lets you know he’s going to get more drinks, leaving you alone in the crowd before you can say anything else. You try to not look anxious about being alone in such a dense crowd of strangers, knowing Bradley is going to take a long time with how packed it is.

You find some comfort knowing that Steve and Eddie are close by, although you’re not sure why. You decide to continue dancing, doing the most to look as hot and unbothered as possible, but when you spare another glance at Steve and Eddie you’re surprised to find they’ve also gone. It’s weird how their absence has made you feel more alone than Bradley’s.

You start to leave, deciding to head outside for some fresh air before going to find Bradley where he’s no doubt still waiting at the bar. That is, until you feel hands lightly on your waist. You start to panic, until you hear the stranger whisper in your ear.

“Hey there, little one.”

Eddie.

Your body shudders at hearing his voice again. You have to fight every nerve in your body to not melt back into him, turn around and wrap your arms around him and cry into his chest. But you don’t, you're frozen in place instead.

“We liked that little show you put on for us, sweetheart,” he continues as you feel his hands massage small circles in your hips as he presses himself closer to you, you can feel the outline of his semi against your ass and it takes everything in you not to moan at the feeling.

He starts to rock you both to the music before pressing gentle kisses along your neck. So feather light you’re not sure if you’re actually imagining them, just some mean trick your mind is playing on you. You start to melt back against him, your body betraying you as it’s automatically drawn into the safety of Eddie’s chest and arms.

You let yourself get caught up in the feeling before reality comes crashing down. You have a boyfriend, he has a boyfriend, you can’t be doing this. You snap out of the weird trance you’ve been in, pulling away from Eddie and finally turning to face him, fully preparing yourself to tell him off before you see the look on his face.

It causes your breath to hitch as you see the pure lust written all over his face, his blown and glassy pupils staring into your soul and the possessiveness buried deep inside them that makes your thighs clench.

You go to take a step back, needing space between you both but your back collides with another chest instead. Another set of lips brushing your ear as they whisper lowly to you.

“Don't be like that, honey.”

Steve.

Your head swims at the proximity of both of them. The familiar smells and feel of them crumbling whatever stubborn exterior you were trying to portray.

You feel Steve's hands run along the sides of your waist and down your thighs before tracing light patterns back up again, your dress pulling up at the sides as he does. He pushes against you as Eddie had, although he is a lot more worked up from your little show than Eddie was — a testament to how he always was more of the jealous type.

“Can you feel what your little show did to us baby?” He asks like you’ve wounded them. Eddie pushing against you at the same time. “You’re so fucking naughty, getting us all worked up like that.”

“Anything to say for yourself, miss?” Eddie asks when you don’t respond right away. How could you? Your head feels like it's about to spin off your shoulders, your cunt feels like it’s about to start dripping down your thighs, they’ve thoroughly wrecked you with no more than some gentle touches, barely any grinding and a couple of words whispered seductively in your ears.

You only manage a small moan in response, one that you’re thankful only they can hear over the loud music.

They both chuckle at your response, knowing they have you right where they want you. Loving how fucking easy you are for them.

Steve’s fingers continue to dance along your thighs as Eddie’s hand comes to rest on your waist again, both of them pressing into you and swaying you to the music, causing their hardening cocks to grind against you.

Steve's fingers slide to the front of your dress, tracing up the inside of your thighs as you let out a little whimper. Steve smirks against your skin as he starts to kiss up your throat as Eddie had just before. Your eyes start to flutter shut as Steve’s fingers inch higher, so close to where you desperately need him.

“That feel nice, pretty girl?” Steve asks, although he already knows the answer, “want me to keep going?”

Eddie keeps his eyes trained on your blissed out face, sucking on his bottom lip as he anxiously waits for your answer.

You nod your head slowly, words failing you as you melt back into Steve.

“Ah, ah,” Eddie tuts, “you know the rules princess, use your words.”

“P-please.” You barely breathe out, and Eddie’s sure he would’ve missed it if his eyes weren't glued to your lips.

He nods at Steve, who groans as his fingers finally make contact with your dripping cunt, feeling the slick that’s soaked through your panties.

Eddie holds your waist tighter, half keeping you upright as your legs start to shake, half shielding you from any onlookers as he continues to sway his hips, making it look like you three were just dancing.

Steve dips his fingers into your underwear, moaning in your ear as he gathers your slick on his thick fingers before rubbing your clit.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he teases, “this is all for us huh?”

You can only nod and whine in response, too far gone to be embarrassed by how close they were getting you already. No one except for Steve and Eddie have been able to get you this close this fast.

You feel the coil in your stomach tighten further as Steve's thick digits breach your aching cunt, finding a steady pace immediately, his palm dragging deliciously over your slick clit. Eddie’s grip on your waist becomes so tight you’re sure he’s gonna leave bruises that you’re going to have to try and explain to Bradley later, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re happy that he’s at least holding you somewhat upright as your knees start to get weak.

