#the streets were covered in used needles too | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

madschiavelique · 5 months

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𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛 — 𝟏

⟢﹒ pairing : matt murdock x vigilante!reader x frank castle

⟢﹒ summary : you’d met them, became their teammate, and the one night you got severely wounded, they took you to their place to patch you up.

⟢﹒ content warnings : i am not a doctor nor do i have any knowledge on how to take care of wounds like that properly so very inaccurate patching up session, mentions of blood, wounds, mentions of needle (to saw reader’s wound), afab!reader, stubborn reader, but stubborn frank, no use of y/n, not proofread

⟢﹒ word count : 7,2k

⟢﹒ note : this is the first part of a 2shot where the second part will be a smut with hunter/prey dynamic ! have a good read <;33

⟢ next part : here

The clouds were brown tonight, covering the inky blackness of the sky like a mass of cotton gathering up the streetlights of Hell's Kitchen. Everything seemed to be reflecting off a lake, the puddles of rain from earlier in the day having settled on every rooftop in the city in a myriad of mirrors.

It was quiet, abnormally quiet even. Hell's Kitchen wasn't exactly your typical idyllic holiday destination; on the contrary, it was the place to flee if you had the chance. Crime had its patch on every street corner, and not a single day or night went by without something happening.

But now, nothing. No problems. No calls for help. Just the calm of an evening.

Sitting on the edge of a roof, your legs dangling boredly in the air, you listened to your little radio set beside your thigh, hoping that one of the police stations would report a problem. But everything was peaceful.

It had already been a few months since you had taken on the attire of the night, taken on the role of vigilante in Hell's Kitchen, and every evening you found yourself chasing crime out of town like a broom sweeping dust out of the way.

It wasn't necessarily an easy rhythm. After an already long day at work, you usually tried to get some sleep before starting your patrol. You'd realised that although there was no particular time for crime, most of them started after midnight.

But it was already one o'clock in the morning and there was nothing to report. You wondered whether perhaps you were doing your job as a vigilante too well. If you did, this kind of evening was set to happen, because if you did eradicate every crime all at once, there wouldn't be any left for later. The bitter reassurance that, unfortunately, crime, born since the dawn of time, would only die with men, gripped your heart.

The pace of it all was sometimes exhausting, but the advantage of all this was that you weren't really working alone any more. At first, the idea of joining forces with anyone to bring justice to the world of night seemed complicated, for several reasons.

Firstly, coordination: having team-mates implied having a certain connection so that even without words being spoken, everything ran smoothly.

And secondly, attachment. An environment like this where every night can be your last if you don't keep a minimum of vigilance can prove destructive. It would be too painful to lose an ally, and even more so if it was your turn to leave and they found themselves grieving.

But colleagues - no, partners? Friends? Whatever, the allies you found on certain nights were probably the most resilient human beings you'd ever met, to the point where the very thought of them dying was impossible. After all, when you're working with two people who have both withstood a bullet to the head and who are sure of themselves, you can't help but feel safe - or very small and miserable in their presence.

You had met them on patrol when the sounds of banging and groans of pain could be heard in an alleyway. Immediately, you had split the sphere of your personally modified Bolas and had helped in the fight after observing the side you had to take. Recognising criminals had become like a sixth sense, but above all you had recognised Daredevil's outfit in the semi-darkness and the silhouette that appeared to be that of Frank Castle.

You were familiar with the work of both of them, had seen enough of their appearances in the newspapers and heard their actions on the radio enough to know that the two men fighting the dozen or so others below were none other than these two.

You had helped them, immobilising a man here, strangling a man of the thread of your bolas there, while the two acolytes were both taking part in the fight. It was only at the end of the latter that the barrage of questions began.

"Who are you?" was of course the first question Matt asked.

"Who do you work for?" was the first question Frank raised, naturally.

It didn't take too long for you to explain that crime was swarming around the city like cockroaches in a dirty carpet and that you wanted to clean up just like them.

Frank was suspicious, Matt was calm, and you were sweating buckets, dreading their every reaction. They weren't exactly idols to you, but you had great respect for them.

It was when Matt agreed that you were sincere and that there was nothing to fear about you that Frank relaxed a bit, without letting go of his grouchy and suspicious attitude. You'd assumed at first that Frank wouldn't appreciate such a radical change of routine that included bringing a new member into the evening vigilante group, but Matt had assured him that having one more person would allow them to be more effective.

And soon, you'd be meeting up from time to time in the evening if you were lucky enough to bump into each other.

First, you didn't reveal your identity immediately. There was a kind of silent agreement between the three of you on the subject. Of course, Frank's identity was no longer a mystery, but Matt's remained particularly anonymous for a long time.

Once enough trust had been established for Frank not to grumble at you at every given occasion, you were officially introduced.

You learned that Matthew Murdock was a blind lawyer with very heightened senses, and that Frank Castle lived with him, taking on a series of remote jobs under a different identity since his name was not really known in a very positive way.

You didn't see each other outside of work, often too busy with your own lives to find time to see each other, even if you didn't discuss your free time... at first anyway.

You had exchanged phone numbers, in case an emergency arose and you suddenly needed help. Your exchanges were very cordial, sending addresses or locations when help was needed or to investigate something suspicious.

The first much less professional encounter was on a more turbulent night than the others, when you were cut badly on the leg, flank and arm, with an additional cut to your lip from a punch.

According to Matt, your costume was similar to the one he wore when he first started as Daredevil. Dark clothes, something to hide your face and combat boots, needless to say that with just these to cover you up, you were extremely vulnerable.

When the fighting stopped, you didn't even have time to wince in pain that Matt was already beside you with a glove off and removing his helmet as Frank observed the situation.

"How bad is it?" Frank had asked, tilting his head to the side as the fabric covering your body darkened with blood.

"As bad as it looks to you and feels to me," Matt sighed as his fingertips brushed the skin of your side.

"It's all right," you assured them, moving slightly away from Matt and his touch, "really, it's fine."

"Are you sure? You look like you can barely walk properly." Matt had asked, obviously knowing that no, everything wasn't all right.

Probably because he'd used that speech over and over again himself, that and the simple fact that your body looked like a cute little pinocchio with a nose extended to its ears.

"Yeah yeah, no big deal - argh!" you started before Frank put his hand on the gaping wound in your arm. “Hey!”

"No big deal, eh? If it was no big deal ya wouldn't be reacting like this."

"It's nothing, really."

You had no idea if you sounded convincing… well, from the look on both their faces, you weren’t. Frank crossed his arms over his chest, looking you up and down as he bit the inside of his cheek.

You felt tiny under his gaze like that, barely lifting your eyes to look into his. There was a dark insistence in his stare, and you could tell he was frustrated, only whether it was about you or the situation in itself you weren't sure.

"What d’you say Red ?" he said after seconds that felt like minutes.

You turned to Matt, his gaze fixed as usual on a point in the void. But that didn't stop his eyes from being expressive, and the rest of his face reinforced them. You watched in the half-light the way his jaw muscles twitched in the lamplight and your heart fell in your stomach.

"Our flat is closer to here than hers," was what he ended up saying.

Your heart went right back up your chest as you blinked fast, frowning at the sentence he had so casually said.

"I'm sorry, what?" you asked, "how do you know I'm-" but you didn't finish your own sentence before starting the next, "you followed me all the way to my place?"

Matt put both hands on his hips with a sigh, biting his lower lip before finally answering.

"We had a bit of a scare the other night when you were cut on the shoulder. We just wanted to make sure... that you got home okay."

Your lips parted in surprise, shifting then from Matt to Frank, who was looking at his feet as if the ground was far more interesting than anything he had to say at the moment. You weren't sure how to feel about that.

In a way, you found it strange that they'd followed you home without telling you anything about it, but Matt with his keen senses would probably have known where you were sooner or later. Besides, it was well-intentioned, and the sudden thought that they cared about you - no, about your state - was surprisingly heart-warming.

"In any case," Matt continued, clearing his throat, "ours is a lot closer than yours, and in your current state, you could do with some treatment when you get there."

"I'm not planning to stay the night, am I?" you laughed nervously.

"Why not?" said Frank, raising his eyebrows and his shoulders in one gesture.

From now on, victory would go to the one with the most convincing argument.

"Well, I've got work tomorrow," you began, already thinking about the pain you'd have to endure in the morning when you woke up.

You could still feel your warm blood clinging to your clothes, and the sensation was becoming increasingly unpleasant.

"Say you're unwell, isn't far off the mark," Frank replied, pointing with a lazy wave of his hand at your body.

"But I don't have any clothes to spend the night in." You retorted, although the argument was easily contradicted by Matt's remark.

"We'll lend you some, it's no big deal," he assured you.

"I don't have a toothbrush," you retorted, as if that couldn't possibly be of any importance in this setting.

"We're not Cro-Magnons, we have backup ones," Matt laughed softly.

It was becoming a little more complicated to come up with relevant arguments. The blood loss was making you dizzy, weak, and preventing you from standing properly without grimacing every second while focusing all your attention on each cut and the intense burning sensation it gave you.

It wasn't so much that you didn't want to go, because on the contrary you found yourself enjoying their company more and more. It was simply the fact that...

"I'm afraid of imposing myself on you and bothering you." You said, looking away.

You were colleagues up to now, people who shared a common interest in justice, and you didn't mind their company. Only, you'd added to the mix completely unexpectedly. They'd already been working together before, even living together. You didn't know a great deal about their private lives and here you were, the millstone, getting hurt in the middle of a patrol and not being able to make a move without everything hurting.

You turned towards them again. The look on Frank's face was like the typical reaction of a human being who has just witnessed the greatest absurdity of all, while Matt's mouth was half-open in surprise. It almost seemed to you that saying that simple sentence had been a mistake.

"That's it, you're coming with us," Matt confirmed.

"Definitely," Frank affirmed as he approached you and placed one of his hands behind your back.

"Hey wait-" you had no say in the matter, though, as Frank's second hand came up behind your knees and lifted you off the ground.

Your hands barely grasped the back of his neck, wincing as you writhed in pain. You wouldn't have minded being carried. The fatigue of the evening weighed on each of your limbs as if they were full of lead.

You knew how to walk, one step in front of the other like most, and the suddenness of being lifted so easily into the air felt funny. You couldn't help fidgeting, caressing the hope of finding a position more comfortable than one that made you feel every inch of your skin open to the night air.

"Stop movin’ like a chicken ‘bouta have its throat cut," Frank grumbled as the two of them started walking.

"Put it on the ground and the chicken will calm down," you breathed through clenched teeth of discomfort.

"It's not a very long walk, I promise." Matt reassured you.

You huffed, clutching the collar of Frank's jacket to prevent yourself from squeezing the back of his neck too hard and getting another remark. You were torn between the uneasiness of the stir he made with every step, which you felt in every wound, and the new comfort you found in the embrace of his arms.

You felt so... safe that way. And not just with Frank, because you felt the same sense of tranquillity with Matt. They were both involved in your life in such an unusual way and they still managed to make you feel comfortable.

You'd never been so close to him, snuggled up against him and held in his strong arms. As close as you were to his body, you could smell him. A mix of cool and warm.

He carried the smoky but crisp scent of the night, the fresh but dark air, like the smell of a just-cut apple leaving its cool scent on the blade of the knife that has just sliced it. And all of this was strangely relieving.

Your eyes drifted to his neck, which was inevitable considering how close you were to it. Your gaze focused on his Adam's apple, ready to be covered by his perpetual stubble, letting your eyes slide up to his marked, strong jawline. You weren't in the habit of observing someone so closely, especially when that someone was handsome.

The journey across his face continued, passing from his full lips, to his nose bumped by the many blows he must have received in the face, to conclude this pleasant silent voyage with his eyes. Beneath a pair of stern eyebrows were two onyxes, shyly illuminated by the few street lamps on the deserted streets you were travelling through. You had seen them turn black like those of a shark that had smelled blood.

If you didn't know that look would never be meant for you, you'd be afraid of them.

You'd spent enough time with them in combat situations to know that their rage alone could bring a man down with a look. You hoped you'd never have to pay the price of it.

But this close, you didn't feel in danger, although the very idea that such dark eyes of vengeance and bitterness and death might pass over yours made you shudder.

“You’re staring, little one,” Frank remarked, his gaze never wavering from the path in front of him.

Too embarrassed by your own behaviour, you nestled your head on his shoulder, resting your forehead on it as your neck and cheeks heated up. You felt a little foolish as you felt your heart beating frantically between your ribs, and the very idea that Matt could undoubtedly hear it made you want to be swallowed up by a hole in the ground and disappear.

When were you going to get to that bloody flat where you would - hopefully - never again have to be so close to one of them without your thoughts getting carried away ?

Your wishes were granted, as you soon found yourselves standing in front of a door that Matt habitually opened, letting Frank go first as he pressed you closer to him to get through the doorway. With a single breath, his scent invaded you more and more until, for a few moments, your thoughts were focused on nothing but him.

The sudden closeness of him made you feel your cheek brush against the nape of his neck, cool in the night air, but enough for your own skin to heat up slightly.

Internally, you were slapping yourself in the face. Now was not the time to let yourself be bewitched by your colleagues, although the fact that you would be spending the night with them would intensify those thoughts.

Your reflections kept you prisoner enough that you didn't realise until you'd climbed the stairs that you were about to enter Matt's flat. No... their flat.

This reality dropped into your stomach like a heavy stone. They're together, so don't try or think anything that might disappoint you. Tonight... It's just business. It's just help they're giving you, that's all it is.

Perhaps it was a cruel lack of affection that made you repeat all this to yourself, but whatever the case, your inner monologue gradually died down as your attention was drawn to the inside of the place.

It was big, really big for a flat, and for a moment the idea of Matt and Frank being rich occurred to you. It wasn't until Frank moved further into the living room that your eyes fell almost painfully on the neon lighting that illuminated the whole room.

And the more you looked, the more the charm of the place intensified. Of course, the neon had to be a problem. And yes, the walls had faded wallpaper and cracked paint. And maybe the windows could have done with a bit of a wipe down.

But the cosy atmosphere the flat had was delightful. The warmth that greeted you as you entered was gentle and reassuring. You noticed that there was little smell in the flat, nothing too strong at least so far.

"On the sofa, she's already lost enough blood for the evening," Matt pointed out as he left for his kitchen.

Ah, right, Matt's senses, you almost forgot. The reason for the absence of perfume or overpowering scents in their flat was surely that it could prove abrasive on his olfactory sensitivity and generally on his senses.

Frank didn't hesitate for a moment, gently lowering you onto the leather sofa, which you felt sink under your back. The sudden change of position made you wince and whimper, the pain of your wounds hitherto camouflaged by your comfort in Frank's arms resurfacing to inflame your skin.

Frank watched you for a moment, frowning as he observed with serious eyes the dark stains that soaked through the various fabrics of your outfit. Without a word, he walked away, and a few seconds later Matt appeared in your field of vision, a bottle of amber liquid in his hand.

"We're going to need you to take off your top and trousers, do you think you can do that?"

The heat rose to your cheek, making you realise that with those wounds on your body, it was inevitable that you would end up naked if they wanted to do anything to help fix you.

You pressed your teeth into your lower lip, keeping it prisoner for a moment and grunting as the gesture made you reopen your little wound.

"I'll try," you croaked, trying to unclench the hand that had been glued to your side until now.

The bleeding seemed to have eased, the blood slightly caking to your hand as you pulled it free with an exhaled whimper. The sudden contact of air on your skin felt like an icy slap, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to calm yourself.

Your head tumbling back on the comfortable leather, you tried to get your hands to the sides of your T-shirt, pulling at the fabric. The material rubbed against your gaping wound, and you gritted your teeth as you breathed heavily.

Matt swallowed, clenching his jaw before kneeling in front of you.

"I can help you, if you don't mind," he offered, his hands coming to rest on your ankles as he began to remove your shoes.

Your reflex would usually have been to say no, your determination to achieve everything on your own without help from others blocking such opportunities. But the more you thought about it, the more the taste of resignation grew in your mouth.

At the rate you were going, getting undressed would take a considerable amount of time, time that Matt and Frank could probably have spent doing something more interesting than helping someone like you. So you gave in.

The blood from your split lip spilled back into your mouth, your tongue running over the cut and burning you. Wrinkling your nose in pain and breathing through your teeth, you nodded vigorously as you readjusted yourself on the sofa.

Matt sat up straight on his knees and faced you, his hands first feeling the leather of the sofa to find your thigh. He gently skimmed along the fabric, his hand brushing the wound on your thigh and making you grunt slightly.

"Sorry," he murmured softly. "The bleeding seems to have stopped," his confirmation letting his hand travel up to your waist.

His second joined in, avoiding the path of his twin again, and finding the sides of your top.

"Can you put your arms up for me?" he asked softly.

You swallowed, chewing the inside of your cheek as you took a deep breath. Then you did the seemingly impossible by lifting your arms. Your shoulders felt like they were made of lead, and your whole body seemed to be made of nothing but aches and pains.

When the fabric and movement rubbed against the wound on your arm, which you had barely raised, your hand instinctively came to press against it, letting a small, contorted whimper escape from your lips.

Matt let out a sigh, but he didn't seem exasperated or annoyed, more concerned or sharing your pain. Just then Frank came back into the living room, a first aid kit in hand as he came up beside you.

"We're going to have to cut your shirt off," Matt warned.

You sighed, feeling deeply incapable. When did taking off a shirt become so complicated? Every cut on your body was starting to burn severely, and you felt like throwing yourself into a lake of ice water to soothe the pain.

Frank pulled the scissors out of the kit, sitting down next to you and letting the sofa sink beneath him.

"We'll get you a new one," he promised as the cold kiss of the scissor blades touched your skin for a moment near the wound on your arm, bringing a short-lived respite.

Frank tugged at the fabric to pull it away from your skin, then after a few scissor strokes tore the material of your t-shirt as if it were paper with a sharp tear.

The cold skin of his fingers, still covered in the cool of the outside air, came to rest on your skin, and it was as if night met day, as the moon touched the sun with its fingertips, illuminating each of its craters and cuts.

Meanwhile, Matt unbuckled your belt gently, unbuttoning your trouser button at the same time and pulling on the fly until his fingers brushed the birth of...

"Sorry about the whisky but we didn't have anything else," he said apologetically as he took hold of the edges of your trousers.

"Aren't you guys sponsored by first aid kits at this point?" you asked through clenched teeth.

Waiting for Frank to move the scissors away from your skin, you raised your pelvis so that Matt could slide your trousers down more easily.

"There hasn't been any disinfectant in any of them since last night," he explained with a small smile.

The scene was strangely intimate, Frank's hot breath spreading across the back of your neck as he cut off your shirt, and Matt's hands sliding your trousers down your thighs.

You couldn't help but let out a grunt as the fabric of your pant leg brushed against the wound on your thigh, though Matt was doing his best not to cause you any discomfort, whispering small apologies as he did so.

You then realised the context of all this, and the heat rose to your cheeks when Frank threw the last shred of your old T-shirt somewhere in the background: you were in your underwear in front of them.

For a moment, their fingers on your body felt much less professional. The passage of their digits over your skin left behind a trail of sparkling powder underneath.

Placing a towel under your thigh, Matt indicated to Frank the bottle of alcohol which he uncorked.

"This might sting a bit," Matt advised just before Frank started pouring the cool liquid over the wound on your arm.

You stifled a muffled gasp, your thighs trembling slightly from the heat of your wounds. Matt's face scrunched up, his hands resting on your thighs in the hope of easing your pain or distracting you from the excruciating sensation you were going through. As for Frank, he didn't seem to give a damn, his face filled with his constant annoyed neutrality.

You had wondered several times whether Frank hated you, or whether it was difficult for him to stand you. Whatever the case, he didn't seem to have you in his heart. Maybe it was mistrust, but whatever the reason, he seemed irascible towards you.

He continued to pour the contents of the bottle quite generously onto your side, your eyelids closing so tightly that you felt you were seeing stars. You gritted your teeth so hard that for a moment they cut off your hearing, then released the tension.

"It's almost done," Matt murmured in the hope of encouraging you.

Frank ended up cleaning your trembling thigh. You brought your hand, closed into a fist, up to your mouth, biting the skin of one of your fingers to channel the pain.

Your head jerked back, breathing heavily as tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. The worst had undoubtedly just passed.

You heard them rummaging around in the kit, and as you straightened your head, you saw them pulling out needle and thread.

"No pain killers," you managed to say as your mouth felt almost pasty.

Frank chuckled, preparing the needle properly.

"Gotta get this done first, no painkillers for your princess ass now."

You let out a half-sigh, half-laugh.

"Silly me to assume you'd care." you mumbled, already feeling the discomfort from the alcohol on your gaping skin soften.

"It' all be over soon," Matt asserted, his thumb running over the skin of your thigh.

"And I who was looking forward to living in agony for the rest of my life,' you breathed.

Frank brought one of the armchairs closer to the sofa, needle in hand.

"Gon try and be gentle, softy." he added, the little nickname making you scoff.

"No, Frank, being gentle isn't your area of excellence. You shine mainly in murder and mutilation."

He raised his eyes to yours, still red and wet from your previous pain and reflecting the famous 'gentleness' he had shown in his actions. He frowned, but this gesture was unexpectedly accompanied by a smile mixing surprise and amusement, stretching his face in a way you'd never seen from him before.

He brought the needle up to your thigh, grasping the skin with his large hand as firmly as gently. He pierced it, making you wince at the sensation.

"Just gonna pretend I didn't hear that," he finally said, his concentration seemingly unwavering.

But the simple idea of saying this when this same man was stitching you up at the moment only enchanted you for a short moment. He had a needle in his hand that he could very well stick anywhere but in the wound that needed to be closed. And although it was an immensely small needle, you were well aware that anything can become a deadly weapon if you have the will to use it.

So you said nothing, letting that little irritation fade away as you let yourself be stitched up. The pain was bearable in the end, nothing too horrible. It was better than going home and cauterising the whole thing with your straightening iron.

Now that the pain was more bearable, your attention eventually drifted to something other than that feeling, and more to the rest. The feel of their fingers on your body brought a whole new sensory experience, causing a warm cloud to settle in your belly.

Matt straightened up, your thigh already missing the presence of his hand on it. He sat down beside you, his fingers brushing your arm without injury.

"Your lip's cut," he remarked.

"It's not the worst thing on the menu," you laughed nervously, immediately regretting your gesture as your smile stretched your lip and reopened it again.

He fumbled for the kit, taking a cotton ball and grabbing the bottle to soak it in.