Eddie presses further into you still to keep you upright, so far that Steve can feel Eddie’s hard cock pulsing against his hand even through his jeans. Making Steve’s cock ache for some sort of release as he starts to rock gently into your ass. Craving some relief.

You feel the familiar feeling of your orgasm approaching as you teeter on the edge. Only able to get out small sputters of “I’m, I’m—” before you’re burying your face in the crook of Eddie’s neck as your orgasm comes crashing into you.

Your ears ring and your vision goes white as you ride out your orgasm around Steve’s fingers, rutting against his hand while clinging to Eddie.

When you finally start to come down from your high you’re barely aware of the music still blaring around you, focusing only on Steve’s hands rubbing soothing circles in your thighs, Eddie’s hand in your hair and their praises gently flowing through your ears.

Suddenly, reality hits you like a truck. Completely cracking the walls of whatever weird dream you’ve been trapped in with Eddie and Steve. Suddenly everything seems too much, their touch is suffocating and grating against your skin, the music of the club is blaring too loud, rocking your skull and their sweet whispers might as well be screams in your ear.

You need to get away.

You finally look at Eddie, his eyes meeting yours. He knows that look.

“y/n-,” he tries as you start to squirm out of their grip.

“Let me go”, you suddenly hiss at him, finally breaking free and rushing through the crowd and out the door. You hear them yell after you, but you keep going, their voices being drowned out by the music the further you get away from them.

By the time you finally make it outside you feel as if you can hardly breathe. Your chest is so tight and you struggle to take shallow breaths, you can feel the unshed tears prick your eyes as you try and will them to keep at bay. Although you’re not sure why, you’re almost certain your makeup must be a mess now, most of it left on Eddie’s collar, you doubt a couple of tears would really make much of a difference.

You shakily reach into the clutch still thankfully secured across your chest, fishing out a smoke. You put one between your lips as you try, but fail to find your lighter. You sigh in frustration, of course you’ve lost your lighter.

“Here, let me.” You hear someone whisper, before you see the flicker of a lighter in front of your lips. You don’t have to look up from your clutch to know that it’s Eddie. Your eyes meet his timid ones as you lean forward, using the flame to light the end of your cigarette.

“Thanks,” you mumble before looking beside Eddie, realising Steve also followed you out here.

You all stand in awkward silence, Eddie busying himself by lighting his own cigarette.

“I– ah,” Steve finally breaks the silence. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he needs you to hear, but the words won't form, instead he opts for, “didn’t know you smoked.”

You snort half a laugh, shaking your head. You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say but it definitely wasn't that. Sorry would have been a good start… but at least you’re talking, you guess.

“There’s a lot you both don’t know about me anymore,” you reply, deadpan. You see them both visibly flinch at the implication of your words. It's been over a year since they last saw you, you've had a whole year's worth of experiences without them, would they even recognise the person you'd become?

You bring your smoke back up to your lips, thankful for the distraction it provides and for how it's almost calming most of your nerves.

It doesn't, however, distract you enough to not feel their hungry eyes on you. You're surprised your dress doesn't have holes burnt into the fabric with how hot and heavy their gazes are. You adjust your dress with your free hand trying to pull the fabric down, cursing yourself now for wearing the revealing dress.

You don’t want them to see you squirm, you need to keep up this teasing, nonchalant act you were trying to portray, you couldn't let them know how much seeing them again was hurting you.

“See something you like?” You slur seductively at them, not shying away from their eyes. Even as your palms sweat and your heart rattles in your chest.

They both chuckle and shake their heads, not in disagreement but at the absurdity of your question. Of course they did. You looked stunning, confident. In a dress you usually would be too shy to wear. It was nice to see you like this, but it was also weird.

Not weird in a bad way, it just hurt. It hurt them to see that you finally seemed to be growing into yourself and hopefully finally seeing how beautiful you were. Except it was without them.

“You seem… different,” Eddie finally managed. He couldn't think of a better way to put it. Not better, not worse, just different. But that's what heartbreak will do to a person.

“I am different.” You say back, no hidden meaning behind it, like it’s that simple.

They were different. You were different. You’d just grown away from each other. You’d all changed and grown in the year that had passed, in the year that you had all ached for each other. Now here you were, and it felt like you were talking to strangers.

You had a picture of them on your dresser that you saw everyday, and yet it felt like those two men were different from the ones that stood in front of you now.

It makes your whole body ache.

You want to fill the silence, distract yourself from the heavy feeling. You want to mess with them, annoy them, make them even more jealous and angry and hurt than they’ve already seemed to have been tonight.

“Trust me,” you say finally, “I’ve had lots of experience since you last saw me.” You wiggle your eyebrows suggestively, trying to joke around with them as if it’s no big deal.