"Here," he said, his hand coming to take your chin tenderly and turning it towards him.

He pressed the wet cotton to your wound, and you hissed as your nose wrinkled in pain.

"It might sting a bit when you drink," he murmured.

The proximity gripped your heart, Matt's face close enough to yours that you felt his breath hit your skin gently and evenly. You tried to calm your racing heart in your chest, swallowing as you let him finish disinfecting your lip.

You took the opportunity to watch him more closely, to see the way his stubble ran gracefully across his jaw, the way his brown eyes watching the empty space were full of softness, the way his lips, which you were used to seeing outside the mask, were full and pink.

He seemed incredibly gentle, and if you didn't spend some nights a week in his company fighting crime, you'd never have bet he was fighting like the devil himself: unleashed, full of rage, the taste of revenge and the desire for a better balance blinding him beyond measure.

"You'll take our bed," Matt said, Frank just finishing stitching up your thigh.

You immediately frowned, your lips parting.

"Since I'm on the couch I might just stay on it," you laughed nervously as Frank moved to the wound on your waist.

His hand grabbed your hip and pulled you to the edge of the sofa, looking up at you:

"Sit straight and still," he says in a tone calm but firm enough to convince you that he wouldn't repeat that command twice.

You straighten up slightly, letting him come and stitch up the wound in your side.

"Of the three of us, you're clearly the one who needs comfort and rest the most, not us," Matt continued, placing the now useless cotton wool on the table.

"I can assure you that I've rarely been on a sofa as comfortable as this one," you added.

You'd invite yourself into their home unannounced, they'd take care of you, and on top of that they'd make you sleep in their bed while they slept elsewhere?

"Do we really have to drag you there?" asked Frank, tugging at the thread.

"And let me squirm and ruin all your previous efforts on my wounds?" you huffed as you looked into his eyes, a muscle near your eye twitching as Frank continued his work. "I'd ruin your sheets, that's really not necessary."

"Listen-" Matt started, but you stopped him.

"No," you assured him, turning to him, "and anyway I can already feel sleep stalking me."

Frank breathed in as he opened his lips to speak and contradict you again, but you stopped him.

"Really," you assured him, "I'll take the sofa."

Frank bit his cheek in irritation, obviously not so happy to know that someone in this town shared being so stubborn. He turned to Matt, who also didn't seem to be enjoying the situation any more than that.

"Alright, but there's no way I'm going to hear you complain as soon as you wake up, is that clear?" finished Frank as he tied the thread over the cut in your abdomen.

"Scout's honour," you sighed.

As Frank started your last cut, Matt got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass. He filled it with water, while you and Frank seemed to be engaged in a stare-down between two obstinate, stubborn people.

"Thanks Matty," you thanked sincerely, taking the two delicious items in your hand.

He seemed surprised by the nickname, a nervous chuckle forming a smile on his lips.

"I'll grab you some clothes," he replied as he left for their shared room and began the process of changing his costume.

You placed the tablet on your tongue, then brought the glass to your lips. As promised, it stung. A cloud of red diluted on the contact with your lips, and as you observed it you wondered how you would justify it to your boss.

You sighed, reminding yourself that you should email them first thing in the morning to let them know you were absent. All you had to do the next day was explain that you'd been attacked in the street for stealing your bag, but you'd managed to get away, and that in a state of shock you didn't feel like coming to work the next day. This would probably do.

Frank finished stitching you up fairly quickly, and when he cut the last thread he still looked at you with that annoyed look he never seemed to shake off.

"Thank you, Frankie" you thanked, using the nickname in a more playful tone than you had with Matt.

He let out a single sharp breath from his lungs before getting up and leaving in his turn for the bedroom, from which Matt emerged in much more... normal clothes.

It was the first time you'd seen him in civilian attire, in a simple hoodie and jogging bottoms. Your eyes went wide, your mouth half-open for a moment, and you had to blink several times to pull yourself together.

"Here," he said, placing the pile of clothes next to you on the sofa. "Do you think you can stand this time?"

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, and everything else didn't burn as much as if hell itself had invited itself under your skin, you tried to stand up. You wanted to avoid any sudden movements, but eventually, with a bit of effort, you managed to straighten up and start pushing on your legs to get up.

Your knees trembled slightly from the stress and everything else that had gone with it during the night, and just as you thought you'd be sprawled out on the floor in the next few seconds, tasting the parquet floor, Matt grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him.

"Hey, take it easy little fawn, we don't need you damaging your nose on top of everything else," he laughed as he steadied you, letting your legs wobble a little more before you felt comfortable enough to stand.

Your whole body hurt like hell. And no wonder: in addition to your various cuts from the evening, your body was dotted with clouds of bruises that would make all the blueberries jealous of their colour.

"Let me help you," he finally smiled gently as he picked up the T-shirt from the pile.

He helped you into the top, taking care not to let the fabric come into contact with your freshly stitched skin.

"I'll need to borrow one of your shirts tomorrow when I leave," you said with a small smile, "mine's had a bit of a problem."

Matt laughed softly as he poked his head into your top. " May it rest in pieces."

You laughed softly at his little joke, slipping the rest on and feeling his hands roam over your covered skin, the size of the t-shirt far too big for you and reaching the top of your thighs.

Matt lowered himself to his knees in front of you, and you looked down at him as he rolled up the sweatpants so he could slip them around your ankle, guiding your hand over his shoulder so you could find some support.

The vision was heady, taking hold of your heart like an intoxicating scent you want to chase down so you can bury your whole face in it and never leave. You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, to let them get lost in its meanders, to let your nails graze his skull before tugging lightly on it...

But you pulled yourself together, the thought once again creating a warm cloud in your lower belly as he straightened up and pulled the fabric up your legs, his fingers brushing your skin as if you were a statue forbidden to be touched.

"You're gonna have to see that with Frank though," he said as he tied the two laces around your waist, "it's his shirt."

That's how the same smell you'd first smelled when you were in his arms came back to mind, but you remained stoic, preventing yourself from grabbing the collar of the shirt and bringing it up to your nose.

"Challenge of the year," you sighed, smiling though, "thank you. For all of this."

"That's normal, it would be a shame if our partner found herself unable to exercise," he reassured you.

The word sent a shiver up your spine and into your cheeks.

"Red?" called Frank from the bedroom.

"Coming," he answered over his shoulder before turning away from you.

You sat back down on the sofa, tiredness beginning to weigh heavily on your eyelids. You lay down, the multiple events of the evening knocking you out more easily than any sleeping pill.

You had no trouble falling asleep, even with the neon lights on, even without a blanket, and even when the two of them came back into the room.

When you woke up, your back felt like it was sinking into a cloud. The surface you were lying on was soft, and when you turned on your side, your hand came to rest on a material that was not at all like the leather of the sofa: silk.

You propped yourself up gently on one elbow, observing the place you were in, and that's when you realised: they'd moved you into their bed while you were asleep.

"Bastards," you muttered, and bit your cheek to stop the little smile forming on your lips from breaking out.

A funny feeling sprang up in your heart, making it light and rosy. But that feeling quickly faded as you sat up straighter and your whole body ached. You felt like you'd just come out of a washing machine, all tossed and turned.

You stood up, trying to stretch but stopping immediately when the pain from your stitched-up cuts threatened to reopen. You didn't want to mess up their clothes, you'd probably never forgive yourself if that happened.

You came out of the bedroom and found Frank and Matt talking in the kitchen. Matt turned to you, sending you a smile.

"Good morning," he offered.

You were limping lightly, and bent slightly, walking slowly towards them through fatigue and pain.

"At last the groundhog graces us with her presence," Frank grumbled, turning to you.

"Am I rather not a sleeping beauty ?" you returned with a smile, "I wonder if sleeping beaty had a breakfast date when she woke up. I mean, look at me this is such a tempting offer," you said as your posture could easily have been a cross between an old lady and a pregnant woman, leaning on your hip, alternating between the curve of your back and the arch of it, making your whole body crack into a grimace of relief.

But surprisingly, they both smiled at your joke, and the awkward silence you might have expected or the abrupt change of subject to move on never came. But that didn't stop you from apologising on the spot.

"I'm sorry, I don't want my words to sound inappropriate, but I know that you two... well, you're..." together was the word you were looking for, but your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose.

Try again, you thought. You'll end up rowing champion if you keep paddling like that. But Matt immediately reassured you.

"There's nothing to worry about, and besides, on my side you have to be forgiving when you don't have the 'pause' button."

Right, you thought, even though the heat was rising to your cheeks and neck enough for your cool hand to come and rest on it, massaging it nervously.

"I find you singularly witty, Red," Frank said, arms folded across his chest.

Of course, there was nothing new under the sun about Frank. His sharp tone brought you back to solid ground in no time.

"How are the wounds?" he asked as he turned to you, his eyes lingering for a moment on the fact that you were wearing his shirt.

"Very well," you assured him as you lifted the sides of your shirt to show the one on your side and the one on your arm, turning back to him, "I think the blue really brings out my eyes, don't you?"

He smirked, and you couldn't quite work out whether it was genuine annoyance or amusement. It all seemed a bit too perfect, and that's when it hit you.

"Fuck!" you exclaimed, looking for where they'd put your trousers where your phone was.

"What is it?" asked Matt.

"My boss," you said, searching the hallway and finding your trousers there, "I didn't tell him-"

"We called him this morning," pointed out Frank.

You stopped in your tracks, turning back to them.

"You what ?" you questioned.

"We called him," Matt informed, "we told him that we were close to you and that after you were mugged last night in the street you decided to stay home for the day out of shock."

"You-"

"It's all sorted, you don't need to worry," Frank grunted, taking his drink in hand, surely in search for you to shut up and let him enjoy his morning cup of coffee.

You stood there like a houseplant in the middle of the living room, and Matt invited you to take a seat for breakfast. Bemused, you took a seat and the three of you ate and chatted for a while.

Matt mentioned taking you to see a guy he knew so that he could cover you up with something other than such a simplistic and obviously flimsy outfit that could put you in danger again.

And after breakfast, you left at the same time as Matt, who was leaving for work. You said your final goodbyes and went your separate ways.

Little did you know the proximity of last night would change many things.

⟢ next part : here

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ice-cream-writes-stuff · 1 year

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Last Night In The Neighborhood☆

《You're my world, you are my night and day. You're my world, you're every prayer I pray..》

《Warnings: the subject matter this ARG has are potentially disturbing. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Welcome Home was created by Clown @/partycoffin 》

Moving from your old home is a scary thing, whether you don't care for the danger ahead. Change is different, it's an oddity.

So when you find an old soundtrack album of a kids show from the 70s when you were unpacking. You grow curious.

Noticing a dusty old record player in the farther corner, you try to recall how to even use one. Begrudgingly searching up how to work the machine on your phone. You smile in pride as the vinyl disc starts to swirl about.

Picking up the album cover, you look over the design.

A cast of colorful characters smiles on the cover. Their expressions are forever saved in place, at least eight puppet-looking creatures waved or paid attention to the viewer. Even a little odd house with windows for eyes.

As if they stared right back at you.

Ignoring your uneasiness, you place the item down near the record-player and continued unpacking the little items you brought. That moving truck better be here by tomorrow..

Your feet tap to a few songs, occasionally singing or humming along clumsily with your own made-up lyrics.

When it became nighttime, you were uneasy, the loud noises from outside, and your paranoid self couldn't handle the stress. Grabbing a random record, you place the needle on the disc and throw the covers over yourself. Trying to drown out the world for at least a little peace.

Waking up to bright lights and rainbow color schemes surprised you. Your legs moved on their own as they take in the sights and sounds of this weird dream.

Houses and streets greet you, along with music that you swore was playing before you fell asleep.

Coming closer to the source of the music, you were shocked by the characters on the album singing and dancing to the rhythm.

One of them notices you and waves you over to join them.

You smile, this was a dream you could get used too.

Joining in with your messy lyrics and footwork. The puppets greet you with open arms and cheers.

When the song finishes, one of them comes up to you. They smile gently, holding out their hand for a handshake, asking for your name.

You tell them, ask for their own.

Before they could say it, they were interrupted by a pink monster girl.

"My name is Julie! That frowny face over there is my best buddy! Frank Frankly! Oh! And over here is..." She continued as she finally finishes with the blue-haired puppet who was shaking your hand.

Not once letting his eyesight stray away from you. "He's Wally! Wally Darling!" Julie said.

She then whispers into your ear loudly. "He's a painter! He likes to paint pretty things.."

The rainbow monster giggles, nudging you coyly and side-eyeing the other puppet.

He appeared uncaring of his friends' teasing, he only smiles. His attention was solely on you, it made you feel... Special.

He made you feel special.

In the following days, you felt yourself changing, you were happier. Content with your daytime life and nighttime shenanigans with Wally and the rest of the puppets.

Hell, even your clothes were starting to change into a whole new style. The colors and lengths become more in tune with the type of clothes your friends wore in your dreams.

Yes. They were your friends, especially Wally, he had become your closest friend in your polychromatic fantasy.

And you couldn't be more thankful. At least, in the beginning...

The more you slept, the longer you stayed, it felt as if the world where Wally resided wouldn't let you leave. As if it was crying out for you to come back whenever you woke up.

You couldn't handle the newfound drowsiness you found yourself in day in and day out. It started to take a toll on you, to the point where you feared to sleep. Afraid that if you fell back into the fantasy, you may never leave.

《If our love ceases to be. Then it's the end of my world for me..!》

[For context! This was based off Last Night In Soho, were a girl dreams about a mysterious girl in the late 60s. I was inspired to write my version of it it with a mix of welcome home! Thank you for reading! Fan art and reblogs are appreciated! Helps with creativeness, also, to my [WElcome To Your New HomE] fans, sorry for not a new update!]

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theesirenteller · 7 months

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𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔬 𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔯𝔪𝔢 𝔟𝔦𝔢𝔫 | Masterlist

Epiphany wondered if other women ever experienced the heartbeat-like throbbing against their pearl and the quivering, almost pins and needles feeling down the slit of the lips whenever a (painfully) alluring man was around. She couldn't help but feel so…slutty. Her shimmery g-string clung to her dripping wet cunt as she squeezed her thighs together. Rio's voice was the liquidation of sex. No doubt she could get off on solely his voice, "What's a girl like you doin' with a trainwreck like ole girl?" the words poured from his lips like smooth whiskey,

"What are you doing with Booby-Betty Crocker? " She challenged him with a sultry grin, "Is that some type of humiliation, corruption kink?" His robust laughter was contagious. It caused giggles to escape her lips as she grinned. The midnight wind blew through her hair as he drove down the streets of Chicago.

"Yeah, something like that," Rio smirked as his dark eyes glanced her way. Ranking across her face and down to her breast.

"Well…" Her shea-butter brown eyes trailed from his neck tattoo to his lips, "I don't let me get in trouble with the boss."

"You already are, Honey"

Epiphany was no stranger to the Marriott hotel. It always was a cushiony place that worked for when she needed to service some middle-aged sap for some quick cash. This time was slightly different. She wasn't meeting some John but hooking up for the sole purpose of fulfilling lust. The pair stood beside one another in the hotel's crowded elevator. Rio slightly angled a few inches behind her. His hand laid against the middle of her lower back, causing a tingly sensation to slither down her spine to between her legs. Inhaling his cologne, a slight smile fell on her lips. His scent was comforting in the most fascinating way. Epiphany anticipated how his skin would feel against hers. The transition from the elevator to the hotel room felt like a blur. Honestly, it was.

Everything felt so miniscule when her lips hungrily indulged in his. His lips moved deeply against hers. Rio's large yet steady hands grasped firmly to the back of her neck and head. He didn't do 'kissing' but she was far too pretty not to kiss. His large hands embraced her full breasts with a firm squeeze that caused her nipples to harden.

His cool, calm, and calculated demeanor made her feel so frantic and feral; so much so that she could barely hold herself back from yanking the black button-down shirt off his almond-shaded skin. Epiphany felt like a lion's prey the moment his arms clasped around her body, One arm wrapped around her shoulders; which he used to push her closer to his body until they were chest to breast. His opposite arm wrapped around her waist with a hand laid across her ass. His lips pressed against hers firmly as they ravished each other's mouths. Tongued plunging further into one another's mouths, colliding and licking against each other wildly. The silky fabric she wore around her hips to cover her soaked mound was ripped from her and his long, lanky fingers plunged into her. Shallow moans escaped her mouth that grew into whiny whimpers between her shaky breaths. The warmth of his mouth rose pebble-like goosebumps to her skin as he kissed and licked against her neck, all the way down to her collarbone. Epiphany could hear him inhale her pheromones as she felt his nose pressed against the corner of her throat. He drummed his fingers into her pussy. Deep, slow, scissoring motions with the pads of his fingers rubbing against her soaked lining caused Epiphany's hips to buckle against his hand, "o-ooh1 uuhh" Her hands grasped at his shoulders as their tongues met.

She could taste the burn of bourbon off of his mouth as the saliva from his tongue dripped into her mouth. Ravenously, his lips overlapped hers as his large hands grasped hold of the back of her thighs. His arms cradled her closer tugging her lower half off the bed as his tongue plunged down her throat, Rio abruptly rammed into her with one plunging thrust. With such force that Epiphany's whole body trembled. Her thighs latched against his waist with a 'slap'. The tips of her nails dug into the blades of her shoulders as a muffled moan escaped her mouth. whew, His long length was as thick and quite fat. He wasn't anything like Epiphany expected. No, he was so much better than that. Stuffing her fully with thunderous thrusts that were anything but sweet. Deep and rapid she felt the force of them in the small creases of her hips and the bottom pit of her stomach.

" Ahh! O.. Oh!! ¡Dios mío!" she cried out against Rio's mouth. Their saliva slipped off the side of her now pouty lips. The fatty curved tip of his dick stroked against her g spot deep in the odyssey of her pool of moisture. Hot tears started to trickle down her face as her mind grew fuzzy. She couldn't think, only feel. She only sank further into the addictive pleasure that burned within their bodies.

The heavy weight of his bulge pressed heavily against her core as their bodies sank into the depth of the mattress. His hand grasped at the base of her throat as he darkly chuckled against the side of her mouth, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses behind his shallow breaths. "aw mamacita lo estás haciendo muy bien por mí" He praised into her ear like a secret only they shared. Her legs trembled violently as she grew sweaty, and flushed with desire. Feeling fully exposed. There was no prep for being this close. Like exposure therapy, she was thrown into this and desperately wanted more. He paid attention to every detail of her body. Biting at her nipples, licking and sucking along both her breast and neck. Squeezing at the sides of her ass as he pierced ravenously into her soaked, slippery center.

Rio was swallowed by her warmth and she was stuffed with his girth. Her hands clasped to the back of his shoulders with an iron grip as her meaty thighs were spread wide. His palms laid flat against her inner thighs as he mounted her. His pulsating cock stroked tenderly within her at an animalistic pace that caused heat to pool within the pit of her stomach. Hunger, Lust, and her arousal coated his length like strawberries dipped in chocolate. The painful pleasure he brought onto her was addictive. Like a hot blade running along bare skin. Epiphany came so hard that her nude, sweat-glistened body jolted up against his. The mouth of her arousal ached as his thrusts only increased in intensity. Bruises formed against her hips as his nails and fingertips dug into her soft flesh.

With one swift and sharp plunge, Rio rammed every inch of his thick-cut right-inch cock inside her. Filling her up whole. Epiphany let out a thunderous wail. " ℱ𝓊𝒸𝓀! "

She felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. Her body felt electrified with pins and needles as if she'd been thrown into ice-cold water. his hips began to speed up in movement and force. Ravishing her dripping wet punani viciously with a ball's deep thrust. That caused tears to spill from her eyes as her hips snapped upwards and her back bent. " Mmff! Unnf." she cried out. Her hands smacked against the tatted sides of his forearms as her nails clawed against them.

He grabbed her left leg lifting it so her foot was by his head. A tight grip to her neck as he leaned against her thigh making it so she was stretching out as he pressed weight against her. His pelvis crashed forward at a Vicious pace as the curved tip of cock drilled into her sweet spot. Jackhammering into her pussy caused sweat droplets to form against his skin. His dark eyes drank in the way her large breasts bounced wildly. her thighs and curves jiggled due to the harsh impact.

Epiphany's lips trembled as her whole body shook. An out-of-body experience had taken over her and it became overwhelming. Her words are incoherent and nothing but gibberish. The tight knots that were deep in her womb were broken. her core feeling shattered as she came messily. Spilling down his balls and inner thighs like a leaky faucet. Her whole face turned hot. Her hair stuck to her neck and back. The pressure applied to her neck was added and as soon as her lips parted, his long digits were stuffed into her mouth. His right hand grasped a fistful of her hair as he tugged at it. Her head snapped back as her teary eyes looked into his obsidian ones.

Rio viciously bottomed out every time before he’d pull back. “coño.” he cursed, his grunts were low and came up from his throat. they sounded animalistic yet hot. She felt so good if made him feel possessive. Her moans and muffled whines grew louder the moment his hand moved from her neck to her clit. Pinching and smacking at the bundle of nerves that made her squirt against his palm.

Epiphany began to convulse with overstimulation as both of her legs were lifted and pinned against the headboard, "Please!" she begged. It all felt like too much. Too good. Her heartbeat pounded against her chest almost matching his animalistic thrusts. She swore she was being fucked to death. If she died this way…then well..she'd die happily. But he never did. His pelvis rotated up as he mounted her. Violently rutting into her continuously. His balls bounced off the thickness of her plump ass. His hands slipped down her legs before greedily groping onto her ass.

The gangster's eyes nearly rolled back as he hollowed out groans of pleasure. Truly in a state of pussy drunken bliss. His fingers tugged her pussy lips apart enough to fondle and rub his thumbs along them as he pulled out of her warm center. Shamelessly painting thighs with his cum as he sucked harder against her breast.

It was safe to say that Epiphany thought about him and night of sinful pleasure for the next two weeks. She still could smell his cologne. His touch was embedded into her skin. The ticklish pecks of his facial hair she could still feel against her neck. Not just the night but the following mid-morning. He was very smooth, sweet, and polite. They had spent an hour together after their separate showers. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee were what they both ordered. The meal they shared was accompanied by casual conversation with light flirting and silly jokes. Everything was light-hearted and he was sweet enough to book her an Uber with a kiss on the cheek before their farewell. Time moved fast after that. She didn't see him at the strip club which was a bummer and the university was kicking her ass. Epiphany didn't forget him but life just moved on.

On a Wednesday afternoon, The dancer sighs to herself in aggravation as she reads over her manipulation and persuasion textbook. She was drowning in notes and her eyes were dry with soreness from overanalyzing everything. Her phone dinged at the perfect time causing her to pipe up and check her texts. "Hey chica, we need some sugar for Topper's rager.' that one had been from one of her dance class friends and another message came from Annie asking to meet up at Regina's diner. 'Got u' she texted first before agreeing to meet up with Annie.

Epiphany then proceeded to change out of her fluffy cheetah print pjs and put on the quickest fashion ensemble she could find. Which was a green-apple-colored Juicy Couture tracksuit and black fur-trimmed kitten heel sandals. She only had the strength to pull her messy curls into a sleek high ponytail. Oversized Chanel shades covered her tired eyes as Epiphany left her apartment. During the Uber ride to the diner, she popped three edible gummies into her mouth. Her phone buzzed as she chewed slowly.

'Rainforest Cafe. Friday midnight, u down?'

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or in this case, think of him. The back of her neck grew hot just like the sides of her face. 'See you there.' she texted in response just as she reached her destination. Epiphany skipped happily into the diner with a smile across her face. Her smile began to dim down as she noticed at the booth with her head down.

"What's up with you?" Epiphany immediately questioned with a raised brow as she slipped into the seat across from the younger Boland sister. A frown slowly formed across her face as she watched Annie wipe her tears away.

"Oh, you know just, baby whales dying." Annie joked before shaking her head, "It's just…Sadie's mostly at his father's house again and Beth well…she's been busy since she became councilwoman between that and gang friend. It's been rough since I got out of jail. Lonely, mostly."

Before Epiphany could utter a word the waitress had come and asked for their orders. Both women decided on curly-fried and sunny-side eggs. Epiphany then turned back to her friend. "That sucks. I'm sorry about that. What happened to your EMT job offer?" Based on the look of dread on Annie's face; the question was answered without words. "Well fuck that do something else. You're funny, do some comedy shit at nightclubs. Maybe do something working with old people. I don't know, use your weird ass wits to bring someone some joy." Epiphany suggested.

"Gee, thanks." Annie smiled before excitement flashed across her eyes, "I used to have this friend named Marion. She was the sweetest old lady and I considered her to be my nana. We were close up until she passed. Maybe I could get into that again."

"Yeah. Honestly just live your life doing whatever the fuck you want. And when you get lonely, put on some skin-tight jeans and find un papi chulo para besar. " Epiphany's dialectic switch made Annie laugh and high-five her.

The women spend their afternoon eating and cracking jokes and midway into their meal, Rio came up in the conversation. "Opening night…did you and your gang friend hook up?" Annie asked.

Epiphany chewed on her eggs with a closed mouth and a smirk swept across her lips. Annie gasped dramatically with wide eyes. "Holy fucking shit. I thought you were bluffing."

The Latina snorted and shook her head, "Not even in my wildest dreams would I bluff about wanting to get railed by a man like that." Epiphany then snapped her manicured nails and pointed at Annie, "And don't go spreading it to your sister, yeah? Whatever she and he got going on isn't any of my business and whatever I do with him isn't her business."

Annie sighed but nodded "I get it. I had an affair once too…It's just that they're together and work together. We all kinda work together but I think they're like officials this time." Annie personally didn't get or understand the full extent of her sister and gang friend's relationship. Beth never gossiped about it now that the kids and dean were gone. Also, sometimes there was beef and then there wasn't. and Annie ended up being caught in the middle every time.

The thought of the rotted mayo-looking councilwoman and Rio just left a bad aftertaste in Epiphany's mouth. "Apples to Oranges babes. Don't think too much into it or get too caught up in it." she shrugged. And with that, she paid half of their tab before heading to do some shopping. Epiphany most definitely needed new outfit choices for Friday.

#theesirenteller fanfic #theesirentellerstories #rio; dealer fanfic #rio good girls #theesirenteller characters #good girls nbc #manny montana fanfiction #rio good girls x reader #rio gg

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candycandy00 · 3 months

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Roses in the Sky - An Original Alien x Reader Story Part 1

In a future where humanity huddles in decaying domed cities controlled by alien invaders, you and your best friend Anna work as make-shift nurses in a tiny clinic run by the young doctor Terrian. The city is ruled by the aliens' violent, half-breed offspring who serve as brutal overseers. You and Anna have always tried to avoid these overseers at all cost, but your life is changed when one of those same terrifying offspring is brought into the clinic, injured and unconscious.

This is an original Alien (well half alien) x Fem Reader story! I hope everyone who enjoys my fanfiction will give this a shot! I’m posting the first chapter just to check for interest. Any feedback whatsoever would be loved! I’ve already written this story so it’s not going to delay my fanfics. Just thought I might post chapters of this between fanfics if anyone is interested.

Slow burn, as this is a novel-length story, but there will be smut in later chapters! Also: violence, blood, rape attempts, death of side characters, etc.

The sky was red, and you hated it. You hated more the fact that you couldn't remember what it looked like when it was blue. The whole city looked like it was coated in blood. You saw enough blood already.

You walked along the littered, decaying streets of Gallica with a blue duffel bag on your shoulder. You kept the hood of your gray jacket pulled down over your head and your hands buried in your pockets. Standing out was never a good idea, at least not where they could see.

As you rounded a corner, you were suddenly sprayed with red liquid, and you only dared to steal a quick glance down the alley it came from. A body was tumbling to the ground, and you didn't even have time to see who it was or what sort of wound had drawn such a huge amount of blood. Your eyes had been drawn, in that brief moment, to the pair of black-clad figures standing frighteningly still beside the body. Their bi-colored eyes flicked upward, toward you, but you returned your gaze to the street in front of you and walked quickly away.

Your heart pounded and your hands trembled in your pockets until you were far enough down the street to safely assume they would not stop you. You knew what happened to those unlucky enough to somehow provoke the half-breeds, regardless of intention, so you hurried along toward the clinic without looking back once.

When you reached the small, rundown clinic, you were met at the door by a girl in a nurse's uniform who placed her hands on her hips and scowled at you. “You're late!”

You pushed by her and dropped the duffel bag from your shoulder, flopping it onto a nearby cot. You unzipped it and pulled out your own uniform. "My alarm clock didn't go off."

The other girl stood leaning in the door way as you stepped into an empty patient slot and slid the dirty curtain closed. "Terrian is gonna be pissed at you,” she said.

You emerged from behind the curtain in a white button-up shirt that was a little too tight and a skirt that was way too short. “He'll get over it."

"Yeah, as soon as he see's you."

You laughed. "You're jealous, Anna."

"Because that perverted freak lets you get away with anything?" Anna asked. She was so petite that even the smallest, tightest uniforms Terrian had given them seemed to fit her just right.

"No, because I look better in the uniform."

Both of you laughed as you laid out your supplies on rickety metal tables, organizing them neatly into categories according to how often they were used. The alcohol, thread, and needles were first in line, followed by bandages, then ointments and creams.

The door leading to the main treatment room flung open and a man with shoulder-length, pale blonde hair tied into a short ponytail walked in. He wore wide-rimmed glasses and a lab coat covered in blood stains. He looked angry as he approached, glaring at you, but suddenly froze when he rounded the metal tables and the full length of you came into view.

He smiled brightly, wrapping you into a hug. "You wore it today!"

Anna rolled her eyes and brushed her bangs, the longest part of her auburn hair, away from her face with her hand.

You pulled free from Terrian and adjusted your ill-fitting clothes. "It's the only uniform I had clean."

"And it's my favorite," Terrian said, then glanced toward Anna. "Stingy Anna always wears pants, even though I beg her to wear the skirt with the slit up the side."

Anna gave him a dirty look and he gave her a grin in return. He looked over the supplies then held out a thick stack of papers. "Look at all this. These are all patients who left the clinic in the last month and haven't returned for their checkups. Next week I'll be making a lot of house calls."

Both you and Anna frowned. You hated it when Terrian made house calls. He was the only doctor at the clinic, and you two were the only nurses. Things were hectic enough with the three of you, but when he was gone, the clinic was thrown into absolute chaos.

"Anyway," he spoke up, "we have a lot of patients waiting already. Let's get to work!"

You and Anna had no formal training, had not even finished high school, but you had both been living on the streets three years ago when Terrian approached you about working for him. He taught you two the basics, and the rest you learned over time. In this city, injured people couldn't be picky.

Together, you and Anna wheeled your metal supply tables through the swinging doors into the main treatment area of the clinic. Cots were lined up in two rows, facing each other, for the entire length of the large room. There was only enough room for one person to walk between each cot, and all but a few were occupied. People were moaning, screaming, crying, or unconscious. Anyone not in mortal danger was sent home after being stitched or bandaged up.

Illnesses were not often treated, as serious diseases were most often fatal no matter what the doctor did, but injuries were extremely common. Blood dripped from nearly every cot in the room, and a few patients were bandaged to the point of looking like mummies. You and Anna had both learned quickly to develop strong stomachs.

The two of you were checking on a patient that had been brought in last night with a chopped off leg when Terrian came zooming past you, pushing a stretcher.

"Emergency surgery!" he called, disappearing into the room you had just changed in.

You both dropped what you were doing and ran after him, then stopped dead in your tracks as soon as you were through the doors, staring at the figure on the stretcher.

"Doctor, that's... one of them,” Anna said, her voice almost a whisper.

The man on the stretcher wore an ornate military uniform - black pants and a long black jacket with golden buttons up the front and matching trim along the cuffs and collar. The uniform was instantly recognizable to every single person in the city, because only they wore them. His skin was ghostly white and his hair a jet-black mess scattered across his face.

Terrian was ripping that glorious black uniform from the man’s motionless body. "I know what he is, Anna, but he's still a patient. And right now, he's dying unless we can stop the bleeding."

You and Anna hesitated just inside the door, looking at each other and then back to the man. Anna shook her head. "I can't... I can't help him. Not after all they've done."

Terrian stopped and looked at her. At first, you were sure he would scold her, but he merely sighed and nodded. "I understand. Go tend to the other patients."

You watched the other girl leave, then turned to Terrian. He looked at you with a pleading expression. "He'll be dead within the hour if we don't do anything."

You took a deep breath, then rushed over to Terrian's side. He held out his hands while you poured alcohol over them, then rinsed your own. Looking down at the young man, he seemed fragile, vulnerable. Almost human. His torso was exposed, revealing a long, deep cut across his abdomen that was gushing out blood. Funny how his body was absolutely impeccable, toned to lean perfection and resembling a stone statue, but marred by that huge red gash.

The cut was so long, and the bleeding so severe, that each of you began stitching on separate ends of the wound so that you would meet in the middle to tie things off. A sloppy job, yes, but the fastest route to closing the wound. He would heal faster than normal people, would probably be fine in a matter of hours, but only if you stopped the bleeding.

Once you and the doctor were finished, you again cleaned the wound and Terrian began bandaging the patient up. "Amazing, isn't it?" he asked when he was done, "It won't even leave a scar. Not on him."

You washed your hands in the nearby sink and thought of Anna. "It's not fair."

"Of course it's not," Terrian told you, wiping the blood from his hands on a stained towel. "Nothing in this world ever is.”

You dried your hands and walked again through the swinging doors. Anna was changing the bandages on a young girl's arm, but looked up when you approached. "How could you stand it? Helping that thing?"

"I didn't enjoy it, okay? But he would've died. This is a clinic, Anna. We're supposed to help dying people."

Anna stood up and stepped away from the young girl's bedside. "Yeah, people. Not them."

"But he's half human, isn't he? Isn't that enough?"

Anna snorted. "Was that enough to stop those creatures from barging into my house and slitting my mom's throat? Was it enough to stop them from crushing my brother's head under their boots? Was it enough to stop them from... from what they did to me?!"

You went silent. You didn't know what to say. You knew the half-breeds had killed most of Anna's family, but you had yet to hear any details before now. Finally, you reached out and took the other girl's hand. "I'm sorry, Anna. I'm really sorry."

Anna pulled you into a hug. "I know. I'm sorry I jumped down your throat. I just don't want to see you be hurt by them too."

"I don't think he's in a position to hurt anyone right now," you told her after you separated. "He's not even conscious."

Anna looked toward the swinging doors. "Be careful. Even when they look harmless, they're still dangerous."

You nodded, and wheeled your cart over to the other side of the room. You stopped at the bed of an elderly man who was missing both his feet. He was sweating and breathing heavily. You took his blood pressure and wrote the results in a tablet. He looked up at you with astonishingly kind eyes.

"If the nurses look like this, I'm gonna have to get my feet cut off more often," he said with a chuckle.

You pulled back the sheet to check his bandages. "You sure are a charmer, Mr. Renaldo," you said as you began unrolling the strips of cloth.

"Don't believe a word he says!" Anna called across the room, "I told him yesterday he could hold my hand while Terrian stitched him up and he said he'd rather hold my ass!"

Rhoswen stopped cleaning the bloody stumps where feet used to be long enough to lightly slap his shoulder. "You shameless flirt!"

He laughed and looked at the man in the bed next to him, who didn't seem to be in such good spirits. "Can't blame me for trying, can you?"

The other man gave a weak smile and looked away.

"Now now, let's not disturb the other patients," you said gently.

"Everybody's so glum. That's what those damn Pagoda want," he said.

You finished his bandages and patted him on the arm. You bent down and whispered to him, "Thanks for cheering us up, Mr. Renaldo."

The next few hours went by steadily but quickly, as you made your way around the room checking on people, giving out soup, changing bandages, and occasionally holding someone's hand while Terrian performed some sort of painful procedure.

Unfortunately, pain relievers were as rare and expensive as genuine jewels were in the olden days, when the sky was still blue. The only way to put a patient to sleep was to quite literally knock them out with a blunt instrument, which was a last resort.

The clinic was dirty and crowded and in shambles. The people were desperate, demanding, and understandably irritable. But you liked being there. You liked being with Anna and even Terrian, who could at least make you smile. You liked helping people who were suffering, because you enjoyed seeing a tiny flicker of hope in their eyes.

Because you could almost grasp a little bit of hope for yourself.

The clinic was all you had after your parents died. And everyday you dreaded returning to your tiny apartment where hope drained from every inch of you like red sun fading into black night. But at least you could always come back the next day, where you could laugh with Anna and everything else would fall away into dust.

It was almost time to go home, and all the patients had been taken care of. Anna left out the front door, not wanting to walk through the back room where she would have to see the lone patient on the stretcher.

You waved to Terrian, who was making one last run around the room to check everyone over, then walked into the back room. The young man was still unconscious and the rest of his clothes had been removed, a sheet draped over his body. You crept up to the stretcher and looked down, watching him breathe. After feeling certain that he was indeed unconscious, you walked into the empty patient slot you had changed in earlier and pulled the curtain closed.

You couldn't walk home in your uniform, as it was dangerous enough for a girl to be alone on the streets in the evenings, but wearing an outfit like that was a definite no. You quickly pulled it off, then reached for your jeans. But before you could even unfold them, you heard the curtain suddenly fly open.

You whirled around in anger, certain that perverted Terrian would be standing there grinning like an idiot. But you were not met with the smiling doctor, but the cold, expressionless face of the now conscious patient. His eyes, one blue and the other lime-green, bore into you, unblinking.

He was completely naked, save for the bandage across his abdomen, and you tried your best to keep your eyes on his face.

You suddenly realized that you were only in your underwear, and backed up until you bumped into a cot, holding your jeans in front of you. The man’s eyes never left you, and your heart was pounding rapidly in your chest. You had never been face-to-face with a half-breed before, not in this close proximity.

There was a pause, where both of you stared at each other for several moments, not moving. Then, in the blink of an eye, the man lunged forward and was inches away from you. You jerked backward, inadvertently ramming yourself into the cot where the metal collided with your bare back. You dropped to your knees, wincing.

When you looked back up, the half-breed was looming over you, and suddenly reached out one hand toward you. You had seen what the hands of half-breeds could do, had treated many a patient who had somehow ran into one of them. In fact, just today you had bandaged up a woman who's left arm had been pulled right off, like the wings off a fly, by a half-breed.

You curled into a defensive ball and screamed, your horrified voice ringing out through the clinic and undoubtedly to the buildings nearby.

#Alien x reader #alien x human #x reader #female reader #x reader stories #x reader romance #x reader smut #reader insert

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lostinforestbound · 3 months

Text

This is an exploration of Rolan, Cal, and Lia 's past together and how they met. I have read plenty of headcannons and fics that have already explored this topic (the ones I've read are so creative!) and I wanted to do my own little spin on it!

Cal & Lia & Rolan

Unlovable

An unwanted, despised child wanders Elturel one of the worst storms the city has ever seen, looking for scraps to survive the night.

Word Count: 3.1k (AO3)

Relevant Tags: Child Abuse (Only shown in the beginning), Trauma Responses, Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending

A pitiful tiefling child is dragged by his hair, wailing as a woman kicks the front doors of the orphanage open. She tosses the young boy out into the middle of the storm, and he falls into a large, muddy puddle in the streets of Elturel. The rain hits his back harshly as he struggles to get up on his hands and knees.

“Don’t you ever come back to this place.” He hears the woman spit, and he tearfully looks up at her with golden eyes from his place at the bottom of the stairs. “This is no place for you, devil spawn. When you came to us originally, I bit my tongue in the name of our God; I thought we could shape you into something instead of what you are. Now you bite the hand that feeds you. A conniving, thieving, spoiled brat is what you are!”

She reaches for the handles on the doors, hatred in her eyes as she stares him down. “Leave, we will be more at peace without you to burden us.”

He weeps as the doors slam, wanting to plead with her; he didn’t steal anything, he never touched anything he wasn’t supposed to, and he was framed by an older child that resided further down the hall, but his voice has never worked ever since he was left here. The caretakers tried everything to make him speak; prayers, beatings, and starvation were all they resorted to, but none of those worked. It only made him silent. Even with how cruelly he was treated, he crawls up the stairs, trying not to slip on the wet stone, and frantically knocks on the doors.

His cries are left unheard or willfully ignored.

Body shaking violently with his sobs, the cold sinks deep in his bones as the rain mixes with the tears running down his face. He’s resorted to scratching at the wooden doors with his nails, but they’ve been blunted by the worshipers here. Cut down until they bled so they looked more humanoid.

Less devilish.

Please let him stay.

He yells out another cry when a loud clap of thunder hits, covering his sensitive ears from the sound. It hurts so much, the little ice needles called raindrops piercing his skin repeatedly without mercy.

To the happiness of those inside the orphanage and temple, he finally runs away.

No one would give him a second glance, and he never felt so isolated.

Pathetic.

Unwanted.

Abandoned.

His legs shake with every step after he stops running, whether from the cold or the terror that sunk into his bones. He’s directionless, not recognizing the street he's on and unsure how long he ran for. What did he do wrong? Should he have fought the caretakers less? Should he have gotten along with the other children more? Should he have been better behaved?

Is there something wrong with him?

As more lightning strikes, he picks up his pace again. A couple of small houses still have candle lights burning in their interiors, but he’s too fearful to go knocking. Who would want an orphan in their home? A tiefling orphan, no less? And on top of that, one that’s too scared to talk? Would they throw him out again?

He feels his stomach is being clawed at, hunger overcoming his senses. They were already punishing him for insolence by not feeding him, but thinking he stole something from the altar was the final straw in the haystack. He did not think caretakers could look at him so disgustingly.

Waterlogged by the rain, he finds a small house with their candles still lit, trailing over to the trash they left. It’s by the front door, the worst place for him to hide, but if he doesn't eat something soon he might collapse here.

He sneakily opens the wicker basket and looks inside, trying to find scraps. A loose crust of bread, old meat, bad fruit, anything he could find sustenance in. Anything that can tie him over for the night.

But there is nothing. Only broken glass from what looks to be a shattered plate, stray strings of yarn, and old needles that have long rusted.

His eyes start stinging again, knowing that luck will never be on his side. It’s the only trash he sees out here in this street, everywhere else is now too dense to peek through. He doesn’t even hear the door open, he only feels the waft of warmth from the inside-

The door is open.

He trembles again, not just from the cold, but dread. He can’t will himself to run away. Maybe he’ll be shown some mercy if he gets on his knees to beg, wordlessly hoping the punishment wouldn't hurt him too badly.

“Hello?” A feminine voice calls out cautiously, opening the door fully as the light hits his skin.

He quickly looks up at the figure, petrified.

She’s beautiful. The light gives him a better view of her orange skin and darker orange eyes. She’s wearing a white night dress, loose fitting with frills at the end of the sleeves. Her short black hair is a mess as if she got out of bed rapidly.

A Tiefling, most importantly.

He stares at her in a childlike wonder, surprised by the warmth he feels just by seeing her soft, sleepy eyes.

“Oh my goodness, you poor thing. Come in, now.” She states, gently but urgently pulling him inside.

Tugging him along to the interior of the small home, the tiefling woman sits him down in an old chair and puts a heavy blanket over his shoulders. “Sit tight- Cal, Lia, what have I said about staring?”

“It’s very rude…”

“Very good Cal.” She says softly, mirth and honey in her voice.

He didn’t even notice that there were other people around. They sounded young, like some of the other kids in the home. Their voice is sweet, the one that spoke. Innocent.

Quiet steps quickly approaching, she comes back with a towel, kneeling in front of him and carefully wiping his face. He leans into the towel's softness, enjoying the texture and lightly starting to purr. “Gods above, what happened to you sweetheart?” She asks as she takes one of his hands, looking down at his blunted nails in horror.

Opening his mouth, he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. What would he even say? His teeth chatter violently, threatening to crack the incisors that adorn his mouth.

“You’re freezing. Cal, Lia, please find some of the old clothes in the closet. He’s soaked to the bone and we need to get him dry.”

He hears the tinier tieflings run off somewhere, the woman carefully pulling him up and leading him into a bedroom. It’s small but comfortable. The orphanage was cramped and he had to share a bunk bed. He always took the top one, since it would be easier to hide himself when he was higher up. When he was out of sight, he was out of mind.

The other children arrive with a clothing pile, and while he can’t look them in the eye, he sees the amount of clothes they bring as they threaten to fall onto the floor.

That makes the woman giggle, a sweet sound that relaxes him even while he shivers. “Thank you. Now, sweetheart-“ She starts, gently tilting the boy’s chin to face her. “Do you have a name?”

He glances at her, dumbfounded. Yes, he does have a name, but it feels as though his throat is closing.

She gives him a sad smile, moving her hand away. “How about you change into some dry clothes? Come out whenever you’re ready.”