You see their jaws clench. Eddie fights the urge to scoff at you, to roll his eyes, to scream in your face. Steve is a little better at hiding his distaste at what you’re insinuating. Both knowing they have no right to feel as hurt and betrayed as they do right now.

You’re not theirs.

“Well, they must be some lucky guys then.” Eddie tries to speak sincerely. It comes out like venom.

“Hmm,” you hum, revelling in their reactions. Trying to think of what else you can say to rile them up like this. “And girls,” you say with a wink.

Lies, it’s all lies.

You had drunkenly kissed one girl out the back of a club after too many drinks. She was nice and soft and tasted like vodka and raspberries. But that was it… just a kiss.

The furthest you’d gotten with your current boyfriend was some grinding and heavy touches. Always stopping before it got too far. He was always respectful of that, something you appreciated.

They look at you stunned. You could see their brains working a mile a minute. You could tell they were imagining something much more lewd than reality. Victory.

Desperate for this conversation to be over before they pried and realised you were talking all of your experiences up to be something much more, you stomp out your cigarette. Giving them a small smile that said ‘are we done here?’ as you started to walk away.

Before you can get too far you feel a hand desperately grasp your arm. You know it’s Steve before you even turn around.

You see his mouth open as he struggles to find the right words to say but you don’t want to hear it. You can’t.

“Don’t,” you interrupt, before he can even say a single word. His mouth closes as his hand reluctantly lets go of your arm, brushing the skin of your forearm as he drops his hand. You curse your body for the goosebumps that appear along the trail of his fingertips.

You’re about to turn around again when you decide to ask them just one thing. Something that’s been weighing heavy on you since you first saw them at the bar.

“So, um,” you start tentatively, rubbing your hand over the arm that Steve had just touched, unsure if you’re trying to warm yourself up or wipe away the memory of his fingertips, “how long have you been dating?”

They share a look before Eddie slowly mumbles, “a little over a year.”

A little over a year.

The same amount of time since your fight. The guilty looks on their faces let you know it was very shortly after they broke your heart. So while you were alone, completely breaking and having to put yourself back together again all by yourself, they were just having the time of their lives? Starting a new and exciting relationship? Typical.

“Of course you have been,” you scoff. Turning abruptly and stalking away from them as fast as your stupidly uncomfortable heels would let you.

“Y/n wait! It’s not like tha–“ Steve calls after you, desperately trying to catch you before you run off once again. Like he’s worried this time you’ll be gone for good.

“Just leave me alone!” You practically yell. You feel bad for raising your voice and how it makes them flinch but finally, they let you go.

*****

Taglist: @pxrxcxa @eddiemunsonfuxks @translatemunson @bandofoxxking @munsonsbaby @corrodedhawkins @chainsawmunson @divinelyruled @parkermunson @bimbobaggins69 @eddiemunsonspantschain @hammity-hammer

*******

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doorhine · 7 months

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One of many things I like about Blue Eye Samurai is how it portrays its disabled characters. There's a lot to talk about with each of them but for this post, I want to talk about, not the step dad, but the dad who stepped up, Sword Father!

*Spoilers below

Him and Mizu's relationship is one of my favorite dynamics in the show and seeing how that developed over the years was one of my favorite things about the pilot. It felt very symbiotic and good for the both of them emotionally to have that company and support, especially on Mizu's end.

I really liked seeing how the two worked together and how Mizu accommodated to his needs. I also liked the respect given to Sword Father's ability to take care of himself as an adult even without Mizu's assistance. He's been blacksmithing for years and he's respected in his line of work. Losing his sight did not and does not change that.

I personally think the show does a good job at balancing the reality of him being blind and the accommodations he needs while also respecting him as an autonomous individual and talking about his blindness in a way that feels natural and respectful when it's relevant.

But my favorite thing about this dynamic and Sword Father as an individual is probably the use of audio design in the show in relationship to them. As we see the two of them become a family, and develop this language with each other/way of interacting, sound becomes a key element and that carries over into the entire show.

Being blind, Sword Father relies a lot on his hearing. But we as the audience don't just see this aspect of his character. We're actually made to hear from his perspective and apply that sense to how we perceive the entire season even when he's not present.

The most obvious example is the sound of metal which is used to indicate things like:

Mizu revealing to Sword Father that she forged her sword from the meteorite they found before the camera pans up to the space it used to occupy

The symbolism around Mizu and mixed metal in general

Sword Father realizing that Mizu's at his front door when Ringo brings her and Taigen there which revealed to us, the audience, where Ringo brought them before we see Sword Father come on screen (I loved that moment so much)

and emphasizing the moment of shock the characters in the show had when they heard the sound of gunshots for the first time in the finale in contrast to the clang of swords that we as the audience have gotten so used to hearing.