Getting up, she leads the other two children back out the door with hands on their backs.

”Mom, why won’t he talk?” The taller of the little ones question.

“Hush, Lia.” She whispers, closing the door behind her after they leave.

Silently looking around the room, he spots a portrait hanging high on the opposite end of the bed, easy to see even while laying down. It’s the woman, but she looks much younger, and there’s a man next to her. Red of skin with similar black horns, but they were cuffed in some kind of jewelry. Ceremonial, perhaps? They seem so sweet, holding each other’s hands like it was their whole world.

They’re in love. He hasn't seen the man around, though.

He snaps out of his trance, starting to peel off his wet clothes. The shirt snags on his horns, and it rips the side open while trying to yank it off.

Damn it all, the only shirt that he owned is now ruined. How could he fix this? The caretakers never taught him how to sew like the other children. They didn't let him participate at all, usually. It was too delicate, they said; his claws would tear the cloth and he would ruin it, like how he ruins everything else.

He ignores the tears stinging the corners of his eyes, focusing on putting on the new clothes. They’re big on him, clearly meant for an adult, but it’s dry. Kicking off his shoes mostly in frustration, he now looks at the door that leads back out.

Does he leave now? Is he allowed to?

Feet tiptoeing to the door, a shaky hand reaches out for the handle and opens it. He winces when the hinges creak so loudly, and he starts to shake again. Should he hide under the bed? Will they be angry about the noise?

No one seems to come after a few minutes, but he thinks that might be worse. Maybe they’re waiting for him to show his pathetic face.

But he smells something wonderful coming from what he thinks is the kitchen.

And gods, he’s so hungry.

He makes himself walk over to the area, the warmth of the room and the smell of chicken overwhelming his senses. The other children are sitting at the small table, waiting patiently with empty bowls as the woman, their mother, stirs her pot.

Her ear twitches, and she looks over with another soft smile. “Ah, there you are. Please sit, I’ll get you a bowl once this is ready.”

Wordlessly, he trails over to sit down on one of the available chairs, wrapping his own tail around himself. He doesn’t want it to get stepped on like it did in the orphanage.

”So, why were you out in the rain??” The girl asks suddenly, startling him. “It’s cold! And I heard that the storm was getting very dangerous.”

She looks like the man in the portrait, he notices. Red skin, longer black horns. She is staring at him expectantly, but he’s very distracted by the decor of the house. It’s colorful compared to the orphanage, with pots of flowers settled on tables including the one they’re sitting at. There are loose pieces of fabric, with a wayward needle and thread fastened in between so it wouldn’t disappear.

”Hello???” She calls to him.

”Lia.” The woman warns, turning her head and giving the child a stern look.

”But mom-“

”If he doesn’t want to speak, we will not force him. Leave him be.”

Lia pouts, puffing her cheeks slightly but doesn’t speak to him again.

He’s never been defended like that, before.

The fire stops suddenly, and their mother brings out a larger spoon. “Come here Cal, you first.”

Cal excitedly hops out of his chair with his bowl, tail swishing behind him rapidly as he trots over. Lia does the same after him, happily taking their bowls back to the table once they’re filled up. They take no time at all to start eating, even with how hot the soup is.

The woman sets a bigger bowl in front of him, filled with the same thing. “Eat as much as you’d like. There’s plenty.”

He looks at the contents, seeing the steam rise up and disappear in the air. It’s hot against his face, and he sees all the ingredients through the thick broth. Chicken, peppers, onions, and probably some spices too.

He shouldn’t be allowed to eat, he’s done nothing to help in the kitchen.

The other two finish way before he ever could, but he didn’t even touch the food. Thankfully, they don’t comment and run off to go play in another room.

He doesn’t hear their mother approach, so he jolts when he sees her kneeling beside his chair. “Are you alright, sweet pea?”

Fear washes over him fairly quickly, thinking she’s angry. He can’t get his tongue to work, even now. He wants to apologize for being rude, for not eating, for daring to enter this home, for everything.

For existing.

She gently cups his face, a look of concern as she searches for something in his expression. “Honey, you’re not in trouble. Not at all. I want to make sure you’re okay; please, eat.”

No one has ever been this kind before. No one has ever looked at him so lovingly.

Mom.

He starts to weep, ears twitching down and tail falling limp as his vision goes blurry. He can’t see her expression anymore through the tears he’s been keeping in ever since dinner started. That’s when she gathers him up into her arms, holding him as he gets on the floor with her.

She coos at him and lets him cry in her arms, holding him closer to her chest. “Shh, cry all you need. You’re okay.”

His sobbing grows louder and more desperate, as if he was grief-stricken. He cries and cries, but that never deters her one bit. She gently rocks with him, hand scratching at his scalp as she whispers comforting words.

When he finally calms, she takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face clean from the tears and snot. “Do you think you can eat, honey?”

He weakly nods, sniffling.

She easily lifts him up back onto the chair, pushing the bowl closer to him, and he finally takes a spoonful of soup into his mouth. He forgot how starved he was and ate up eagerly. It takes another two bowls before he’s satisfied.

He gets led back to the bedroom he was originally in, and she has him sit on the bed. “Get some sleep, okay? Don’t worry about anything, I want you to rest.”

He carefully lays down on the bed, doing what he’s told. The mattress is large and surprisingly soft, so he easily gets under the blankets. He wished the blanket was heavier, but he knows not to ask for anything.

The woman smooths his hair back with a smile. “If you ever need anything, I’m here. Feel free to come get me or call out when you want to talk, okay?”

He watches her leave the room afterward, exhaustion setting deep into his bones. Eyes growing heavy, he finally decides he wants to rest.

Hot. He’s burning. His skin is overly sensitive, and the drag of fabric along his skin is borderline painful. He tries to wake up, but can’t force his eyes open.

A muffled voice reaches his ears before he can panic. “You have a fever, dear. I will take care of you. And sweethearts, stay away from him. I don’t want you getting sick.”

”Yes, Mama.”

He’s in and out of consciousness constantly; sometimes hearing muffled voices, sometimes falling into a dreamless, uncomfortable sleep.

Sometimes he cries when woken up, part of him hoping he never wakes at all. But she wants him to drink water, so he will obediently. Maybe then, she’ll let him stay here. He’ll be good.

He promises to be good.

Please let him stay.

When he feels himself start to get better, he finds himself gathered in her arms as she gently hums a tune for him. He chastises himself internally when he feels the sting of tears in his eyes; is he so pathetic that he would cry over being comforted? Being loved so dearly?

“Darling, I can’t let you go back out into the storm. It’s too dangerous. Stay here.” She murmurs, thumbing his bony shoulder. “I’ll keep you well fed. I have more than enough to feed another mouth.”

He nods a little too frantically, hand crumpling the sleeve of her dress.

“Good. Let me go get something for you, okay?”

He reluctantly lets her go and patiently waits as she walks away. The rain hasn’t let up at all, still beating on the windows harshly as the cold tries to seep into the room.

The floorboards creak with her return, holding a blue shirt and brown trousers. “I made you some clothes. I noticed you only had one pair with you, so I made you another.”

She puts it in his hands as he looks it over, and he runs his fingers over the material.

It’s soft. Softer than anything he was ever given.

”Try it on whenever you’d like. Would you like some lunch? I’m making some steak and eggs.”

He nods a little, and she smiles as she leads him to the kitchen once again. Cal and Lia are already there, and super excited about his presence.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better! Did you like the blanket? It was one of my favorites when I was small!” Lia exclaims happily.

She doesn’t seem deterred at all by his lack of response.

“It’s the best one!”

“I like that one too. Is it still soft?” Cal asks, looking up at him. When he nods, Cal smiles more, and he idly notices the small boy is missing a missing tooth.

”Settle down children, the steaks are almost ready. Ah, how do you like your eggs darling?”

He stares at her with a confused look, and she gives a small frown as she tries to think of an example that he would understand.

“Me and Cal like ours scrambled! Mom, maybe he’ll like scrambled??”

“That’s the safe option, I suppose,” She giggles, going to a different pan where the eggs are being cooked. “I enjoy sunny side up. It's where you only cook the underside and leave the yolk on top untouched.”

He remembers a visual he saw in a picture book. Is that sunny side up?

”Ah, I suppose I should ask this question. What would you like to be called for now? Sweetheart? Darling?” She asks, looking back at him.

These nicknames are something he’s not used to. The people who ran that hellhole he stayed in usually called him ‘boy’ with such disdain he could crumble onto the floor. They stopped at nothing to make sure he felt like disappearing. That he was a disappointment to them; but that place was all he had.

Maybe this place is different, and he can be cherished. This woman never once made him feel like he was a burden, even when he thought himself to be.

Maybe he can be safe here.

Maybe he can be loved.

“Rolan.” He finally responds to her.

She looks at him with wide eyes before the brightest smile appears on her face, warm as the sunrise.

Lia squeals as she quickly stands on her chair. “Mom! He talked!”

#rolan #bg3 rolan #bg3 fanfic #Forest-Writes #bg3 cal #bg3 lia #angst #angst with a happy ending #bg3

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cupidb · 1 year

Note

chishiya with an s/o who can read him better than he can read them and/or really just anything that’s hurt/comfort with chishiya

a/n: decided to write the hurt/comfort, cause we all love when chishya is caring which happens like never💔 I hope this is something that you'll like, anon!!

- Stitches

Chishiya Shuntaro x GN!Reader

☆Genre: Fluff/Angst(?)

☆Summary: Chishiya helping and comforting his s/o after they got injured by the King of Spades.

☆Warnings: stitches, use of needles, caring chishiya, fluff

English is not my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes.

After being hit with a sharp object by the King of Spades, causing the flesh to rip open, you stumbled through the street in pain. He got your shoulder while you were trying to run away from him. You also lost your friends along the way which made you more worried than you already are.

The only thing keeping you from losing any more blood is the hand-made bandage you wrapped around your shoulder from a ripped shirt, but it still hurts like hell causing you to wince softly with each movement you made.

You were currently hiding behind a car when you heard gunshots, but luckily not in your direction. You took the opportunity and relaxed while examining your surroundings in front of you. Noticing bodies that were already rotting makes you feel pity and disgust at the sight.

When a car suddenly stopped behind your hiding spot, your body froze in terror. You stood up and prepared to run ignoring the sting of pain coursing through your arm. Not daring to look back, you set foot to take flight but then familiar voices stopped you abruptly.

"___ wait! Get in!" Kuina yelled in your general direction making you gasp at hearing her voice again finally.

Turning around quickly you didn't waste time running to the car when you noticed the one you were longing to see out of the corner of your eye. He was also in a hurry to get to the car filled with your friends while also noticing you.

"Chishiya-!" You scream in relief, but your attention is quickly drawn to the object thrown in front of your feet. It's a grenade.

"That's bad. Go!" Chishiya yelled in the direction of the car before taking your hand. Stuffing both of his and one of yours into his pockets he went running. As he dragged you away from the grenade, you could still feel the explosion, causing you both to stumble into a nearby shop.

He drew you down behind the counter with him causing your shoulder to collide with his, forcing you to wince in pain.

Chishiya moved back to examine you after noticing your discomfort. His normally calm expression had changed to one of concern after noticing the dried blood on your skin.

"Your arm is covered in blood, need to tell me something?" He inquired as he raised his worried gaze from your injury to you. You nodded briefly before attempting to remove the bandage so he could examine your wound, but he quickly grabbed your hand softly, stopping you.

"I got hit in the shoulder with something sharp by the King of Spades." You told him instead and he nodded at your words.

He slowly opened the bandage, trying not to cause you any more pain, his brow furrowed at the sight of your injury.

"The wound needs to get stitches for it to close properly. You ever gotten stitches before?" He questioned and went in search of a first aid kit. He quickly found one hanging on the wall, took it, and returned to where you were resting behind the counter.

"Yeah, one time but the area got numbed. So I don't know how much it's going to hurt without it."

"It's going to hurt a lot but I'll make it quick for you. Tell me if the pain gets too much to handle, okay?" He requested in his calm voice as he took out the things he needed.

Swallowing the lump in your throat you answered him with a short, "Okay. I trust you."

With a small encouraging smile, he went to work on your wound, beginning by cleaning it with alcohol-soaked watt pads. You winced loudly at the burning sensation but remained calm.

"Done. You did great. I'm going to stitch it up now, if it's hurt too much let me know." He waited to continue until you gave him the okay to start.

After giving yourself time to gather your thoughts and prepare for the next section, you responded with a, "Okay. I'm ready; you can begin stitching."

He began to stitch it while giving you another small encouraging smile. To say the least, the needle piercing through your skin was painful, but his encouraging words along the way made your pain almost go away.

"You're doing great, ___. I'm almost finished." Your wound was closed up again by piercing the last stitch through your skin and tying it up with a knot. Letting out the breath that you were holding in you took a closer look at your shoulder and noticed that the stitches were nearly invisible.

Sighing, you leaned back against the counter and closed your eyes for a moment. The pain was now much more bearable, and you could move your arm without feeling as if your entire arm had been stabbed.

The silence that filled the shop was relaxing you a lot. And knowing that he's with you again made your heart explode with happiness. His presence alone made you feel safe and you knew with him being with you nothing can hurt you.

"I will not let anyone hurt you again." Your eyes opened and you looked at him as your mouth formed a loving smile at his words. Hearing that from him made you almost tear up with joy.

"Thank you very much, Chishiya. I'm glad we've found each other again. I was missing you." His calm expression was back, but his eyes showed contentment as he looked at you.

"I love you." You mumbled as your head fell onto his shoulder, exhaustion gripping your body. Chishiya moved in closer to you, allowing you to fully rest on his side and shoulder.

He took your hand in his and squeezed it lovingly, turning his head away from you after giving you a soft kiss on the top of your head. Not wanting you to notice the slight blush forming on his face.

You found yourself drifting off to sleep, but not before hearing him whisper quietly, "I love you too." Thinking that you're already asleep he laid his head on top of yours also longing for a nap.

With a smile on your face, you fell into a much-needed nap.

a/n: request box is open!

#aib chishiya #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya x reader #fluff #aib fluff #aib fanfic #alice in boderland x reader #fanfic #alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya fic #writing #my man is so fine

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clangenrising · 5 months

Text

Month 10 - Leafbare

Scorchplume had never been more comfortable in her life - well, aside from the itching pain in her rear end, but that would surely fade in time.

It hadn’t been like that at first. Her first several days in captivity were spent in a cold little cage, desperately fawning over any human who would come near to try and earn their favor. They were the ones who would decide if she would become Exalted or discarded with the Chaff on the streets. Most of the other cats in the cages stared and whispered, well familiar with her and her reputation. She wondered if they judged her for her desperate displays of affection but their opinion became irrelevant when she was finally taken to be altered and awoke with both ears intact.

Shortly after that, she’d been taken home by one of the human attendants at the Judgement House who she had managed to endear herself to. She’d spent a day or so trapped in a small room, being closely watched by the human and sometimes by her two kits. The kits brought Scorch rich tunas and enthralling balls of glitter. She knew that her new position as a House Cat came with expectations to watch over and entertain her new Folk and so she obliged the kits when they tried to entice her into a game.

She sometimes imagined that Goldenstar or Yarrowshade would enjoy these games, that she might enjoy playing beside them, and she always forced herself to crush those feelings into dust. Such thoughts would only weigh her down and she couldn’t afford any distractions.

After another few days, she was let out into the rest of the house. She took careful time exploring the place, mapping every detail in her mind. She memorized the hiding places, investigated the vantage points, noted all the doors and windows and how closely they were guarded by the Folk.

It was an interesting place, the house. It was so pristine. Everything was human made and free of dirt or grass or what have you. The food was given to her at the same time every day and the Folk had brought a bit of sand inside for her to bury her waste in. She couldn’t seem to figure out where they put their own waste, although it seemed to have something to do with the room they insisted on going into alone.

The Folk had brought a strange pine tree inside, one that smelled like plastic instead of needles, and covered it with strange shining orbs and crinkly vines. She had tried to investigate it further but the Folk didn’t seem to like it when she did and she had decided not to risk their anger by probing further.

Still, despite the place’s strangeness, her time there had been marked by a level of comfort she had never known in her life. She never had to want for food and could usually earn extra morsels with a humble enough prayer. There were so many soft places to sleep, many of them in perfect beams of sunlight. The weather seemed entirely absent, the house staying perfectly warm even as the world outside was covered in thick, white snow. Scorch had found a soft perch jutting out of one of the windows that seemed perfect for observing the world outside. There wasn’t much to see, but sometimes she chose to pass the time there, watching birds.

That was… until one day when, while sitting on her perch she spotted another cat sitting on the fence and staring at her. Immediately, her heart began to pound and she leapt down to hide beneath the couch. Who had that been? She racked her brains for the names and faces of any brown tabbies in Razor’s band and came up with too many answers to be useful. She spent the rest of the night cowering under furniture until dinner, then clung closely to the Folk while they slept. She hated that she felt safer tucked against their huge, warm bodies but she did. She had never been religious but she understood now why so many House Cats worshiped their Folk. There was a certain power they held and a level of kindness that felt vaguely alien yet all encompassing in their presence.

The next day, after breakfast, Scorch chanced a look through the big window overlooking the back garden. The snow was marked with paw prints. Her stomach twisted in dread. She took a slow deep breath, tried to think clearly, but it was hard over the alarms going off throughout her entire body. She had been found. It was only a matter of time before Razor came calling. She shut her eyes tightly and tried to force down the bile rising in her throat.

Stars, she could smell his breath, hear the rumble of his laugh, feel his teeth in her fur--

She gagged and bent over double, paw pads slick with fear sweat. Her pelt crawled as she desperately tried to settle her churning stomach. What was wrong with her?! Her survival depended on keeping a cool head and a cooler disposition. She had to get herself under control or she was going to have to keep herself confined to this house for the rest of her life. She briefly considered the idea - hiding under the protection of her Folk and getting used to the stale house air and the taste of kibble - but she knew that she would eventually go mad in such a small, unchanging territory. She had been born to roam and as gentle as her Folk had been, she needed to leave eventually.

“Are you alright?” a voice on the other side of the glass startled her and she flinched backwards in a puff of ginger fur. A smiling feline face and two bright, copper eyes stared back at her. The cat in front of her was a sleek, blue-furred molly wearing a rusty red collar with a shiny little bell. She was bigger than Scorchplume, but only slightly, and she didn’t seem to mind the cold thanks to her thick winter pelt.

Scorch took a deep breath and laid her hackles to rest before responding, “Yes, I’m fine. Just a nasty ache from the Altering.”

“Oh, yikes,” the cat winced sympathetically. “I've heard that's the worst. Don’t let your Folk catch you picking at the wound though, they’ll put you in a cone.”

“Good to know,” Scorch said, forcing a smile. She had no idea what a cone was but she wasn’t eager to find out.

“I’m Mystique,” the stranger said brightly.

“Scorch,” she replied with a charming curl of her tail.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” purred Mystique. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Scorch chuckled, imagining the way Razor’s band might speak about her.

“Of course,” Mystique nodded. “You’ve got quite the reputation. I’m glad you finally joined us among the Exalted. Some thought you were Chaff, but I knew better.” Scorch grinned and dipped her head graciously. Mystique cocked her head to the side with curiosity and asked, “How did you end up with your Folk, by the way? No one has seen you for months and then suddenly here you are!”

Scorch thought fast. Her next words were important. Was it better to admit she had been caught in a stupid mistake or should she try to pretend it had been intentional? What answer was both believable and advantageous?

“I did some exploring,” Scorch started, “then I grew tired of it. I saw a trap and thought that seemed like the fastest way to come home.” She knew there was probably a better story out there but she didn’t have time to think of it. This one would have to do.

“Tooth and claw!” laughed Mystique. “You’re definitely as bold as they say.”

“What brings you to my garden?” Scorch asked, whiskers twitching with interest.

Mystique shifted, glancing over her shoulder, and said, “I’m your neighbor! Heard you had moved in and thought I ought to say hello.” She shifted again and Scorch made note of the way her smile flickered momentarily. She was hiding something and Scorch could only assume that she had been instructed to pay a ‘friendly’ visit.

“How lovely,” Scorch purred.

“I’ll probably be around if you ever need me,” Mystique offered. “The Folk usually don’t let you out of the house until the Alteration has fully healed, but I can pass along any messages for you or let you know about the goings on.”

“Oh, really?” Scorch perked her ears. “I’d love to hear about the recent events. Like I said, I’ve been away and haven’t been able to catch up on gossip.”

“Hmm,” Mystique ran her tongue over one of her paws and passed it over an ear as she thought. “All the buzz lately has been around these barbarian cats living north of the city. Razor is making moves to seize their territory for a hunting ground.”

“Really?” Scorch put on amazement. “I didn’t realize the rumors of cultists and savages were true!”

“Right?” laughed Mystique. “I honestly wish I could see them for myself. Apparently they’re harboring a Chaff Transgressor.”

“Fascinating,” Scorch said. “I’ll have to ask Razor for the details when he comes to visit.” And he would. She wished he wouldn’t but she knew it was inevitable.

“Yeah,” shrugged Mystique. “You might be waiting a while, though. He’s overseeing the next push, probably going to be busy for a while.”

“I see,” Scorch said, trying to figure out if she was relieved or worried by that news. “Do let me know when he gets back, yes?”

“Of course,” grinned Mystique, “will do. He’s probably pretty eager to see you.”

“Likewise,” Scorch said. Her guts squirmed and clenched nauseatingly.

#clan gen #clangen #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats oc #warriors oc #clangen oc #clan gen oc #Scorchplume #Mystique #Leafbare #TW SA Mention #TW Vomit #clangenrising

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giorno-plays-piano · 1 year

Text

Thorns In His Mouth

Part I

Pairing: fae!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: obsession, dubious consent, minor character death, drugs (neither reader nor Steve are involved), slight eating disorder, mentions of tumor, high tech elves.

Words: 1.8k

Summary: Maybe it was a good idea to chat with a waitress a bit more once she brought you your order. Perhaps she could at least tell you with whom you should speak because you simply couldn't force yourself to look at others, most of them already high, shouting something loudly or laughing or weeping. You could constantly hear the flapping of someone's wings, weird whispers and noises, and the sound of boots and hooves that made your hair stand on end.

________

This place gave you the creeps. You certainly didn't expect it to be the same as those lovely little cafés you enjoyed visiting on your days off, but this hellhole was by far the scariest place you had ever been, and it took all your strength to stay seated at the dirty little table instead of running out to the street.