But the reliance on hearing doesn't just apply to that. In the second episode Mizu encounters Chiaki, a man from her past who she defeats in the present. And you know the biggest tip off the show gives us to recognize him before he reveals himself? His laugh. A noise we would've recalled from the flashbacks he was featured in.

LIKE I JUST THINK THAT'S SO FRIGGIN COOL XD

There's a lot more that can be said about Sword Father and how the show portrays him and his blindness. I personally can't speak on this as a blind person so I'd love to hear what people who are think about it. These are just my 2 cents that I felt like sharing.

#this show is just *chef's kiss*#blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai spoilers

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anipgarden · 1 year

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Adding To or Starting a Garden

AKA, the beginning of the Plants-Related section of this series.

This is my third post in a series I’ll be making on how to increase biodiversity on a budget! I’m not an expert--just an enthusiast--but I hope something you find here helps!

Got an area of lawn you’d like to convert to a wildlife haven? An area you can stick some hanging baskets in? Want to know how your garden of tomatoes and zucchinis is already putting in a lot of work? This is the section for you!

It would be dumb of me to not acknowledge that the act of gardening can come with a lot of costs. Buying seeds, buying plants, buying soil, raised bed materials, mulch, etc. … it can all get a bit daunting, let’s be honest! But there’s quite a few ways to get seeds and plants for free or extremely cheap, which I’ll be addressing in this section! The next section will be all about addressing the other Costs in gardening and how to mitigate or eliminate them entirely.

Also, do keep in mind; there’s no need to try and convert a whole area from lawn to garden or unused to garden at once. In fact, it could actually be extremely beneficial to do it a little at a time--maybe four or five square feet to start out.

Front Lawn (or Managing Principles)

If you live in a place where you’re required to have a grass turf lawn (HOA’s come to mind…), try replacing it with native grasses instead! You could even possibly use a low-growing ground cover plant like clover to a similar effect! Reseeding/replacing an entire lawn can be a big upfront cost, but even just letting the lawn be a little messy and tall helps. If the lawn gets patchy, leave the bare spots for a little while and something different will likely pop up! Pioneer species will fill the gaps and provide benefits to other plants around them, support animals, and more! If you want to take the guesswork out of it, you could always research what the pioneer species are in your area and plant the ones you like most.

Obtaining Seeds for Cheap or Free

The cheapest way to start a garden is by far via seeds. However, seeds can be a bit complicated to grow, and some sources make them… way overpriced. Fortunately there are ways to get seeds for little to no cost!

Some places sell seeds for as low as a dollar, 50 cents, or 25 cents! The packets may not have a lot of seeds, but it’s definitely a good start for a low budget! I’ve personally bought cheap seed packets at Walmart--the Ferry-Morse and Burpee brands are not what we’re looking for here. Typically the cheaper ones I’ve found are American Seed (which is owned by Green Garden Products, which also owns Ferry-Morse, Livingston Seed, McKenzie Seed, and Seeds of Change. Do with that information what you will), but they’re rarely stocked near the Ferry-Morse ones in the Formal Gardening Section. I’ve most often found them on end caps near the gardening section, so you may have to weave through a few aisles to find them, but once you do there’s an array of flower and vegetable seeds to select from! Alternatively, I’ve found seeds at Dollar Tree sold 2 or 4 for a dollar in Spring as part of their seasonal product; however, when they’re out of stock, they’re typically out of stock for the year. Try to check them out early in the year!

Otherwise, other seed companies like Urban Farmer or Botanical Interests will often have semi-frequent sales in spring and fall, when people are stocking up on seeds--joining their email lists can help you be the first to know when a good sale is going on!

Some foods from grocery stores will provide seeds that you can use in the garden as well. I’ve had the most luck with store-bought bagged beans, peppers, and tomatoes. Some people have had luck with watermelons, apples, citrus, squash, and more. Do keep in mind that you likely won’t get the same variety of fruit/vegetable as the one you bought--the resulting plant may look different and taste different.

Give it a shot! Pick some beans you like--if they don't grow well, at least you can eat the rest!

If you live in the US, food-producing live plants, bare roots, and seeds can often be purchased with SNAP benefits. But what does growing fruits, veggies, and herbs have to do with boosting biodiversity? While food crops aren’t typically native, they still provide valuable shelter for native insects. Some plants even have intricate relationships with native fauna--like the squash bee, a solitary bee which exclusively pollinates cucurbits like pumpkins, squash, and zucchini. And we get to benefit more directly as well! If you’re planting a diverse range of foods in your garden (as opposed to the swaths of single-plant farms that typically produce what’s sent to grocery stores), you’re supporting high levels of biodiversity by providing a variety of plants for creatures to live and hunt around.

Most of the time, when we think of boosting biodiversity with a garden, we think of a colorful flower garden teeming with pollinator species. However, if we’re striving to use native species, it can be a bit difficult to find some species in stores. I can say from experience that trying to find any wildflower seeds other than butterfly weed, purple coneflowers, and black-eyed-susans is… challenging, if you limit yourself to stores like Walmart, Home Depot, and Lowe’s. You might occasionally get lucky with an ACE Hardware or a local nursery, but even then sometimes it can be hard to track down who in your area is selling what--let alone if you live in an area where no one really is selling native plants or their seeds. Not to mention, even once you find a local or online store selling the seeds you want, they can sometimes cost a pretty penny. So what do you do?

If you have the option to, consider gathering native seeds yourself! Get good at identifying the native flora and fauna--or at least, a few target plants and their lookalikes--and get ready to go! Learn where they tend to grow, when they’ll be seeding, etc. Try to identify the plant before it goes to seed (for most plants, it's easiest to identify when flowering), then check back regularly to gather seeds. Typically, if I want to learn how to collect seed from a specific plant, I just search it on Google or YouTube--oftentimes, I'm lead to the GrowItBuildIt Youtube page, so it may be a helpful resource for you as well! Of course, make sure to leave plenty of seed behind so the wild population can repopulate, and seed can feed other creatures in the area. A good rule of thumb is to take no more than 1/3rd of what's available.

Buying seed in bulk is an option if you can afford the upfront cost. Try teaming up with a few friends to buy some bulk seeds and split them amongst yourselves--you’ll get tons of seed! Prairie Moon is a popular site that'll sell seeds by the pound if you can afford the price--though they're in the US, and I believe they focus on Midwest and East Coast natives.

If you want to cheat the system, don’t buy bulk sunflower seeds--buy bags of sunflower seeds being sold as birdseed. They’re typically all black oil sunflower seeds, but they’ll sprout, and they’re fairly cheap for the amount you get!

However, beware generic wildflower seed mixes! Many brands like to sell wildflower seed mixes in big box stores like Home Depot, Target, or even Dollar Tree, but they’ll often include flowers that aren’t native or possibly even invasive in your region! Before you make any purchases, double check to make sure the contained seeds won’t do more harm than good! A quality source of native seeds will provide English and Latin names for all seeds included, and will be native to the region or at least non-invasive.

See this? I don't trust this.

There’s a good handful of programs online that’ll send you free seeds if you’re planning to start a native habitat project! Poke around online and see what you can find; you might get lucky! The best time to start looking for these is fall and winter, I find--by early spring, many of them are either done or beginning to wind down... though some also start up in spring. Ultimately--just check regularly! You never know what you can find!

Other Ways to Get Plants

Don’t want to start from seed? That’s fair! You can try cuttings! Just be sure not to take too much of the plant while you do so. Make sure you’ve gotten a few leaf nodes on your cutting, and cut any flowers you may have gotten. Make sure to leave some blooms and foliage on the original plant for the creatures in the current habitat--you don’t want to destroy one habitat to make another in your garden. There’s tons of methods of rooting cuttings, many of which have different efficacy rates for different plants, but that’s a topic for another post.

If you find seedlings growing in a place where they won’t be able to sustain themselves long-term, or are in danger of being destroyed, consider relocating them! You may be able to gently dig up and transplant the seedling to your garden. Don’t do this if they’re in a place where they can easily survive--ideally, you’ll be taking plants from sidewalk cracks, heavily maintained public gardens, roadsides, etc. Do be careful while doing this--ensure your safety first!

You’re totally allowed to join gardening communities like clubs, facebook groups, and more before you’ve even put a trowel to the dirt. These are great places to learn information and advice! Many gardeners are more than happy to help out a new gardener, and will eagerly provide seeds, cuttings, or even baby plants! Talk to some people about your gardening journey and what you’re hoping to do, and you just might find some kindred spirits--or at least get more people interested in the topic!

Seed and plant giveaways and trades happen all the time in gardening clubs, as well as online! Just poke around and see what you can find! Some are explicitly trades, meaning you’re expected to send something in return, but once you get your feet on the ground with some plant knowledge you’ll be stellar! You may be able to explain you’re just starting out, and someone may send you seeds without expecting a trade, but I’d suggest trying giveaways first.

Poke around online and see if there’s a local chapter of your state’s native plant society. From there, you’ll likely be able to find a calendar of events--many of them will host plant sales in the spring, with a bunch of native plant seedlings ripe for the pickings if you can make it out and have some money to spare! Fair warning, though, you’ll want to get there early if you can. If they say they’re starting at 10, try to get there by 9:45. Year after year, there’s always record turnout, and they sell out of plants faster than ever. Just trust me on this. I’ve been let down; hopefully you won’t have to be.

Some libraries are beginning to host seed libraries! Check around and see if your library has one! Ideally, the system works best if you also have seeds to contribute in return, but if you’re just starting out I’m sure they won’t mind you taking some seeds! Just consider saving some seeds to contribute in the future and pay it forward. If your library doesn’t have a seed library? Consider asking if they’d be willing to start one! Community interest is a great way to get the ball rolling on projects like these, but they’ll only know the community is interested if the community tells them they’re interested!