When you saw one of the fairies to your right preparing a needle as her friends giggled, already drunk or high or whatever, you quickly stared at the table top, praying not to see or hear anything at all. If not the promise given to the elf, you would never ever come here. In fact, you wouldn't even know a place like this existed at all.

You still couldn't believe it when you stumbled upon a man who had healed a stray cat when he thought nobody looked. It was way past midnight, and the street was empty if not for you, stopping to rub your bruised feet - you had worn a new pair of shoes that evening to brag about them to your friends. And then, when you saw the man bringing his glowing hand to the cat's torn ear, you thought you were just drunk. You were certainly old enough to know magic didn't exist, and as you stared at the perfectly shaped cat's ear, you wondered if you're sick or drugged or insane.

You weren't, you realized when the elf rose to his feet, startled by you, his own ears too long and sharp for a human, his too-graceful features making you stare at him with your mouth agape while he stilled, unsure what to do with you. He was most likely to wipe your memories like most of the fair folk did if mortals spotted them in the human realm, but you were lucky to convince him otherwise.

"Hey human," a young woman's voice made you rouse from you thoughts, and you stared at the waitress with bright pink hair and pointed ears in front of your table, her once pretty deep blue uniform soiled and unkept with oily stains covering the fabric here and there. "What's your poison?"

You stared at her, unsure what you should say. Was that some kind of code? The elf didn't mention anything about it. He just said you were most likely to meet fallen elves and other creatures in this place, but he said nothing about poisons. You hoped you didn't have to take any.

"I'm sorry," you smiled meekly at the girl. "I don't think I understand."

The waitress blew a big pink bubble and popped it with her sharp teeth, chewing gum as if she couldn't care less, "If you found this place, I bet you already know who we all are. We're the fair folk, hun. The exiled."

"I know," you said quickly, becoming more and more nervous as if feeling other creatures suddenly started paying attention to you.

"Well, then you should know each of us have our own poison. What's yours?" she narrowed her sharp, cat-like eyes at you, growing impatient. "If you don't have any, you can't be here."

Ah. Yes. An obsession. Each and every of the fair folk living away from the Sacred lands had a certain mania, the elf you met on the street said. Missing the magic surrounding them from the moment they were born, they were bound to have an unhealthy attraction to something else in the world of humans, so foreign to them. When you asked if it was arts or an obsession with human technology, perhaps, the man only chuckled.

"It's drugs," he said, cutting you short.

When you stilled, a troubled expression on your face as you had a hard time processing his words, he added, "But not always. Sometimes, it's alcohol or cigarettes. I heard some have battled their addictions and picked something less heavier to obsess over, but I don't think my brother did. I bet you can find him among drug addicts."

Ah, and so you were there, among the drug addicts and drunks and misfits whose sick smiling faces nearly made you retch as you thought of how to find a man you never saw before and knew nothing of him except for very few details the elf from the street was willing to share. It was nearly impossible, he said, but you couldn't back down on your promise because something much more important was at stake.

"I have an eating disorder," you gave the waitress a polite smile you had been showing to the especially demanding customers of yours over the years. "Does it count?"

Her face suddenly changed, and you saw her smiling widely at you in return as if you having unhealthy relationship with food somehow made you one of them. "Sure! What would that be? Sugar, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back in a minute, hun," she said too happily and flew back to the counter, passing your order to someone on the back while you nervously licked your lips. What was she going to bring you? Just cubes of sugar? A whole cake? A poisonous cake?

Hiding your hands under the table and clenching the fabric of your wide workpants, you took a deep breath, trying to concentrate on your goal. You needed to find a man the elf was looking for. Maybe it was a good idea to chat with a waitress a bit more once she brought you your order. Perhaps she could at least tell you with whom you should speak because you simply couldn't force yourself to look at others, most of them already high, shouting something loudly or laughing or weeping. You could constantly hear the flapping of someone's wings, weird whispers and noises, and the sound of boots and hooves that made your hair stand on end.

Why were you here, again? Ah yes. For the sake of your sick mother who the elf you met on the street had been treating faithfully for the whole week.

You could do it. You just needed to be careful and stay out of troubles. You only needed to find a lost man and bring him back to the elf.

But, perhaps, it wasn't in your nature to stay out of troubles, you thought when you saw a stranger with rather long bleached hair and pointed ears joining you at the table, his face, certainly very handsome once, looking tired and grim.

"It's not often we have new faces here," he said nonchalantly, tilting his head to the side as you gaped at him, wide-eyed and slightly scared. "Especially human faces. What's your name?"

For a couple of seconds, you debated whether you should tell it to him. You knew the fair folk were prohibited from putting spells on humans, and it was one of the few laws the exiled magic creatures were abiding by, but giving your name to a weird-looking stranger didn't seem like a good idea.

You still didn't know why you told him your name.

"Steve," he replied quickly, throwing a glance at the waitress who was coming back to your table, a cupcake on her tray. "What a sweet obsession you have."

"That's not funny," the pink-haired girl cut in, placing a plate with a bright red cupcake and white frosting on its top on the table for you. "Your usual."

She then handed him a thin black box people used to store CDs, and you eyed it with curiosity. What was that? There was no label on it, no name, nothing that would help to identify it. You weren't even sure it was a CD inside, but you thought it was unlikely to be used for drugs. The disc box looked way to shabby as if it could open any time, and you suddenly found yourself wondering what Steve's obsession was.

Following your gaze, the man grinned, showing you the box. "There's just a CD inside, nothing else. You see, I'm a very boring creature."

"Yeah, sure," the waitress said, narrowing her gaze and quickly returning back to the counter before you had a chance to talk to her.

Irritated, you forced yourself to stay civil, smiling to the stranger sitting in front of you. You just lost your chance to figure out anything at all, and now you had to get rid of him, too.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" You asked politely, hoping he would leave you alone.

"I just said it. We rarely have fresh blood here," he said and then added immediately, seeing your bewildered expression. "Don't fret. I don't mean any harm. I'm just curious to see why a decent human woman ended up in this hole. As you can see, we have very little entertainment here except for booze and stimulants."

Stimulants. What a lovely synonym he found, you thought and ordered yourself to stop, knowing your disgust would soon show clearly on your face, and you certainly didn't want to upset the elf on the other side of the table. You came here for information, nothing else.

"I, uh, I'm looking for someone." you mumbled, staring man in the face and seeing his eyes were blue like the opening sky, and that his cheekbones were high and wide, and his lips, albeit dry and cracked, were full and well formed. He'd look lovely if not the shadows beneath his eyes, hollow cheeks, and wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth that looked strangely unnatural on his young face.

The more you looked at him, the more his strikingly handsome eyes seemed hollow to you.

"Searching for a friend? A lover?" The elf asked you as if he didn't mind you staring at him intently, and you snapped out of your thoughts, chewing your lips as you glanced at the cupcake waiting for you on a plate.

"Neither. I'm looking for a relative of my... friend." The second you said it, he gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head as if you said something amusing, and your cheeks heat up. Why was he laughing at you? You did your best to swallow your protest, acting as polite as a store clerk in the presence of their boss. "Why is it funny?"

_______

"Don't mind me," Steve chuckled, wiping his lips with his thumb. "I don't suppose you know what it's like to deal with the fair folk from the Sacred lands. To put it simple, they just love it when somebody's willing to do their bidding. That's what it all is about, right? Some elf or fae or phooka asked you to search for their relative in exile."

Part II

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @biiskuitx @stupendouslovegardener @melodierin @yeolliedokai @what-is-your-wish @lou-la-lou @gachawipes133 @eralen @magnificantmermaid @lovelydarkdaydream @illyrianprincess @youngdreamer3214

#yandere #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #captain america #mcu fanfiction

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drdemonprince · 9 months

Note

That ask about small talk and fear reminded me: a few days ago my partner and I were at our local café. I went to use the restroom and found the toilet seemingly backed up, so went and told a worker since I didn't want to try using it and then make it worse. A random guy who'd been there for a while came over and said "Want me to take a look at it?" We all thought it was Weird and Creepy but he genuinely just wanted to help, and managed to fix it! It was great! He was just a kind stranger wanting to help. And as we left later it hit me how sad it is that fear was our initial reaction. I wish I would've thanked the guy instead of being awkwardly frozen. But it also gave me a little hope and a reminder that most people are just like me, just a person trying to enjoy the life we have and be nice to others.

Yes, I really do believe that if we are invested in mad pride and disabled liberation at all, we gotta take that initial knee-jerk reaction of "this person is weird" or "this behavior is breaking unspoken social scripts" and throw it into the fucking garbage.

No one is a bad person for feeling wary in that way, it is a socially conditioned response -- but it is very dangerous. It's the same kind of thing that leads to people covering their homes in security cameras and calling the cops on children knocking on their neighbor's doors in search of their missing cat. You probably would never do anything of that nature, of course! But it's all part of the same social ideology. And that ideology keeps you isolated and less likely to seek help -- it doesn't keep any of us safe.

Personally I LOVE talking to fucking WEIRD PEOPLE. I spent an hour this summer at a picnic table talking to a tweaked out guy covered in facial tattoos and scales about my aura and the psychic journey he was on and shit. It turns out that he was a trans woman in the 1980s but he didn't have the language for it! He was drawn to me because he could tell I was gender-weird too, and because he said I had a very open looking soul. I could scoff at that or I could be afraid of him, but why??? He was fucking cool! he had a ton of fascinating life experiences and is friends with a lot of the other people I see on the streets in my neighborhood. Turned out we were both Aries' and we talked about that a ton too.

I also met a guy in a dusty old cowboy hat in the park by Loyola beach who told me he is the official 'patriarch of the park' and gets to decide who he allows to pick up litter there. He pointed to a very clean-cut white woman stabbing at trash with a stick and a needle and told me that he had given her personal clearance to clean up "his" park. She might seem like a fussy white suburban type lady, he conveyed, but she was interested in making the space better for everyone and wasn't doing any Kareny shit, so she was welcome.

Last weekend I was going to a free concert in Ping Tom Park and edgy 19 year old punk kids danced next to 70 year old Chinese retirees and middle-aged yuppie parents and their toddlers and homeless people and 50 something Mexican old head techno fans and it was the loveliest fucking thing in the world. A guy up the street from the park was selling dozens of old back packs and coats and electronics on his front lawn and I dug through them and chatted before getting there.

Living in a city and spending a lot of time outside, I meet people like that a lot, and my life is immeasurably enriched by it. It makes me sick and sad that so many human beings never get to talk to strangers like this, recoil from homeless people or people on drugs, and fear any stranger's intrusion into their life. I think even a lot of left leaning, queer people harbor these reactions and chalk them up to things like "being afraid of men" or "being afraid of straight people" and we even promote that kind of thinking within our communities at times. I find it very damaging. Some of the most wholesome experiences in my life have been random nice/warm things cishet men on the street have done for me.

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bingbongsupremacy · 11 months

Text

Snow Storm

Pairing: Ellie Williams x Reader

Warnings: I didn't know how to end so yeah.

Summary: You and Ellie have hated each other for years. Will one snowy night change that?

* Not Proof Read * TLOU Masterlist

*****

" Are you kidding me, Dina? " I huff in annoyance. " We fucking hate each other. You couldn't have asked literally anyone else? "

Dina rolls her eyes. " It's not my fault your fucking brother got me sick. And I tried. Big surprise, no one wants to patrol on Christmas. "

I let out a sigh. " Fine, whatever. Just...get better. I'll see you later. " Muddy snow crunches under my boots as I make my way through the streets of Jackson. Not many people are out today, most deciding to stay home with their families. As I near the stables, I see her.

" Well well, look who decided to be on time today. " Ellie smirks while adjusting her pack onto Shimmer.

" Oh fuck you. It was one time and I was like five minutes late. " I shove my pack onto my horse, Posey, and jump up.

" Somebody's still a bitch. " Ellie mutters.

" You're one to talk. You literally always start it. " I direct Posey towards the gates.

Ellie scoffs. " Sure. "

" Let's just not talk, alright? Neither of us wants to be here. The faster we get this shit done, the faster we can both go home. "

" Deal. "

*****

" For the last time, Y/N, we can't make it back to Jackson in this weather. We have to wait it out! " Ellie shouts over the raging snow storm. " You know what, if you want to go, go! I'm not fucking dying because you're too impatient to wait this out. " Ellie turns her horse towards the nearest building.

I guess she's right. I mean, the storm doesn't look like it's going to die down anytime soon and I have no fucking idea where I am. We have to be at least an hour or two away from Jackson. There's no way I'd make it back. I can barely see my hands.

With an annoyed groan, I turn my horse towards the direction Ellie went. I jump down and ignore Ellie's smirk.

" I see someone came to their senses. "

I don't bother responding, instead yanking down the garage door. I turn on my flash light and slowly walk into the dark house. " You get left. " I whisper to Ellie, who nods.

Once we finish searching the house, we end up finding ourselves both in the living room.

" I'll see if I can get a fire started. " Ellie begins throwing random things into the fireplace and attempting to light a fire. A small orange flame forms, quickly engulfing everything in the chimney. A warm light is cast through the room, making it feel less intimidating.

A sharp pain startles me. I let out a gasp and reach towards my side. A wet, sticky liquid coats my cold hand. " Shit. "

Ellie's head snaps towards me. " You-Fuck what the hell happened? " She stands up from her crouching position and walks towards me.

" It's not that bad. I must've got it when we were running from the infected. I didn't even notice. " I hiss slightly while gently lifting up the corner of my now blood covered shirt. " Maybe a little more than a scratch. " My eyes widen at the jagged cut. I start to feel a little bit woozy at the sight of the crimson liquid. Shit, I'm fine with blood as long as it isn't mine. I wobble slightly from the image.

Ellie rushes towards me, grabbing onto my waist. " Fuck, be careful. " She slowly leads me towards an old couch near the fire.

The feel of her rough hands sends butterflies tumbling through my stomach. I'd be lying if I said I didn't find her attractive.

The feeling of disappointment settles on me as soon as she lets go.

Ellie wouldn't like me back. We fucking hate each other.

Right?

Then why is she helping me?

Ellie digs through her pack for a small box. She pulls out a small bottle of alcohol, a needle, and some thread. " Not gonna lie, this is going to hurt like hell. "

I nod. " Just hurry. "

I clench my teeth as her cold hands touch my bare skin. She pours a little bit of the alcohol on my cut. " Mother fucker. " I hiss while shoving my nails into my fists.

Ellie quickly begins sewing up the cut. Her face is full of concentration.

When Ellie finishes, I let out a sigh and drop my head against the couch.

" I'd definitely get that checked out when we get back, but it'll do for now. "

I send her a tired smile. " Thanks. "

She nods and packs away the kit.

We sit in a heavy silence for what seems like hours until Ellie finally breaks it.

" Why do we do this? "

I turn my head over to her. " Because people will die if we don't patrol? " I ask in confusion.

Ellie shakes her head. Strands of her hair falls into her face, casting a slight shadow on her rosy cheeks. " No, not that. This. " She gestures at us. " Why are we such assholes to each other? "

I take a moment to think. Honestly...I'm not sure. " It's because...I think...I don't know. " I shrug. " I just remember us not liking each other since the day you showed up in Jackson. That was so long ago...I can't even remember. "

Ellie lets out a slight chuckle. " I don't remember either. God we're fucking idiots. "

I roll my eyes with a grin. " Yeah we are. "

" Why don't we...start over? " Ellie suggests. " Minus the enemy parts. "

I nod. " Let's do that. "

Ellie holds out her hand with a grin. " I'm Ellie. Nice to meet you. "

My hand encloses hers. " I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you too. "

Hopefully this time will be better.

#thelastofusxreader #fanfiction #fanfic #ellie williams x you #ellie the last of us #ellie williams tlou #ellie x you #ellie williams x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams

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wyattjohnston · 1 year

Text

until the light shines through - quinn hughes

summary: it didn’t take very long at all for laurel to realise that the world of hockey was well beyond what she could handle. there was just something about quinn that made it impossible to stay away.

note: this is set in the 2021-2022 season because i started it almost exactly 12 months ago. i’m eternally grateful to @hock-ee & @farbutnevergone for being the sounding board in the beginning of this fic, and as always to @matthewtkachuk & @laurenairay for coming in clutch and making me feel like it was worth finishing. shelb gets extra credit for reading it all multiple times and helping me fill in some gaps and catch the times my sentences ended halfway through.

word count: 17,690

playlist: good love - shawn hook | i know places - taylor swift | closer - sleeping with sirens | feel like shit - tate mcrae | you're in love - betty who

“Your Uber is here. Don’t make him wait too long or your rating will drop.”

Laurel lifted her head at the sound of the new voice and the tattoo gun being pulled away from her skin.

“The Uber driver should be a bit more patient, or his rating will drop,” Annie, the tattoo artist said, lifting her head. “You aren’t even the Uber I ordered.”

The man who had walked in shrugged, taking a seat at the front of the shop. Laurel looked between him and Annie, waiting for something more than a joke about Uber drivers. Before Annie even offered an explanation, she was telling Laurel that she was going to start the gun again—the machine, that was something Annie had stressed when they were setting up.

Laurel couldn’t help but track the movement of the machine as it got to the final parts of the black cat outline being tattooed on the inside of her wrist. It was her first tattoo and she’d always been interested in the process and despite the sting of the needle she knew exactly why people spoke about it being addictive.

“Where’d you park?” Annie asked as she was covering the finished tattoo, having already taken a photo of it to post to Instagram. Laurel watched it disappear beneath the black wrap.

“A couple streets away; parking is shit.”

“If you can wait for me to sterilise the machine and everything and lock up, we’ll walk you,” Annie offered. “Won’t we, Huggy Bear?”

Huggy Bear agreed, then trailed off grumbling about the Huggy nickname.

Even while Laurel was waiting to leave, Annie and Huggy were happily chatting away. Most of the conversation went far over her head, despite their efforts to include her or provide context, so she stood beside the counter at the front of the shop and checked her phone until it was time to leave.

She laughed politely when it was appropriate for the conversation, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was laughing at, but the least she could do was pretend to be interested when they were helping to keep her safe.

“Have a great weekend,” Annie said when they reached Laurel’s car. “Just hit me up on Insta if you forget the aftercare stuff or have any questions. I’ll post the photo tomorrow.”

“Thank you, I really do love it. And thank you both for walking me to my car.”

Huggy raised his hand awkwardly and said something that Laurel didn’t quite hear so she just waved back before getting into her car.

“He really keeps staring at us,” Karina said, her face contorting in discomfort after she did another subtle glance around the restaurant to see if said guy had stopped staring. The wave he’d given her earlier hadn’t done much to assuage their unease, though it had led to lengthy conversations about which one of them might have known who he was.

“I don’t know if it’d be better or worse if he actually came over,” Laurel said, frowning down at her empty plate. “I just want him to stop staring.”

Karina waved the waiter down to get the cheque, saying that they’d be out of there soon. Laurel huffed at the audacity of men who didn’t understand what common decency was. She didn’t look back over at him and his friend, though she desperately wanted to, because she didn’t want to give him the impression that she was interested and risk him following them out of the restaurant to their next stop.

Their next step was just a bar, nothing special or interesting, just a quiet-ish place they could continue their drinking. A few other people from work were meeting them; Friday night drinks to end the week were never something Laurel would pass up.

“That’s the guy from the restaurant, isn’t it?” Karina asked, not even being casual in how she was pointing him out.

Laurel sighed, finished her cocktail, and stood up in a rush, only regretting it slightly when she felt the alcohol had gone to her head. She didn’t say a single word to Karina, who tried to catch her arm before she could get too far away and walked directly over to the guy that had been staring at her all night.

He was sitting with the man he’d eaten dinner with, and it was incredibly stupid for Laurel to confront him by herself when he wasn’t alone but Laurel’s pride often got the best of her.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” she said, not even waiting until they were looking at her. “What do you want?”

“I—uh—” the man stuttered. Laurel had to give him credit for maintaining eye contact even if he was sinking down into his seat.

“Can you stop? I have no idea who you are and it’s freaking me the fuck out.”

“We met—you were—Annie—the tattoo.”

“Oh, Teddy Bear,” Laurel said, amused by the memory, but mostly the nickname, as his face merged with the vague memory of the man who had shown up when she was getting the tattoo on her forearm.

The man sitting with him snorted.

“Huggy Bear but it’s just Quinn. Please call me Quinn,” he begged, sitting up a little straighter knowing that she at least had some recollection of him.

“Alright, Quinn, is there a reason you’ve been staring at me beyond recognising me?”

Quinn opened his mouth to answer, though nothing came out.

The man across the table, lanky and blond, stood up before Quinn could speak, and was already walking away when he announced, “I’m out of here before this gets awkward.”

Laurel watched him briefly as he left and when she turned back to Quinn his face was redder than before—though it wasn’t all that noticeable in the bar’s poor lighting.

He said, mumbled and incoherent, something that ended in pretty and Laurel had to fight the twinge that threatened to lift the corners of her mouth.

“You think I’m pretty?” she pressed, her hand resting on the back of the vacated chair so that she could lean forward just a little.

“Yeah, I—I wanted to send you a message on Insta after we met but I chickened out.”

It was reckless, probably, to say what she said next, but Laurel was a sucker for a compliment, “Would you like to buy me a drink, Quinn?”

He stood so suddenly that the table rocked, and Laurel had to catch it before the glasses toppled over. He took four steps towards the bar before hastily walking back to her to ask what she wanted to drink.

She followed him to the bar, too smart and too weary to let him just bring a drink back to her. She ordered a Tom Collins, Quinn ordered a beer, and as the bartender was making her cocktail, she leaned lightly against the bar and asked, “How did you know I was here? At the restaurant?”

Quinn’s eyes bugged and his shoulders squared, as he rushed to say, “I didn’t. I promise. I’m not stalking you—so many people would actually cut off my dick if I was.”

Laurel’s lip quirked up, wondering if it was the tattoo artist who made that threat. There was still a little part of her that didn’t trust that he hadn’t known where she was going to be but it was overridden by her interest in his awkward nature.

They weaved through the crowd of people back to their table, which was luckily still free despite their trip to the bar. Laurel sat down, leaning back in her seat and letting him lead the conversation wherever he saw fit while she enjoyed her drink.

“I’ve never had to try this hard to get a girl’s attention before,” he said, his hand running through his hair and messing up the careful mess it had already been.

Laurel tilted her head, saying, “That’s… a surprise to me.”

Quinn goes silent, instantly looking even more insecure than he already did. He coughed and said, “I suppose there are meaner ways to tell me I’m not attractive.”