Volunteer to Garden for/with Someone Else

Maybe someone in your area wants to garden, but is struggling to find the time/energy. Many elderly people who used to garden simply can’t anymore but still would like a garden. Other people may love to have a helping hand in their garden. You might even find a few people in your area interested in renting and sharing a community garden plot with others, so they don't have to handle it all on their own! They may be interested in increasing biodiversity right now, or may be willing to if it’s brought up to them. You might be just the kind of person someone needs! Since it won't be your garden, you’ll likely need a bit of permission and collaboration to get anything in particular going, but it’s worth a shot and a way to maybe even make friends!

Again, your mileage may vary with some of these. You may not know where there's a bunch of wildflowers growing in your area, or maybe your local library doesn't have a free seed library. That's okay! Do what you're able to, find what you can find, get what you can get! And there's never any shame with starting small--in fact, starting small can make the project easier to manage and expand when you're able!

That's the end of this post! My next post is gonna be about ways to start growing plants cheaply--low cost seed starting set ups, essentially. There's a lot of good options, many of which I've used myself even! Until then, I hope this advice is helpful! Feel free to reply with any questions, success stories, or anything you think I may have forgotten to add in!

#biodiversity #solarpunk #gardening #outdoor gardening #growing from seed #ani rambles #out of queue #the biodiversity saga #i will be honest I have never flat out approached people to offer to help them garden #HOWEVER. People HAVE approached ME asking ME to help THEM with/plan THEIR garden #granted it was after I'd been gardening for a good few years. and its mostly family or family friends but yknow #people would be like 'oh wanna help me with my veggie garden?' even before I tried growing vegetables #i don't think the library near me has a seed library but you just wait until i. get the courage. to go to the library regularly.#i've seen people also make their own little seed library structures kinda like a little free library but like #i dont think my neighborhood is about that life.#if any of yall have those though it could be a great resource! also send pics because I love seeing them #not to say that this post should become a giant seed trade but if it did become that i would be the opposite of mad #if there's any typos blame my sister shes got the hotel room at like 60-something degrees and I am FREEZING #welp time to shut up now bye

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msfantasy-comics · 8 months

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The Opposites Attract

Dick Grayson x Reader

Summary: A Head Cannon on which Dick Grayson and Y/n oppose each other yet remain wholly compatible.

Warning: Y/n is depicted as angsty and a little feral.

Masterlist - Tip Jar

Opposites attract they say.

Yet Dick and Y/n are such polar opposites surely their difference outweigh each other.

Despite it all, the two love birds gravitate each other due to their completing differences.

Extrovert vs. Introvert

Dick is insanely outgoing and is recharged by socialising. His perfect setting is in a crowded rowdy rooms where the conversation moves like wildfire. Wild and Abrupt.

Y/n on the other hand, prefers a quite space with one-on-one conversations.

In typical extraverted fashion. Dick adopts the introverted Y/n and encourages her to step outside her comfort zone and talk to others.

But it’s just not in her nature.

How the hell are you meant to jump into a conversation?

How are you meant to have a say on a topic when three other people are talking over each other to get their 2 cents in?

You gave up almost immediately and retreated back to your safe corner always from the shoulder bashing and elbow jabbing walk way.

Dick was initially disappointed to see you give up so quickly until he noticed that you were carrying on your socialising in your own way.

You sat silently as strangers poured their heart out to you.

Silently nodding and humming in agreement every now and then before the person sighed, thanked you for listening and walked off.

Dick really admires that about you.

Dick: “Need some company.”

Y/n: “Only if you bring me the good vibes.”

Optimist vs. Pessimist

Dick is a buzzing bundle of bountiful energy.

Dick is never short on absurdly positive outcomes despite all odds indicating otherwise.

Why live in a delusional state? You know the realities of life.

And the reality is that life can be shit and it doesn’t turn out well for everyone no matter how much they try or desperately scramble to achieve their hopes.

Hope is pointless.

There is just something obnoxiously wonderful about Dick.

How is it that your boy wonder lights a flame in you that fills you with certainty that all will be right as long as he is here?

You greatly admire how infectious Dicks positivity can be.

Y/n: “Why keep sending them to Arkham only to escape and ruin lives? Might as well just put an end to their burdensome presence.”

Dick: “Oh honey nooooo. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Snuffing out the life of a person doesn’t solve the root of the issue.”

Y/n: “Who cares! Nothing matters in the end anyway, we will all die and become obsolete. Only to let the next generation bitch and moan about the inequality of it all.”

Dick: “Ah, my precious little sunshine can be such a downer, yes you can.”

*Condescendingly pinches cheeks*

Secretive vs. Open

Dick just wants the best of both worlds.

To be the figure head for heroism, hope, peace and safety, without an of the consequences of having your image publicly known.

Dick would never want to endanger the lives of those around him due to his passions in crime fighting.

Therefore, he must maintain the secrecy of the bat and the mask.

You, however, don’t understand how or why your boy wonder hides his true identity.

It’s not like Dick Grayson is an every day normal civilian.

He’s a fricken heir to Gotham wealthiest philanthropist.

It’s not like he doesn’t have any privacy on either alter egos.

But the Bats secret is not your own to share.

So instead you live freely by your own rules.

You admit your identities and aren’t afraid to show the public your true self.

You honestly couldn’t care less about public perception.

Dick, admires your unapologetic lifestyle.

Aggressive Random: “You shouldn’t -“

Y/n: “Piss Off- no one asked you.”

Dick: “Ah sweetie… maybe you should listen to what they have to say.”

Y/n: “I couldn’t give a rats!”

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vixensbrainrotts · 4 months

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Committed to you - Manjiro >Mikey< Sano

(part two)

Idea/ prompt: Mikey from the last timeline who wants to propose to us but has no idea how to ask so he ask advices from draken and emma

Vixen's two cents: Hi. I know ive been gone for like 2 weeks, I dont know why but it's been hard writing lately. anyway, thanks a million to @anahryal for giving me this idea whilst I was in the pits of my writers block!!! thanks girl, I can't tell you how much this helped. anyway, REQUESTS ARE OPEN and I advise you to use them! now please enjoy my revival piece!

Mikey has thought every possible thought he could have. He had run through every possible situation, every possible outcome, every possible setting, but damnit why was this so hard? He couldn’t do it. Not for the life of him.

He had browsed millions of travel blogs, pondering about every possible spot on earth to take you for the occasion. He had woken in and out of more jewelry stores in the past month than he had ever in his entire life. He had specifically stood in corner stores, reading the wedding catalogues in the magazine section trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.

None of it helped.

Manjiro wanted it so bad. So so very bad. Every white dress he walked by, he envisioned you in it. Every bakery shop he passed, his eyes flitted up and down the fancy display cakes, pondering whether or not it would be good enough. Any time he woke up next to you, every time he joined you in the shower, every time he watched you cook, the urge to sink to one knee overtook him.

He knew he couldn’t make it that simple though. It was too domestic for him, so little of a gesture. He wanted you to know that he loved you, that he would bring you the moon if you wanted it. He needed you to see just how much he appreciates you for sticking with him through everything, and for that he needs a grand gesture.

However it seemed that nothing he could think of was quite big enough, quite meaningful enough, quite heartfelt enough. He was at the end of his wits. For one and a half months- seven weeks he had been fighting this battle alone.

He had made some progress in that time, having picked the ring because when he picked it up he just felt that this was the one. It was a niche store, and he was initially appalled by the average price of the rings, but decided, ah what the fuck? and entered the store for mostly shits and giggles. He was greeted by an expensive looking elderly gentleman who donned a monocle and silk gloves, clearly the clerk, and clearly an expert. He had the longest, most engaging talk with the man, explaining his situation and his frustrations, to which the man nodded understandingly and told of his own story and experience with marigge.

Seven long weeks he had kept it a secret from everyone, and now he couldn’t take it anymore.

He was just about to throw the towel on this whole thing and say fuck it and give up on this whole marriage thing and just accept that he would never make it, when he remembered that he didnt have to be alone in this. Not at all matter of fact. His best friend married his sister after all. If Ken could do it with the pressure of Shinichiro, Izana AND Mikey breathing down his neck, then surely he could do it too, right?

You were out on a girls night with Hinata, Senju and Yuzuha. Emma would have tagged along normally too, but with the addition of a new-born baby, she decided that it would be best to sit out this time. Either way you were out of the house for the night, and Mikey was left to his own devices. You had left him with a kiss and a home-cooked meal (which he felt bad about leaving behind so he completely stuffed himself before coming here) before he gave Ken a quick heads up over the phone that he was coming over with a VERY important problem.

Thats how he found himself here. Standing in the Kitchen of Emma and Ken‘s flat, hands perched on the counter, looking down at the surface, face in a deep frown. „What’s goin on? What’s the problem?“ Ken asks roughly, leaned on the refrigerator as he eyed his friend. Mikey didnt really respond though.

„What problem?“ Emma‘s voice was hushed as she entered through the kitchen door, pulling the door shut behind her, probably for the sake of the baby. „I dont know.“ Ken responded, rubbing his eyebrows „Ask your brother.“ he sighed as he gestured to Mikey who was still staring down the counter.

“Mikey?!” Emma sounded confused and a little concerned as she turned to look at him, eyes flitting between her brother and her husband. “Did you know he was coming over?”