“I actually thought you weren’t confident enough,” Laurel clarified, resting her elbows on the table so he knew how serious she was when she added, “I think you’re plenty attractive.”

The compliment did exactly what Laurel had been hoping it would, increasing his confidence tenfold. His chin lifting, his shoulders squaring and a smirk crossing his mouth. Laurel smirked back at him, making direct eye contact as she pulled her straw into her mouth.

Giving Quinn her phone number was an easy decision.

After waking up on a mattress comfier than she ever thought possible and smiling at Quinn who was already dressed and walking around the bedroom, Laurel enjoyed the water pressure in the walk-in shower.

When she’d walked into the apartment the night before (see: earlier that morning) she hadn’t paid any attention to where they were or what the apartment looked like. A long time had passed since she inspected apartments when she walked in; one too many had turned her off immediately and she’d rather not know until she’d had her fun. Quinn’s apartment however… she would not have had that problem based on his bathroom alone. The bathroom was always the worst.

She wrapped a towel around herself, delighted by its fluffiness, and walked back through Quinn’s bedroom so she could find him. The size baffled her, too, because the location was enough to cost a small fortune in rent each month—the thought of paying for multiple bedrooms, multiple bathrooms and a separate kitchen and dining area made her feel lightheaded. And he lived alone.

“Do you drink coffee?” Quinn asked when she found him in the kitchen.

“How often do you get a ‘no’ to that question?”

“It happens enough that I have to ask.”

Laurel’s lip twitched up in a smirk, waiting for Quinn to realise that he’d just admitted to bringing home women often enough that he had a decent sample size of those who drink coffee vs those who don’t—he was oblivious, though, just standing near the coffee machine awkwardly holding out an empty mug waiting for an answer.

She tightened the towel over her breasts and Quinn’s eyes flickered down before shooting right back up as if he hadn’t seen it all a matter of hours prior.

“I was hoping I could grab a shirt or something to wear first.”

He was startled by the question, taking a few seconds to put the mug down and nod at her. He led her to his bedroom and pulled out the second drawer in the chest.

“You can help yourself to whatever…” he said slowly. “Or anything else in here, I guess. I don’t know what you’d want.”

The twitching smirk was back, as Laurel pulled out what she expected to be a plain black shirt saying “Just a t-shirt is fine. Do you have something a bit less… colourful?”

The shirt she pulled out unfolded to show a black and yellow logo on it that very much looked like it belonged in the 80s.

“You don’t like the flying skate logo?” Quinn asked, taking it from her to stare at it in a way Laurel could only describe as longingly.

“The what now?”

“The flying skate?”

“Am I supposed to know what that is just because you’ve said it a second time?” she asked, bemused.

Quinn held the shirt to his chest, scandalised. “The Canucks logo? Hockey?”

“Oh, I’m from Florida,” Laurel revealed with a shake of her head. “I don’t know anything about hockey.”

She turned back to the chest of drawers and went about finding a plain black shirt. Hockey was something she heard about on a near daily basis but the people she spent time with regularly had long since stopped trying to convince her to give it a chance.

“I was born in Florida and I know a lot about hockey.”

Apparently, Quinn wasn’t going to let it go, though.

Laurel found a shirt, checked it for logos, and only moved back to the bed when she was certain it was in fact plain black so that she could drop the towel and go about putting on more clothes than just her underwear.

“Semantics are important here,” she said, trying to sort out of her bra on still slightly damp skin. “You were born in Florida, I’m from Florida. Where would you say you’re from?”

Quinn didn’t respond to her, just stared at her with his mouth not completely shut. Laurel cleared her throat because he was, much like when she’d walked into the kitchen, staring at her chest.

He cleared his own throat, focusing his eyes on her face, “Michigan, probably. Toronto, maybe.”

Laurel hummed as she pulled the shirt over her head, adding, when she could see him, “Both really into hockey, I thought.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Quinn twitched. “I could teach you about hockey. If you want.”

Laurel shrugged, tilting her head from side to side as she thought about it, before settling on saying, “I’ve never really been interested? Seems a bit barbaric.”

“It’s not,” Quinn said, firmly. He then hesitated and added, “Anymore.”

Laurel couldn’t help but smirk at his change of mind. She asked, partially because didn’t know but mostly because she didn’t believe him, “So, they don’t fight for the sake of fighting?”

“No,” he said, forcefully enough that Laurel’s mouth pulled shut, “there’s always a reason.”

“You’re, like, really invested in me liking hockey. Does this not go anywhere if I don’t?”

The beat of silence that followed probably only lasted three seconds but it was enough time that Laurel was working out how best to get her clothes and get out as quickly as possible. She was looking around for her top, aiming for surreptitious, when Quinn spoke.

“I play. For them. The Canucks. I’m on the team. My job is hockey.”

“Oh, no shit,” Laurel said, her laugh breathy and disbelieving. “And I just called it barbaric.”

“Does this not go anywhere because I play?”

Laurel rolled her eyes, closing the space between them. She cupped his cheeks, smiling up at him and shaking her head. She pressed up on her toes, touching her lips to his lightning fast.

“No. It doesn’t change that I was going to stay for breakfast and then give you my number.”

Karina would be so disappointed.

Christmas was finally over, another successful year of pretending it hadn’t happened, and Laurel was back to work after a lovely long weekend of ignoring the outside world. She hoped on Boxing Day that she could call Quinn for some fun, only to be told that he’d gone to Michigan to see his family.

And, honestly, what was the point in having each other’s numbers if he wasn’t going to be home?

Laurel wasn’t expecting to spend New Year’s Even with him either, she did have plans of her own, but she’d been hopeful she could leave just after midnight and be back in Quinn’s bed before the night was truly over.

He was in Seattle, apparently.

Two weeks after she left his apartment, Laurel was finally able to get back there.

“I thought, maybe, you were just really bad at ghosting,” she joked as she walked through his door, kissing him briefly and then leaning back in for a second one.

“My schedule has been kind of insane,” he said apologetically.

Laurel laughed as she shrugged off her coat, “Perils of being a professional athlete?”

“One of, I guess.”

“Did you win at least?” she asked, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s waist and looking up at him hopefully. She didn’t have any real interest in the games themselves, but she could get on board with being interested in their success at the very least.

They did win, he told her excitedly. 5-2 was the score; Laurel kept it to herself that she thought the score was quite low. She’d had a passing interest at most in basketball but that was her frame of reference for how high sports scores should be.

It was early enough in the evening that they organised dinner to be delivered and Laurel was eager to agree because she was on the second day of a New Years’ hangover and knew that bruschetta and pasta would do wonders to get her over what was lingering.

They sat down to eat at Quinn’s dining table—Laurel was positive that he’d not used it in months because of the things he had to move to clear space for them.

She was loudly enjoying her bruschetta when Quinn’s face twisted just enough that she knew he was going to say something but second guessing himself. She, not wanting to talk with her mouth full, raised an eyebrow and nodded so that he would speak.

“You’re really from Florida?”

“Orlando,” Laurel answered with a smile. “I’ve only been here since I started college in 2017.”

“I started college in 2017.”

Laurel perked up, “At UBC?”

“No, UMich. Michigan.”

“That’s why you’d say you’re from there?” she asked, thinking it was a tad odd that he’d say he was from there just because he’d been to college there. She wouldn’t say she was from Vancouver after four and a half years.

“One of the reasons, yeah. I moved to Michigan when I was 15.”

“So, you were born in Florida, you’ve lived in Toronto and also Michigan and now you’re in Vancouver?” She tried to track the movement around North America in her head. “Lot of moves for a kid.”

“Boston and New Hampshire, too. I don’t remember anything about Florida or Boston, only have a few memories of New Hampshire—mostly my brother being born and my other brother being really upset about it.”

“What are their names? Your brothers?”

“Jack is the middle child and Luke is the youngest. Two years between each of us.”

“I have a brother, Artie. He’s like 16 years older than me, though, so I don’t know him that well. Are you close with yours?”

“Yeah, real close.”

Laurel smiled at him, happy for him, even as she wondered what it would be like to have a close relationship with her family.

“Luke probably won’t be around any time soon, but we play Jack at some point—he plays hockey for New Jersey—so you might get to meet him soon. I think you’ll like him.”

A light panic threatened to break her smile but Laurel was able to keep the smile on her face well enough that Quinn didn’t react.

The tension in Laurel’s jaw was causing her a headache. It had been hours since it set in—the tension and the headache—and the only thing Laurel wanted was the cheap vodka in her apartment. Her job was stressful on a good day, and she’d known that it would be when she started her Social Work course years prior. There were some days, though, where the planets aligned and the patients were inconsolable, the families were assholes and the hospital was letting everybody down. They were the days she could do without.

She had barely stepped foot into her apartment when her phone rang and she had to resist the urge to throw her entire bag at the wall. After a few deep breaths and letting the phone ring out, Laurel took out her phone and dropped her bag onto the kitchen counter as she passed it.

It started ringing again in her hand; Laurel inhaled for a count of five and then exhaled for a count of five just to stop herself from following through on throwing it into the wall. That was a sure-fire way to get on Hayley’s shitlist and Laurel had been pretty solidly off it for long enough that she had no intentions of ruining that.

Quinn’s name was on the screen and conflict bloomed through her entire body. It wasn’t immediately clear in her mind whether she’d be calmed by talking to him or if she’d take out her anger on him. The call rang out before she could think it over.

It buzzed again, a text coming through, and she lifted her phone to read it.

From Quinn: Call me when you’re home. Come for dinner 😊

Telling him she was home and ready at any moment was easy and did relieve the tension in her jaw just a little.

Changing out of her clothes felt like far too much of an effort; she’d put enough effort into her outfit that morning anyway. It was Friday after all and there was always the possibility that Friday could turn into Friday night so she liked to look a little more put together.

From Quinn: Stay the night at mine?

And then there was that.

She’d stayed the night at Quinn’s before, though it had just been the night they met and most definitely not planned in advance. Being essentially asked to pack an overnight bag was more preparation than Laurel had been expecting this soon into their… whatever.

Hayley walked into the apartment as Laurel walked out, her eyes immediately drifting to the bag slung over Laurel’s shoulder.

“I don’t even know,” Laurel said as she hitched it further up her shoulder.

“Be safe. Call me if you need me.”

They parted with a nod at each other, their relationship with each other existing almost solely on Girl Code more so than friendship.

If it had been any other day, Laurel’s walk to Quinn’s would have been fraught with overthinking about why he was explicitly asking her to stay the night—her day had been awful enough that she was still thinking about the father of one of her patients who looked her in the eye and told her that he wasn’t ever going to take direction from a little girl.

The frigid breeze was glorious for clearing her mind.

Her headache still lingered despite the tension releasing in her jaw; it didn’t stop the big smile that grew on her face when Quinn opened the door to let her in. His smiled matched hers and she let herself be swept into a hug before she was corralled into his apartment.

The smell of food was permeating the apartment, eliciting another smile from Laurel and an expression of confused delight. Quinn bashfully led her towards the kitchen and pointed to the stove where there was a pot of Napoli sauce simmering away.

“You can cook?”

She stepped into his space, her arms around his waist as she looked up at him, surprise and awe filling her body, and Quinn was standing a little taller than normal. A little prouder.

“I have a couple things up my sleeve.”

Laurel kissed him swiftly before hoisting up the bag that was falling down her arm; Quinn wasted no time in taking it from her and disappearing into his bedroom with it. Standing in his kitchen, watching him take her bag with no weirdness or second thoughts, Laurel wondered again just what she was getting into.

They ate on the couch, Quinn switching away from the hockey game that was playing—it was unclear if that decision was made before or after her face screwed up in disinterest—and Laurel singing his praises for the pasta with Napoli sauce.

“I leave for a road trip on Monday,” Quinn said when they’d cleared the dishes and were back on the couch, sitting right next to each other. “Don’t get back until the 19th.”

“That’s a long one. Where are you going?”

Quinn opened his mouth—the only thing that came out was a long ‘uhhh’—and pulled out his phone to bring up the schedule. He said, shamelessly, “I only know when I have to be at the airport because they told us at practice today.”

Laurel cuddled up to him so that they could look at the schedule together, asking a few questions about the vagueness of going to teams named after the entire state—“You’re just going to Florida, Carolina and Washington? As if that makes sense?”

“There’s a few of them,” Quinn said, his body shaking against Laurel’s while he laughed at her incredulity. She scrutinised the list of teams he brought up and finished the conversation mostly curious about the Florida team existing in a state with a second hockey team.

“They couldn’t just call them the Miami Panthers?”

“Their arena’s in Sunrise.”

Laurel scoffed, her eyes rolling, “Of course it is. Posers.”

Quinn’s body began to shake again, his laughter so manic that he wasn’t making any noise. Laurel contorted her body to get a better look at Quinn and was enraptured by the joy on his face at her silly joke.

Kissing him is the easiest decision she’s ever made, caught with an overwhelming need to just be pressed against him. He didn’t put up any protests, not that she’d expected him to, and within seconds Laurel was in Quinn’s lap, straddling his thigh. Her skirt fanned out around their legs and she revelled in the pressure of his fingers as he pressed his fingers into the meat of her thighs. She wished she hadn’t worn tights just so she could feel his skin against hers.

Nothing felt as easy as leaning further into him, getting as close as she could physically manage and rolling her hips just to get that little bit closer. Hearing the eager noises leave his mouth—the ones mirroring those leaving hers—made Laurel even more desperate.

“Take me to bed, Q,” she breathed into his ear, rolling her hips again for good measure and gasping when his bucked up to meet them.

He did as he was told, herding her towards his bedroom with his body pressed close against hers, making her giggle as he nipped at the parts of her neck he could reach. He didn’t let up when they made it to his bed, touching parts of Laurel’s body that she couldn’t remember being touched, kissing her skin and setting every nerve on fire.

Laurel tried to return the favour, though she was distracted by the way her body was reacting to Quinn and his touches so the best she could hope for was that he was getting pleasure just by giving pleasure to her.

Her legs were weak after multiple orgasms but she was able to make her way into the bathroom, Quinn following her in soon after. He didn’t take as long as she did, happy to just rinse off, kiss her lazily, and disappear back to bed with half-lidded eyes.

All of her toiletries looked strange sitting on his counter, taking up more space than anything else on there, but she was too sated and too tired to think about it any further.

Laurel slipped under the covers, rolling her eyes a little at how quickly Quinn had started to fall asleep; he was laying on his back with his eyes closed and the duvet pulled up to his chest. Laurel lied beside him, facing him and taking him in.

“What made you ask me to stay over?”

“Long road trip,” Quinn said, mumbled and half asleep. “Was gonna miss you.”

She didn’t know whether that statement was surprising or not, or if it was the honesty it was said with that made her heart squeeze in her chest. Laurel wormed her way under Quinn’s arm and into his side, raising her head just enough to kiss the underside of his jaw before she snuggled into him.

“You can call me. While you’re gone.”

He squeezed her.

“I will."

Laurel walked from her place to Quinn’s straight from work. He’d called during her lunch break to ask if she wanted to have dinner with him—maybe even stay over again—and Laurel hadn’t been able to refuse. They’d talked through his road trip mostly via text except for a phone call when he was in Florida to confirm that he was in fact not in Miami.

None of it really made sense to Laurel. Never had she been the type of person to be in constant contact with her… with the person she was seeing, but Quinn seemed to have no concerns about taking things too quickly or seriously.

She’d asked Karina for help after the phone call, desperately trying to figure out what it all meant, whether she needed to be thinking further ahead than the next day if Quinn was going to keep things the way they were.

“You’re worrying that he likes you too much?” Karina had asked, her disbelief playful but prominent. “I wish I had that problem at your age—hell, even five years ago I would have killed for that problem.”

“It’s too serious for being twenty-two.”

Karina’s laugh shocked Laurel, who truly had not been expecting it. “Laurel, sweetheart, none of this has anything to do with age.”

That didn’t help her at all.

There was no surprise home cooking waiting for her when she arrived at his door which she was quick to tease him for mostly because he had a very nice kitchen that it definitely was being wasted with him being away so often.

“I was thinking burgers and I can’t make them half as nice as the place around the corner,” Quinn said, watching Laurel from the opposite side of the kitchen counter.

She placed both her hands on the cool marble and narrowed her eyes playfully, “Are we eating here or are you taking me out, Huggy Bear?”

“I thought you’d forgotten about that,” he said with an eyeroll, his cheeks turning a nice shade of red.

“I’ve been thinking about it since that night at the bar. I don’t—why?”

“Hughes, the first three letters. It’s actually one of the more unique nicknames in hockey.”

“Are they all surname based?”

“Mostly, yeah. I should probably be Hughesy or something.”

“Not Quinny?” she teased, leaning further across the table.

“So,” Quinn said, taking a deep breath. “Quinn is technically a nickname—it’s short for Quintin.”

Laurel’s eyes widened, her head tilting ever-so-slightly as the corner of her mouth tilted up, and she said, “Is that a family name?”

“Yes,” he said, also around a smile. He then added, walking back towards his front door, “We’re going out for dinner.”

He extended his hand and Laurel didn’t think twice before she took it and let Quinn lead her out onto the street. He didn’t let her hand go when they made it onto the street like Laurel expected. She couldn’t put into words why she expected him to let go, just flexed her fingers around his and delighted in the way he swung their hands back and forth a few times.

Quinn didn’t let go until he found them a seat inside the restaurant but they sat beside each other on a bench seat, their legs pressed together tightly from knee to hip.

“Did you declare a major?” Laurel asked, midway through a story Quinn was telling about his college experience, when she realised that she hadn’t ever asked.

“Sports Management.”

Laurel hummed, “What does that let you do?”

“Become an agent, mostly, but it’d get you on the path to managing a team, too.”

“That’s what you want to do?”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, Laurel watched him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate. It took a while, a few fries being pushed into his mouth, before he finally answered, “I just want to play hockey.”

The conversation fell off there, Laurel just nodding even as her brain ticked over. Athletes and their short careers—their lack of preparation for life after sports—were a topic that fascinated her despite her general disinterest in sports. She recognised that if it was a conversation they were going to have, it needed to come much later in their relationship. Mostly for her own sanity.

Their otherwise quiet meal was interrupted by a birthday in the restaurant, and a raucous rendition of Happy Birthday was being sung to some poor man named Nathan who looked very much like he’d rather be anywhere else but sitting in front of a birthday cake.

“When’s your birthday?” Quinn asked when the noise settled.

“The third.”

A range of emotions crossed his face in a matter of seconds, and his voice was tighter than she’d heard it when he asked, “Of January?”

She smiled softly, placing her hand on his thigh reassuringly as she said, “Feb. It’s in like two weeks.”

The panic on Quinn’s face didn’t disappear, despite Laurel’s best efforts. “I don’t know if I’m going to be here.”

“I’m not worried about it. I don’t really do birthdays, so, if you aren’t here, it’s fine.”

Quinn checked his schedule, then, despite Laurel’s insistence that she didn’t care about her birthday, and radiated happiness and relief when it showed he’d be in Vancouver. She smiled at him, less sincerely than before, but at least happy that he was happy.

Quinn was home for her birthday.

It wasn’t something she’d given much thought to, really, because he’d been talking to her about plans for the Thursday evening—her actual birthday—and then for the weekend pretty consistently since he found out that her birthday was so soon.

It wasn’t until the week before her birthday, when he disappeared on a long road trip, that she realised that she was lucky he’d be around at all let alone be around for an entire weekend. If she had been born one week earlier, he would have been playing in Winnipeg.

When they’d spoken about it for the first time, Laurel had been telling the truth when she told him she wouldn’t have been bothered if he was away—that had changed when she realised that there was every possibility that he might have missed it. He’d made her excited for something she hadn’t cared about in years.

Laurel was dressed up nicely in her most expensive dress pants and a top that was probably too low cut—but it showed off the body chain she rarely got the chance to wear—and sitting on the bench in her building’s lobby as she waited for Quinn. Wherever they were headed to was within walking distance according to Quinn, but Laurel had no measure for how far he considered walking distance. She laid her winter coat over her lap and tapped her heels against the tiled floor.

Quinn waved at her through the glass door and she could see that his cheeks were slightly red from the cold despite the beanie on his head and the scarf around his neck.

“Happy birthday,” he said sweetly when she walked outside, and Laurel kissed him immediately, then tapped his nose because it was so cold against hers.

She tugged the scarf tighter around his neck, then lifted it up so it covered the bottom half of his face—resulting in a laugh as he spluttered bits of fluff—before she rushed to put her coat on before she lost all feeling in her upper body.

They started walking back in the direction Quinn came from, their hands linked, and Laurel bit back her comment about how she could have met him wherever they were going if he’d gone out his way, only because he’d insisted that it was a surprise.

And a surprise it was.

They arrived at Elisa and Laurel’s jaw dropped. Quinn noticed but only smiled at her as he led them inside.

It took a lot to make Laurel speechless, and Elisa could definitely be described as a lot. While it didn’t look overly fancy, not in the try hard way Laurel usually associated with fine dining, she still felt out of place as they were walked through the restaurant to a relatively secluded table.

“Have you ever been here before?” Quinn asked one they were seated and the waiter had disappeared to fetch a bottle of wine.

“No,” Laurel said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never been here.”

Quinn was quite pleased with himself, judging by the way his lips turned upwards.

When the wine arrived, Laurel wished she had any appreciation for it. It was undoubtedly better—smoother, at least—than the various bottles she’d bought over the years, but she could see other people in the room swirling it in the glass before drinking it slowly. She took an inappropriately large mouthful and hoped nobody but Quinn saw.

Staring at the menu made her uncomfortable. The price tags next to them made her skin itch and her purse hurt at the thought of what the bill would be at the end of the night. Maybe Quinn would just let her pay for her meal and not expect her to split it evenly down the middle.

“Anything you like?” Quinn asked, his foot tapping the side of hers under the table to get her full attention.

“The cauliflower sounds nice,” Laurel said, trying to keep her voice steady but she was also trying to remember to breathe so it wasn’t very convincing.

“Are you a vegetarian?” Quinn asked, his eyes wide. “I should probably know that by now.”

“No, Quinn, we had burgers together the last time we saw each other.”

“Then you can be a bit more adventurous than a crispy cauliflower starter.”

“Quinn,” Laurel whispered, leaning forward so that nobody else would hear her, “this is the exact restaurant my college friends and I would joke about only being able to afford if we became sugar babies or gold diggers. I can’t afford anything else on this menu.”

“But I can,” he said, as if that wasn’t already abundantly clear to Laurel. “I’m not gonna make you pay for a date anyway, definitely not on your birthday.”

Still leaning forward, she frowned, “You’re just going to ignore the gold digger bit.”

“If you were with me for my money, I think I’d know it by now.”

Laurel wasn’t going to debate with him in the middle of Elise that six weeks was not enough time for him to know—it certainly wasn’t enough time for him to take her to Elise for her birthday. But they were there. It would be rude to walk out.

“Next time we go out we can get tacos or something,” Quinn suggested, sounding a little worried. “But I want you to order what you really want. Live your sugar daddy dream, or whatever.”

Relaxing back into her seat, she couldn’t help but laugh at Quinn’s statement, at the serious expression on his face as he said it. She clarified with him that he was sure that he could take back what he’d said up until she told the waiter her order. Quinn assured her that he wasn’t going to do such a thing, especially not on her birthday.

The weekend following Laurel’s birthday was the All-Star Game, and Laurel was resigned to watching more hockey than she ever had in her life. It wasn’t real hockey, Quinn explained, and she didn’t really watch but it was on in the background at Quinn’s place so it was unavoidable.

When it was finally over, they were cuddled on the couch watching Black Summer when Quinn’s phone interrupted them. Laurel pulled away from him enough to let him take it off the coffee table. At first it appeared that he was going to silence it, but as he leant back into the couch Laurel noticed the furrow of his brow when it became clear it was a FaceTime call.

“Can I—” he cut himself off and his brow got even tighter, the worry so evident on his face that Laurel felt worry well up inside her.

“Yeah, go ahead,” she said softly, pausing the show and putting her hand on his thigh and squeezing just to remind him that he was there.

He answered the call, holding his breath, and answered it with, “Should I be worried?”

The man on the other end was smiling, everything around him so loud that his greeting was barely intelligible. “I don’t know how to tell you this, bud, but I think Jack and Daisy are getting married.”

“They wouldn’t.”

The camera switched around on Quinn’s friend’s side, revealing what was undoubtedly a Vegas wedding chapel with a young couple standing at the altar staring into each other’s eyes so dreamily Laurel flinched. Jack and Daisy, presumably.

“You got any other ideas about what’s happening here?”

Quinn quickly started a screen recording, even if his fingers fumbled through it and accidentally turned low battery mode on and his flashlight in the control centre first.

“Did you know about this? Before today?”

“Yeah, I knew about it and didn’t even ask you if you were showing up for it. Of course, I didn’t fucking know,” Brady argued, only to promptly get shushed by someone sitting next to him.

Laurel reached over to mute Quinn’s microphone, so that she could say, “That’s Daisy? She’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah, she’s always been pretty,” Quinn agreed, readily. Easily. “Still don’t know how Jack managed to land her, let alone keep her, let alone marry her. Mom’s gonna actually murder him. I might.”

Laurel—who had never been close to her family and always imagined that one day she would just see her family again with a wedding ring and a spouse—didn’t totally understand why Quinn was so upset. She’d heard him talk about his family enough to know that they were incredibly important to him but she still couldn’t wrap her head around it.

They watched in silence as the ceremony continued. It was generic and, truthfully, lacklustre as far as weddings went until Jack admitted that it wasn’t real, just a joke, and then landed on one knee. Laurel couldn’t hear anything from the phone that wasn’t just loud noises and the video itself was a nauseating combination of colours and movement.

“Fucking little shit,” Quinn mumbled under his breath, clearly relieved.

“Did you know he was going to propose?” Laurel asked. “Obviously not right now.”

“He got the ring about a week ago. Started planning it before Christmas but only picked it up last week. He told me he didn’t know when he was going to propose.”

Laurel hummed, leaning back into the couch as Quinn turned his microphone back on just as Jack and Daisy very much looked like they were seconds away from a full-on sex show in front of all their friends.

“I’m gonna send this to my mom,” Quinn said—Laurel wasn’t sure he could even be heard over the insanity on the other end. “I’ll call you later.”

With the call ended and the video sent to his mother, Quinn sat on the couch and stared blankly at the frozen zombie on the television.

“Are you happy, sad or mad?” she asked tentatively, giving his thigh another squeeze.

“Don’t know. I always knew that they’d probably get there before I did but didn’t really think it’d be before Jack was even 21.”

Laurel moved closer to him, pressing herself closer to Quinn; she had no idea what to say about him, about Jack, about marriage in general.

She was truly out of her depth.

Laurel was halfway out the door when Hayley stepped out of the elevator. Laurel waited at the door, holding it open so that Hayley wouldn’t have to get her key out.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, I guess,” Laurel laughed, noting the flowers Hayley was carrying.

Hayley’s eyes fell to the bag hanging from Laurel’s hand. She said, cold and emotionless, “You have to give me notice if you’re moving out. You can’t just stop paying rent.”

“Did the money not go through?” Laurel asked, immediately reaching into her pocket for her phone to check her bank account. “I swear I saw it worked.”

“It did—calm down,” Hayley said, sweeter than she’s been speaking before. “Just—you’ve been spending a lot of time at your boyfriend’s—”

Laurel, hyper aware that she was heading over to Quinn’s yet again, hastily denied the accusation. “We haven’t been together that long. We haven’t even had the exclusive talk yet.”

“Just give me some time to find someone to move in,” Hayley said, slowly, and Laurel knew for certain that she wasn’t believed.

“Yeah, of course,” Laurel said, just as slowly, but more concerned. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

With a simple nod, and an instruction to have fun, Hayley disappeared inside and Laurel was left to walk to Quinn’s—left to overthink the specifics of her relationship with him and the possibility of those specifics being defined when she arrived at his place.

The bouquet of roses lying on the kitchen counter shouldn’t have surprised her as much as they did.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, his smile proud.

Laurel picked up the bouquet as she passed it, her heart beating so rapidly and thunderously that she could hear it in her ears. She hadn’t expected anything at all—which she realised was silly after Quinn had gone all out for her birthday—after receiving nothing of the sort from any relationship she’d been in.

“Thank you, Quinn,” whispered, stepping into his arms with the bouquet carefully tucked between them. “Is it a stupid question if I ask if we’re exclusive?”

“I—” Quinn paused before he started laughing, the vibration running through Laurel. “I’ve been telling people you’re my girlfriend.”

“You forgot to tell me, though.” She added, a little petulantly but mostly in a longing whisper, “You didn’t even ask me.”

Quinn asked, with all the seriousness of a fifteen-year-old asking their crush to prom in front of their entire class, “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Warmth filled Laurel’s cheeks and she buried her face into his chest, unsure if she was embarrassed that she didn’t know or embarrassed by how giddy it made her feel.

It was late, much later than Laurel usually slept in even after a big night. She could tell it was late without even looking at her phone because her body always had a visceral reaction to waking any later than 8am.

Quinn was saying her name softly and Laurel hummed before her eyes opened—she was always instantly awake.

“You let me sleep in,” she mumbled unhappily.

“You need it,” he said softly. “I have to go to practice. You can stay here.”

“Practice?” Laurel asked, her eyes screwing shut in confusion. “It’s a Saturday.”

Quinn’s laugh was gentle and Laurel looked up to see his face soft; he didn’t have to say anything for her to know that she’d said something wrong.

“No weekends in hockey.”

“They should give you weekends.”

“I’ll give you the commissioner’s number and you can lodge a direct complaint.”

Laurel smiled at him, reeled him in by the hand and kissed him—he didn’t seem to have any complaints about morning breath but the hint of mint on his lips was a nice little zing to wake up to.

He left shortly after, unswayed by her attempts to lure him back into bed, and Laurel stared up at his ceiling wondering exactly how long he spent at practice.

She showered and then tried not to feel weird about raiding his kitchen while he wasn’t home; tried not to feel weird about being in his apartment while he wasn’t home.

Nothing in the apartment had been kept secret from her, so she didn’t think she’d get any major insight into Quinn’s life by snooping through the chest of drawers he’d been letting her pull shirts out of since the first day.

Laurel made a bagel with cream cheese, afraid to do much more lest she damage Quinn’s very nice kitchen and sat down in front of the television. As she ate, she opened her phone and noticed overnight she’d picked up a few more Instagram followers which she attributed to the photo of her birthday outfit.

Weirder were the random comments she’d gotten on a few of her older photos, all of which were the same person commenting on how chubby Laurel’s cheeks were. Prominent buccal fat ran in the family; there wasn’t much she could do about it.

Her attention was immediately drawn away, though, by a comment she saw on a new post of Daisy’s—Jack’s girlfriend who she’d followed after Quinn wouldn’t stop talking about her in stories from his life in Michigan.

She pondered it, forgot about it as she turned her attention to re-watching Desperate Housewives, and only remembered when Quinn walked through the door after practice, his hair still wet.

“Why is Elena Rubio commenting on Daisy’s Insta posts?” she asked, not even greeting Quinn properly. “Why are people acting like it’s normal? She’s really famous.”

Quinn leant down to kiss her, hovering above her where she was tucked up onto the couch.

He shrugged. “Jack played half a season with Elena’s boyfriend. She and Daisy kept in touch.”

Kneeling up on the couch cushion and leaning over the back of the couch, Laurel watched Quinn potter around for a few moments before her thoughts won out and she asked, “Do you know how insane that is? Elena Rubio has won Oscars. Plural.”

His head tilted. “Okay?”

“Is knowing famous people common? You don’t seem to think that’s a big deal.”

“Not really? People know people, and if they’re hockey fans then they’re easier to become friends with. Hockey players are sort of famous.”

“Well, yeah, in very specific circles but Elena Rubio is a household name worldwide. She’s like Angelina Jolie or Sandra Bullock.”

“Carrie Underwood married a guy who played in Nashville but I don’t pay attention to it—you could probably google it.”

Laurel did just that, sitting back down on the couch and opening her phone. The results were middling—Vanessa from the original incarnation of Gossip Girl was dating a player, there was something about a WWE Diva once being married to a player, a moderately famous model named Lola Faraday, and a bunch of other women who only loosely fit Laurel’s definition of ‘celebrity’.

The couch dipped beside her; Quinn peaked over her shoulder to see what she was looking at.

“What makes it so interesting?”

“I don’t know,” Laurel said truthfully. “You’re hot professional athletes in your physical prime, it wouldn’t have surprised me if there was a never ending list of players dating singers or models or actresses—the lists seem to be quite old, though, and filled with a bunch of celebrities I haven’t heard of.”

“Do you think I should go shoot my shot with a celebrity?” Quinn asked, tongue in cheek.

The panic that flared inside Laurel was unusual, a jealousy she couldn’t ever remember experiencing before. She hoped the panic wasn’t audible in her voice, “I can’t compete with a celebrity, so no.”

“You can compete.”

“Sure,” Laurel said with an unconvinced hum.

Quinn’s arm wrapped around her shoulder and he pulled her closer, kissing the side of her head instead of arguing against her. Laurel didn’t doubt that he believed what he was saying, even if she didn’t think it was the truth.

“Some people aren’t very nice to Daisy,” Laurel said, frowning as she scrolled deeper down the comments left on Daisy’s post. “They’re actually kind of awful. She’s not even remotely fat but they’re talking about her as if she’s literally a beached whale—that’s an actual whale emoji. Oh my god. She knows how to deal with this?”

“Uh,” Quinn hesitated. “Depends what day it is? Some days she fights back, other days she ignores it and Jack’s told me there are some days that are full of tears.”

“God, people are so awful,” Laurel sighed, turning off her phone and throwing it on the other couch so she would stop looking at it.

Settling into Quinn’s side was the only thing she could think to do, hung up on the idea of anyone going to the effort to be so unashamedly horrible.

“Do you want to come to a game next week?”

Laurel paused, putting down the knife in her hand, and turned to face Quinn. He looked as awkward as ever standing in her kitchen, his hands buried deep in his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears.

“Do you want me to come?” she asked carefully. “I’m not interested in hockey so if given the choice I will say no, but, if you want me there, I want to support you and I will go.”

Quinn’s face shuttered, his shoulders somehow raising even higher. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“Quinn,” Laurel said firmly, “do you want me to watch you play hockey?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, resigned. “Course I do.”

With her most convincing nod and her kindest smile, despite her intense disinterest, Laurel assured him, “Tell me when and what I have to do and I’ll be there.”

It was enough to relax Quinn’s shoulders, bringing them back to their normal position. “It’s against Jack on the 15th; you can sit with my mom and Daisy.”

Laurel’s shoulders ended up around her ears, instead, any pleasure she’d gained from making Quinn happy disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He was still watching her, no apprehension, completely unaware that his request was far outside of Laurel’s comfort zone.

“Your mom, Quinn?” She hesitated. “I don’t—do I have to?”

His discomfort returned, tenfold it looked like to Laurel though she didn’t have much time to read his expression before he was turning his back to her and walking towards his bedroom.

“I—I guess not,” he said, though it was muffled. With his back to her, she was only able to hear it because the otherwise silent apartment was suffocating. “I just thought it’d be nice.”

With careful footsteps, Laurel followed Quinn into the bedroom but stopped in the door and watched as he moved aimlessly. She couldn’t find a single intention to anything he was doing, just opening and closing drawers, moving things around on his nightstand and tidying the bed they’d already made.

“Quinn?” Laurel asked after a few minutes of stifling silence.

“Yeah?” He lifted his head; the false nonchalance he was projecting made her uncomfortable.

“I just think it’s a bit soon,” she explained in a whisper. “Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

There was no sign that it actually was okay just as there was no sign that he was going to engage in a conversation that might get it there, so Laurel sighed and left him to fiddle.

It was too early for her to head to work and she wanted some sort of resolution before she disappeared. There was a realisation that it might have been their first ‘fight’ but that didn’t concern her half as much as the thought that it might have been her first ever fight in a relationship—that, despite the short length of it, nothing had ever come close to what she had with Quinn. None of that was anything she wanted to deal with inside a hospital. The self-realisations and growth inside those walls were best left to the patients she was discharging.

Not that there was anything she could do about it when finishing up the fruit salad she’d been making for her lunch—she was already planning the conversation she would have with Karina while eating it.

Quinn didn’t reappear until the salad was packed away and the dishes were washed but he didn’t say a single word as he started moving around in the kitchen in much the same way he’d done in his bedroom.

“Are you going to be in a mood for the rest of the day?” Laurel asked, trying to keep the accusatory edge out of her voice. “I said I’d go to the game.”

“I don’t know any other guy who’s had to beg their girlfriend to come to a game.”

“You didn’t beg, you asked. You know I’m not into hockey.”

“And you won’t meet my mom.”

A burst of panic in her chest caused Laurel to freeze and she barely managed to ask, “Can I do one thing at a time?”

“I don’t know when she’s going to be back in town.”

“I’m not ready for that.”

“Okay,” Quinn said shortly.

His phone started to ring and he didn’t hesitate to leave her standing in the kitchen. He mumbled something along the lines of Jack’s got it so fucking easy as he retreated back to his bedroom.

Laurel, at a total loss and about two minutes away from just leaving for the day, decided to drop down onto the couch heavily and check the notification she’d gotten on her phone when she was starting her cooking. It was another random comment from someone she’d never heard of, who she couldn’t see had any followers in common—this one wasn’t an attack on her cheeks but on the birthday post that people seemed to be most drawn to, on the outfit she’d felt very good about.

The comment didn’t make her feel as good.

Quinn returned much more sombre than he had been when he left. Laurel had expected a frosty remainder of the morning with minimal communication and even less physical contact before she left for work, but he sat down right beside her on the couch.

“I’m happy you’re coming to a game,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“Is everything alright?” Laurel asked, not even sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

He sighed, though it didn’t sound particularly sad, “Yeah. Everything’s fine. Just didn’t expect to hear from Jack today.”

Rogers Place was daunting and Laurel wasn’t prepared.

She was late, to start with, rushing from work and through a sea of people wearing Canucks jerseys, and incredibly flustered by the time she reached the security guard and had to scramble through her purse for her ID while he stared at her, just waiting for the moment he could tell her to turn around.

The crowd was raucous by the time she was standing outside the box she’d been led to—she’d shirked the security guard when they arrived, refusing to let him open the door before she was ready. That didn’t end up mattering, though, because as she was taking a deep breath and reaching forward to open the door, someone appeared beside her.

That someone she recognised as the woman who had tattooed the cat onto her forearm. Annie, who Quinn had told her would be waiting.

“Hey! Laurel, right? I didn’t think you’d make it,” Annie said, moving past Laurel to open the door and reveal the box, and the ice.

“Hi, yeah. Annie?” Laurel clarified, even though she’d be hard pressed to mistake the tattoos and lavender pixie cut. “I got held up at work.”

“Don’t worry about it; we’ve all been there. Come in and meet the gang.”

‘The gang’ was an assortment of partners whose names Laurel immediately forgot, and a few small children Laurel did her best to avoid. They were all very welcoming, at least, and yet she got the distinct feeling that they were putting on a show for her as the New WAG.

“Have you been to many hockey games?” Annie asked when they were sitting.

“No,” Laurel answered, probably too stiffly, and she forced her hands under her thighs. The wool tights she was wearing were too hot for the suite. “This is actually my first one. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Good first game to come to; you get to watch Quinn play against his brother,” said someone who wasn’t Annie—the captain’s wife, potentially. That as a name Laurel would definitely need to learn about later.

Annie added, “I even think Jack’s girlfriend is here.”

“Yeah,” Laurel said, focusing very hard on not sounding bitter. “She’s sitting with their mother.”

“You didn’t want to sit with them?”

The focus on trying not to sound bitter shifted to not gritting her teeth. The suite really was too hot, and the attention on her was only making it worse. Laurel wished that everyone would just turn around and watch the game that had started, but every eye was focused on her, waiting for an answer.

It bothered her enough that she rushed out her answer without really thinking about it, “It’s way too early to meet his mother, and I don’t quite know how to broach the topic of Daisy.”

“What do you mean?” Annie asked, looking out over the ice presumably to where Daisy and Quinn’s mom might have been.

The captain’s wife was leaning in closer, too, as if it was something she would need to deal with—or something she would need to report back to the captain. Laurel didn’t know; she could assume, though.

“I don’t know,” Laurel sighed. The flood gates of her annoyance were opened. “Sometimes it just feels like there’s more than one Hughes brother who’s in love with her.”

Annie scoffed, loudly, in horror, “Quinn would never. She’s basically his little sister.”

“That’s what he says but sometimes it’s just… I don’t know.” Laurel tried to shrug, not only was it hindered by her hands being shoved under her legs but it was just weak in general, her attempt at playing it off falling flat.

“You have to ask him direct questions about it. Hockey players aren’t that bright.”

“That’s a gross overgeneralisation,” Laurel said, her annoyance swiftly moving on. She didn’t take her eyes off the game, even if she lost track of the puck every other second and had no idea where Quinn was or if he was even on the ice.

“They’re not; they’ll tell you that,” Annie said, laughter in her voice. “Too many hits to the head.”

“Quinn went to college and he’s not the only one.” Laurel finally looked at Annie and didn’t want to think about the fire in her own eyes. “You shouldn’t just label them all as dumb like that. It’s really harmful.”

“It’s just a joke,” Annie said slowly—the fire in Laurel’s eyes clearly worse than even she’d expected. “One that they’re in on.”

“I think they deserve more credit. I’m going to use the bathroom.”

Laurel stared at herself in the mirror and let the faucet run with cold water she wished she could splash on her face. It wasn’t the first impression she’d been hoping for. All she wanted was to meet a couple of people, learn one thing about hockey and leave without any other fuss—it had been nothing but optimistic.

In lieu of using the water to cool down her cheeks, Laurel ripped off some paper towel, held it under the faucet before ringing it out and pressing it to the back of her neck. Goosebumps ran down her arms but the relief was incredible.

The very last thing she wanted to do was re-enter the suite and if she hadn’t promised Quinn she’d stay until the end of the game she would have made her way home. As it were, she had made that promise so she put on her bravest face, opened the door and found a seat at the back from which she could still see the ice.

She remained in that same seat until the end of the third period, not even moving for the intermissions. The final buzzer went, though, and Laurel was on her feet and out the door. Navigating the crowd on the way out was worse than on the way in.

Quinn had given her a key to his apartment after Laurel reiterated that she was not ready to meet his mother and would under no circumstances be doing that outside the locker room after the game. The key felt out of place in her bag and it was a relief to leave it on the counter as she passed through the kitchen.

By the time he got home Laurel was showered, changed into her pyjamas and once again reading strange Instagram comments. He wasn’t acting any weirder than when she left for work that morning, so she assumed nobody had told him about her Ice Queen routine. Or the comment she made about him maybe being in love with Daisy.

She was more willing to share one than the other.

“How’d it go? We won for you.”

“I noticed.” That was a little heartwarming, she had to admit. “Thank you.”

In next to no time, Quinn was undressed and laying beside her. He was nothing but sincere as he asked, “How was it?”

“I don’t think I made many friends.” She stared up at the ceiling, her phone left to fall somewhere beside her.

“Why’s that?”

“Annie made a comment about hockey players being stupid and I told her she shouldn’t make sweeping generalisations.”

Entirely unexpectedly, Quinn laughed. “To be fair, we are pretty dumb.”

Laurel sat up, already feeling the annoyance of earlier that evening returning. Quinn watched her with wide, confused eyes.

“You went to college.”

“For two years. I didn’t even graduate.”

“Graduating isn’t the only metric of intelligence,” Laurel said pointedly. She turned her body so that she was directly facing him, not just craning her neck.

“Going to college isn’t either. I didn’t go to college because I was smart, I went because UMich has a great hockey program.”

He reached out for her, to take her hand across the duvet, but she moved away to hold it against her chest.

Her heart had no reason to be thumping as hard as it was, yet she couldn’t deny the stress in her voice when she asked,“So you’re just happy to let people think you’re stupid? No debating it?”

“What does it matter if a few people think I’m stupid?”

“Isn’t Annie your friend?” Laurel questioned, baffled. If any of her friends had taken to belittling her intelligence behind her back, whether it was true or not, reconsidering their friendship would be instantaneous.

“Why is it so important to you?” Quinn’s voice was filled with a simmering rage that she hadn’t heard since their fight about her going to the game. “It sounds like being smart is the only important thing in the world.”

“I’ve watched really bright kids be pushed to the side because their parents decided that all their kids were dumb,” Laurel pressed, her own voice strained, “maybe because the parents themselves aren’t very intelligent. Maybe none of them were ever given the opportunity. I’m not saying that everyone is or needs to be the smartest in the room; I’m saying it’s harmful to just say that all hockey players are dumb because guys aren’t even going to try.”