Ken nodded wordlessly. “Said he needs our help about something.” Emma’s head tilted in question but accepted the fact. “What’s up Mikey?” She asked, approaching him and joining Draken at the other side of the counter.

Mikey didn’t say anything though, instead reaching into his pocket and producing a small, black, silk-encased box. He dropped it onto the table and looked up at the couple in desperation. “How do I do it?”

Ken gasped and felt his lips tug into a smile, happy that finally, finally Mikey was wiping you up (he had told him to do so since they were teens).

Emma slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle a silent scream, beginning to voice up and down on excitement as she realized- her brother was marrying you! She thanked the gods that Mikey fell in love with you because there was no better in-law than her Soulsister.

“Ahhhhh! Oh my goodness Mikey! I’m so happy for you! Can I see? Wow! Oh my god Ken are you seeing this!? He’s proposing! Ah I’m so glad!” Mikey nodded in response and let Emma pick up the box and crack it open, revealing the beautiful white-gold wedding band, encrusted with more diamonds than she could count. Notably, one large diamond sat in the middle of the ring, flanked by two smaller diamonds on each side.

“Oh.” Emma breathed. “Ken why didn’t you ask Manjiro for help when picking my ring?” Emma sounded slightly offended as she spoke, glaring down at the ring.

“Nah nah, don’t get it twisted girl. You told me what ring you wanted, I didn’t have much picking liberty other than the price.” Ken waved his hands in dismissal, brushing off her accusations with a grin still wide on his face. He made his way over to Mikey and clapped a hand on his shoulder, congratulating him for the occasion.

“Good on you man! Finally givin it the push, hah?” Ken was smiling as he searched for Mikey’s eyes, but he didn’t look up. “What’s up with the long face? You’re about to propose dude, you should be over the moon!”

Mikey sighed and shook his head. “I’ve been trying to propose to her for months. Months Ken. I can’t do it. It’s never right.”

The couple halted their celebrations and turned to look at Mikey again, Emma putting down the dainty box as her looks turns to one of concern. “What do you mean?” She fingered at the box as she leaned across the counter.

“It’s… i don’t know. Ken made it look so easy when he proposed to you, and Pah-chin was even more mindless about it! I really want to. I really do, but every time I get close, I chicken out because I get scared or because something isn’t right, and I’m starting to think that it’s better if I just… don’t.” Mikey sighed and cradled his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the counter.

Emma and Ken shared a look, a wordless exchange of worry and empathy. "What kind of proposal were you thinking of? Big? Small? Public? Private?" Emma started, hand rubbing soothingly across her brother's back.

"Big." Mikey mumbled into his hands, remaining hunched over the counter. "Big and public. I wanna make sure that everyone knows, everyone sees, I want them all to know. want them to know how much I love her."

Emma's eyes softened and she suppressed a smile, because all in all, it was cute. She had always known her brother to be big and strong, undefeatable, and most of all unwaverable. Mikey always put up the strong front when really, he was hurt. Vulnerability wasn't something that she was used to seeing from him, which made this moment all the more special.

"Do you want to go somewhere with her?" Ken steps in and asks, an idea arising. Mikey only grunts, a noise of agreement sounding through the room. "Do you know what kind of places she likes?" Ken continues.

Mikey's head slowly raises from the position on the table and he stares forward at the refrigerator. "Europe."

Emma and Ken looked at one another again, sensing that they were getting somewhere. "Then take her on Vacation. You both have that long shared break coming up, don't you? Travel through Europe and when it feels right, ask!" Ken said.

"How do I know when it feels right, though? What if it's not the moment?" Mikey asks, still not entirely convinced. "You'll know. I promise you, you'll know. I knew too and I didn't think I had the stuff to ever get married." Ken reassures again, and this time the two share eye contact, and it takes Draken a lot not to tear up.

Draken took a moment in his mind to look at Mikey. He had stuck by his side since they were kids, through thick and thin it's always been the two if them against the world. And now as he looked at Manjiro he no longer saw the unmatchable delinquent he saw ten years ago, but rather a distinguished person with complex thoughts and emotions. He saw a man that felt, a man that cared and a man that loved in front of him, and he couldn't be prouder.

Ken nodded at Mikey, and Mikey nodded back at him. "Yeah. She'll love it! Thanks, I'll do that! Gosh I don't know what id do without you two.."

"Oh, please propose to her in front of the Eifel Tower! Or the Coliseum! Or on some romantic Bridge in Venice!" Emma swooned and held her hands over her chest, hearts in her eyes.

Mikey smiled at her and nodded again. "I'll try and film it if I can."

The rest of the evening was spent with the three of them checking about a thousand booking sites, mapping travel routes and destinations, and the occasional cacophony of laughter which led to a grumpy Ryuguji-baby. Manjiro couldn't wait to go with you, he thought as he sat on one of the armchairs, gently running a thumb over the silk box that sat pretty in his hand.

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