Quinn’s brows pulled together, what he said next clearly very obvious to him, “They don’t have to try. As long as they’re good at hockey.”

The ire in Laurel’s body collapsed into sadness—disappointment, maybe—and she tried to convey her desperation to him with just a look. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

“Quinn, you know that this has to end. Some players will be out of hockey before they’re twenty-five, right? If they truly think they’re stupid because that’s what they’ve been told their entire life then what hope do they have of being successful in anything else? All they’re good at is hockey, right? What’s Jack going to do?”

“I don’t—” Quinn sighed. “This isn’t a fight I want to have, Laurel.”

Laurel shuffled down the bed, turning her back to him and pulling herself to the edge of the mattress.

“Okay.”

Laurel had, in a fit of guilt, agreed to spend time with Daisy while Quinn took his mother to breakfast. Jack was well on his way to the next city and Laurel didn’t want to be the reason that Daisy spent the morning alone, so she said yes to cooking them breakfast.

It was the only time Laurel could remember being ungrateful for the extra days off afforded to her at work.

Quinn didn’t even stick around to wait for Daisy to arrive so he could introduce them—though Laurel did expect that if he had, Daisy would have arrived with Quinn’s mom and defeated the whole purpose of the separate breakfast.

So, Daisy arrived shortly after Quinn left, and Laurel just stood to one side in the kitchen as Daisy talked a mile a minute, introducing herself and depositing a grocery bag of pancake ingredients and topping onto the counter.

She beamed at Laurel when it was all out and neatly organised: “Pancakes?”

“Pancakes,” Laurel agreed, much more subdued.

“I know Quinn tried to get you to sit with us last night,” Daisy said as she opened some drawers to find bowls and measuring cups that Laurel didn’t even know Quinn owned. “He shouldn’t have tried to put you in the middle of all that.”

“All what? Do you and his mother not get along?” Laurel asked, stunned at how casual Daisy was. “I don’t mean to pry, sorry.”

Daisy shook her head, “We get along great, emotions have just been really high since I—oh wow, this still isn’t easy to talk about. The—you know. Planned Parenthood and all that.”

Laurel paused. “I didn’t know. He didn’t say.”

“Oh,” Daisy said, though it didn’t seem that her own pause was because she’d revealed something she hadn’t meant to. “Jack said you were together when they spoke last week so I figured.”

“No but I guess that explains why his mood shifted so suddenly that morning. Are you—are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just feel stupid that we let it happen in the first place.”

“That’s the word of the day apparently. It probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, but you aren’t stupid. Shit happens and sometimes it’s not fucking fun. You’ve just gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Thanks, Laurel,” Daisy said with a smile so sincere Laurel inwardly flinched. “It does mean a lot.”

Needing something to do with her hands and distract herself from the entirely unexpected seriousness of the conversation, grabbed at the lemons to cut them up and juice them.

Thankfully the conversation was kept light while they cooked—even lighter when the first pancake came out burnt in a phenomenon that upset them both because they agreed the test pancake is most definitely the best pancake.

Daisy was fine, Laurel decided. That did little to assuage her worries that Quinn was in love with Daisy, of course, but it was hardly Daisy’s fault if he was. The way she spoke about Jack made it clear that she wasn’t leaving him for anyone, though, which did ease some of the concerns.

They sat down at the dining table to eat, setting it with way too many toppings for the two of them, and Laurel got whiplash when Daisy jumped back into the heavy conversation without any preamble.

“Ellen doesn’t know yet—or she might now but she definitely didn’t last night. I just thought you didn’t want to sit with us in case you accidentally spilled the beans.”

“I’m not ready to meet his parents yet. We’ve only been official since Valentine’s Day—it’s been a month.” Laurel pushed a piece of pancake through the lemon juice on her plate without looking up.

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t really think about that. Jack and I were in high school, so parents were kind of unavoidable. I’ve never had to deal with it being too soon. They’re good people, Ellen and Jim. Helped me through a lot even when Jack and I were brand new.”

Laurel nodded, still not looking up from her plate. She didn’t have anything else to say; she couldn’t argue that they were bad people when she’d never met them. She also didn’t feel like spilling her life story to Daisy.

It wasn’t a problem Daisy had, though. She wasn’t at all bothered by Laurel’s silence, just filled it easily with the revelation that her mother had passed away when she was in elementary school. Until Ellen came along, Daisy said with the most well-adjusted ease Laurel had ever come across, she didn’t have a maternal figure to help her through the day-to-day aspects of growing up.

Laurel sat in place, stewing over her own mother being physically present but emotionally distant, and wondered, not for the first time, if it wouldn’t have been easier to run away to live with her father. Maybe his third wife would have been a better mother.

Things had calmed down quite considerably after Quinn was able to spend time with Ellen. Laurel decided that the pressure he’d put on her about them meeting stemmed more from him missing Ellen more than it did from being desperate for them to meet.

Laurel hadn’t been to any more games. Quinn didn’t put any pressure on her for the other games that week—taking her comments that she hadn’t made any friends in stride, saying that they could try again whenever Laurel wanted—and then he’d disappeared on a weeklong road trip.

She was really hating road trips, and not just because she had to return to the tiny apartment she shared with someone she only liked half the time.

Missing Quinn as much as she did hadn’t become normal yet, in fact it was getting worse every time he left.

She spent a lot of time on Instagram while he was gone—the influx in followers and comments was getting increasingly more aggressive, steadily rising each and every day. For someone who had never put too much stock into what other people did or said on social media, Laurel was taking them all very seriously.

Quinn caught on when he got home and his eyes had flickered to her screen more than a couple times. There was nothing for her to try and hide, so she hadn’t thought twice about him seeing what she was doing, or even telling him about the sudden uptick.

That was a mistake, though, she soon realised, when he immediately tensed up and said, “I’m calling Annie.”

“Why would you call Annie?” Laurel asked, turning off the screen and hiding the phone behind her leg as if he’d change his mind.

“Because they’ve found you and I don’t—I need—How long?”

Laurel hesitated to answer, and settled on a not-entirely-truthful, “It’s only been a few weeks.”

“Right. We’ll get them to stop.”

And so, Laurel ended up sitting in a very nice living of a very nice house, opposite Annie and her lavender hair, her tattoos and a resting bitch face that Laurel was actually quite jealous of. It was enough to put her on the back foot immediately.

“I know that I wasn’t the nicest or whatever, at the game. I’m sorry. I get preachy and a lot of people don’t like being preached at,” she conceded, her head hanging low.

“If it was a little less preachy,” Annie said, her voice much lighter than Laurel had expected, “we’d probably agree about most stuff.”

Laurel wasn’t actually sure if Quinn had briefed Annie on why he’d brought her over; he hadn’t said a whole lot while they were driving away from downtown and into the suburbs of Vancouver. The silence left her pondering exactly what Quinn had found so serious about it all, so serious that he couldn’t even tell her why he wanted her to talk to Annie.

“I kind of need help, though? If I’m not pushing my luck. I’m gaining Insta followers like crazy and I don’t know these people. They’re commenting on my photos and my stories and sending me messages. Quinn seems to think it’s a big deal.”

Annie bristled, her back straightening so immediately that Laurel flinched. Her question was filled with exasperation and defeat, “You have a public account?”

“Uh, yeah? Don’t most people?”

Annie sighed.

“First things first—make it private. Once it’s private, you block everybody you don’t know so that they unfollow you. The photos currently on the account are already out in the world but we can at least stop new ones from getting out.”

Laurel let the words sink in, trying to make sense of them as well as trying to make sense of how serious Annie looked—the resting bitch face had shifted to determined and a little frightened.

It frightened Laurel that she squeaked out, “Getting out?”

“Fuck, you really don’t get it. You’re a WAG now, so there’s a subset of fans who care about you and they care too much. Sometimes they’re just really nice and respect that you’re human and have feelings and then there’s the psychos who send you hate mail.”

As she was speaking, Annie opened up her own phone and Googled her name—the first results, predictably were related to her tattoo artist career but as she scrolled a little further she put her phone down on the table so that Laurel could see every link that followed that was slightly off-kilter.

It was all disjointed but exactly as Annie had said. Various photos of Annie were splashed across Twitter or Tumblr, with or without Brock, and the accompanying comments that moved between complimentary and taking cheap shots at how little Annie weighed, or the ever-changing colour of her hair, or the state of her tattoos.

It wasn’t dissimilar to some of the comments Laurel had seen on Daisy’s Instagram—or the one she’d seen on her own.

With her heart in her stomach, Laurel said, “They like to go for my cheeks.”

“Your cheeks?” Annie asked, her voice and face softening.

“They won’t shut up about how chubby they are, as if I don’t know exactly how much fat is sitting in my cheekbones.”

Annie laughed, humourlessly, “They always find the insecurity. They’re real fucking good at it.”

Together they went through the long process of clearing out Laurel’s followers, blocking them all one by one. The number had crept up a lot higher than she thought it had.

Rogers Arena was no less daunting the second time.

It was a very different daunting, though, despite Karina being by her side. She wasn’t making a beeline to the suites because nobody knew she was even at the game, but trying to get to their seats moments before the puck was set to drop was a stress Laurel didn’t need.

“You can teach me what’s going on, right?” Laurel turned to Karina in a panic while still halfway down the stairs

“Yes, Laurel,” Karina sighed, fond but exasperated, turning Laurel back around and guiding her to their seats. “Just like I told you I could when you asked me to come.”

“I know, I just—I want to surprise Quinn.”

Karina reminded her, again, that there was no way Laurel was going to learn all the ins and outs of hockey from one game—“definitely not when the Canucks are playing the Coyotes.”—as they sat down in their seats. The seats that cost far more money than Laurel had anticipated; good thing she was ready to fully commit to being a WAG who knew the sport.

Despite Karina’s insistence that the game was going to be lacklustre and nothing to learn from, the Canucks came out swinging.

Laurel knew enough from what Quinn had told her that multiple goal games weren’t all that common so seeing the Canucks score two goals in the first period was exciting enough. When they scored another four in the second, with only one minor interruption from the Coyotes she was ready to truly lose her mind.

The atmosphere was infectious. Not even her constant leaning in to check something with Karina was ruining her night—like when the Coyotes were penalised for ‘too many men on the ice’ or when Quinn was sent to the penalty box was ‘cross-checking’. Watching him on the box on the big screen above the ice was funny, Laurel couldn’t deny that even if the fans around her vehemently disagreed with the call.

“He definitely fucked up, right?” she clarified with Karina after the protesting had died down.

“Definitely. He’s just our guy, so obviously the refs are wrong.”

Laurel just hummed, bemused.

By the end of the game—when the Canucks had managed to score another goal for a 7-1 victory—Laurel had to admit that she was hooked. It would be different to sit down in front of a television and watch, even sitting in the suite wouldn’t cut it, because sitting amongst so many people who were utterly invested in the outcome was addictive.

Adrenaline was still coursing through every part of her body when she let herself into Quinn’s apartment. He wasn’t home, yet, and wouldn’t be for a little while longer she knew and had given her his spare key yet again. He knew she was spending the evening with Karina but, as had become increasingly common, wanted her to be there when he got home.

She wondered frequently when the key would be handed over for good.

With so much excitement in her veins, Laurel was still wide awake when he got home. Part of her wanted to reveal the secret right then and there, that she was at the game, that she saw him get numerous ‘assists’ and the two-minute penalty, but she managed to calm herself down just enough to keep it together.

Quinn stood in the doorway to his bedroom, his tie nowhere to be seen and a few buttons undone on his shirt. Laurel watched him closely from where she was sitting up against the headboard.

“I heard there was a big win,” she said, putting her phone down and letting the duvet covers pool in her lap.

Quinn smirked, the confidence rolling off his body not something Laurel saw everyday but it was definitely something she liked.

“Big, big win,” he agreed, stepping slowly closer.

Laurel’s heart rate picked up, not that she thought it possible, and she froze in anticipation while he walked closer.

“Jack’s boys lost, though.”

Truthfully, he may as well have thrown her into the Arctic Ocean with the speed his words ruined any sort of arousal.

She gathered the duvet and slowly slumped down into the mattress. She still tracked him as he walked around the room and changed out of his suit and mourned the mood he’d so sufficiently killed.

“That’s a shame.”

He continued to talk about Jack—about hockey, mostly, but sometimes veering into random pieces of their childhood that she tried to piece into what she’d been told previously. His family’s closeness would never cease to fascinate her.

She felt herself falling asleep, suddenly drained after the realisation that they weren’t heading towards orgasms of any kind and buried herself into the covers pulled up around her chin.

“We bought a house in Michigan so we can spend the summers together.”

Laurel blinked, taking a moment to determine that she’d heard him correctly. She asked, “the whole summer?”

“That’s the plan. It’ll be so good. We’ve got so many buddies from there or who spent enough time in Michigan that they can’t wait to go back—”

Nothing else he said mattered, not even to slot anything into his backstory, because all Laurel could think about was him spending the entire summer so far across the continent.

Any interest Laurel had in learning the game of hockey or the life that came with it disappeared with the knowledge that Quinn wasn’t wasting any time in leaving Vancouver when his season was over. And it would be over soon.

She didn’t know much but she did know that they weren’t making playoffs.

The plan as she knew it was for Quinn to fly to Michigan a week after their final game but she’d purposely been avoiding learning much about it because it only made her angry.

If Quinn had noticed the distance she was keeping, he hadn’t said anything.

Her visits to his place had been limited and it wasn’t even intentional. The final games of the season, some on the road, along with some team bonding meant that Quinn’s schedule didn’t have much time for Laurel.

That wasn’t helping matters.

Laurel stood outside his apartment buildings for a few moments, trying to compose herself before she buzzed the intercom to be let up. She had to talk to him about it because the internal speculation was driving her crazy, and she’d watched her mother ruin too many relationships due to lack of communication.

When she stepped into his apartment, it was clear Quinn felt the tension between them. He didn’t lean in to kiss like he normally would, just stood to the side and let her in; she moved far enough into the apartment to hover in the kitchen but didn’t go much further.

“Why are things weird?” he asked, so direct and abrupt that Laurel was caught off guard. “I haven’t seen you in like two weeks and you’re weird on the phone. What did I do?”

“I don’t know, Quinn,” Laurel said with a huff. “This feels like a really crucial time in our relationship and you’re just going to fuck off for the whole summer. More than the summer? Leave now and not come back until, what? September?”

The immediate attack was the wrong decision, it became immediately clear, when Quinn tensed up and his face closed off completely. It was the meanest she’d ever seen him.

“I was going to be back in about two weeks,” he said, devoid of any emotion. It made it hurt so much worse to hear the detachment in his voice when he added, “To see you.”

Laurel cowered, “Why are you going at all? Do you need a break from me?”

“It’s my brother’s 21st birthday, Laurel, and I’m not going to miss it. I was thinking about asking if you wanted to come but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“No,” Laurel agreed, clenching her fists at her sides, “I don’t think it is a good idea. I don’t think we’re a good idea.”

The tension defused ever so slightly, Quinn’s mask slipping just enough to show shock and a little bit of hurt before he recovered. His voice was still quiet as he asked, “Do you really mean that?”

Laurel deflated, too; every insecurity she had about relationships came to the forefront of her brain. “Yeah, I mean, what do we have in common, Quinn? We’re Americans living in Vancouver? I don’t get what you do for a living but it’s also not even just what you do for a living, is it? It’s your whole life.”

Quinn took half a step forward, then froze. Laurel wanted him to be closer but didn’t make any effort to close the gap.

“I have a life outside of hockey and I thought it included you.”

“You don’t exist without hockey, Quinn,” Laurel sighed, her voice small, “and you don’t even see it. You’re here from September to May because of the hockey season, but you’re also on the road a lot and not really here, and I’m expected to just… accept and understand that and wait for you all the time. And then when the season’s done, you want to disappear for like four months and you expected me to just follow you when you asked at the last minute. I don’t have the luxury, Quinn.”

“I know that.”

“Why did you only give me two weeks’ notice? Why didn’t you talk to me about it at all? I get that your mom dropped a hell of a lot for your dad’s work and then your hockey careers and Daisy seems to be doing the same for Jack, but I didn’t grow up in hockey or even sports—I don’t get any of this and you’ve never really explained it to me. The life, not whatever happens on the ice.”

“That’s why I wanted you to sit with my mom and Daisy—they can explain it all to you.”

“But it’s not their job, is it, Quinn?”

“Laurel, they know what it’s like to be a WAG. I have no fucking clue what it’s like. The best people to help you are the girls who live the life you know nothing about but you just refuse to talk to them.”

“I—I spoke to Annie,” Laurel countered, knowing that it was weak.

“Once. I have tried so hard to bring you into my world and you fight me at every turn.”

“What about my world?” Her question came with a renewed fire, thinking of all the parts of her life Quinn didn’t know about; all the things he hadn’t taken the time to learn.

“You won’t let me in there, either. So, I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Maybe he couldn’t learn without her teaching him. Maybe he hadn’t asked.

Laurel didn’t know. All she did know was that her heart was slowly crumbling in her chest as she tried to put on a brave face and pretend it was the outcome she’d wanted by showing up in the first place.

She ducked her head so she could walk past him, saying coolly that she was going to collect some things from his room. There was no way she’d be able to remove everything of hers in one trip when she hadn’t even brought her overnight bag but if she could at least grab her expensive skin care items and her favourite clothes that would be something.

Quinn followed her, his footsteps dull and heavy, and she felt his eyes watching her as she moved around. She didn’t snap at him, didn’t ask him what he was worried she’d steal, just focused on fitting what she could into her purse.

“I went to a game, you know?” she asked as she carefully took a shirt from one of the hangers she’d co-opted and folded it into her purse.

Quinn huffed a disbelieving laugh. “The one I begged you to come to.”

“The night up told me you were going back to Michigan, actually,” she corrected. “Sat in the crowd with Karina from work and she tried to teach me what was going on. I was going to surprise you by learning how the game worked without you having to teach me.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it? You’re the one who thinks we should break up.”

“I guess I am,” she said, a sad smile stretched across her face. “I don’t know how this is where it ended, Quinn.”

“I wish you’d told me two weeks ago that you were mad at me. Probably could have avoided this.”

Laurel shrugged, half-heartedly, “I don’t know. This shit’s always inevitable for me.”

“It doesn’t have to be, you know that.”

“Bye, Quinn.”

She left him standing in the doorway of his bedroom and didn’t turn back around once as she left, fearing that she’d beg him for anything that made it better.

There wasn’t anything that could make it better.

Laurel knew the minute she accepted that the date was a bad idea. The one piece of advice her mother gave her for getting over relationships was that “a week for every month you were together” was the proper timeframe for getting over someone.

If Laurel counted from the day she officially became Quinn’s girlfriend, three weeks was plenty of time. Half a week too long, even.

If only that had assuaged her guilt enough to not ruin the night out Brooke had organised for them. Even if the night was drinks and dancing at the same dive bar where she’d met Quinn.

Drinks and dancing were easier than any other alternative that wasn’t just sex; it was clearly just a prelude to sex, regardless, and not even a very vague one.

Laurel could handle the pretence, though, because Brooke was proving to be enough of a difference from what she’d realised was her ‘type’ that Laurel had no issues pressing up against her on the dance floor or sitting in her lap when they stopped for drinks.

By the time a lovely haze was settling over Laurel—Tom Collins had leant his name to a very nice drink—it all came crashing down.

“Why do the Vancouver Canucks keep staring at us?”

She hadn’t noticed them, had been far too wrapped up in getting Brooke to take her home, before they were pointed out to her but, sure enough, Quinn was standing across the room huddled with more than a few guys from the team.

“I dated one of them,” Laurel said with a sigh, averting her gaze before she could accidentally make eye contact with any of them. If Quinn caught her, she would die in the spot.

“Yeah?” Brooke pushed. “Recently enough that they’re still staring?”

17 days.

But she wasn’t counting.

“It wasn’t a great breakup.”

“Damn.” Brooke paused. “Does he know you also date women?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then I can do this—”

At first, Laurel melted into Brooke’s mouth—the softness was something she didn’t realise she’d missed and Brooke’s fingers had crept under her top and were applying just enough pressure to really curl the heat in Laurel’s stomach.

The beat that followed replaced the heat with led, and Laurel pushed herself out of Brooke’s lap. She had enough of a mind to fix her top and then no mind at all when she turned to where Quinn had been and made the eye contact she’d dreaded.

17 days wasn’t enough.

Quinn was moving, then, weaving his way through his teammates and towards the entrance to the bar; Laurel didn’t even feel Brooke’s hand on her wrist as she rushed to follow him.

Laurel hated dive bars and all the people in them, each and every one stepping in and out of her path as she desperately tried to stay on her feet.

A cool breeze hit her like a wall when she stepped onto Water Street, enough of a shock that she flinched and stopped in her tracks. Someone was following close enough behind her that she was forcibly moved onto the sidewalk.

She locked eyes on Quinn, standing at the gutter with his phone in his hand. He looked up from it, presumably hearing her shoes on the contact, and sighed so deeply she saw his shoulders rise and fall.

“Quinn—I—”

“It’s fine, Laurel,” he mumbled, looking away from her and down Water Street, “we’re broken up.”

“I didn’t want her to do that,” Laurel stressed, reaching out to touch his arm. Quinn took a tiny little step and her hand fell away. She whispered; then, “Especially not in front of you. I’m sorry.”

“We’re not together. You can do what you want. I’m getting out of here.”

A car pulled up in front of them; Quinn was quick to open the door.

She touched his arm again, her fingers digging into the jacket he was wearing so he couldn’t shake her off, and she pleaded, “I didn’t know you were coming back so soon.”

Laurel felt the ire pouring off him even though he barely looked at her over his shoulder, when he said, “You never let me tell you, so how could you?”

“Quinn—”

He shook his arm, forcibly dislodging Laurel’s hand. She teetered backwards as she stepped out of the way of the car door so it didn’t close on her—it really didn’t feel like that would have been a bad thing.

Instagram was a much quieter place after The Purge at Annie’s House and after months of not being with Quinn. The requests to follow her died down around July, she guessed because nobody could say they’d seen them together so she was no longer interesting.

Laurel couldn’t deny that she’d googled her own name a few times since Quinn left her on Water Street, curious to know what any of the ‘puck bunny' blogs had been saying about her—most updates post August were that she and Quinn were done. Quinn was officially back on the market.

Too many people were poking fun at her Instagram handle—‘looks like @l0nelylaurel is l0nelier than ever’ and it was all hitting too close to home.

Truth be told, 153 days was no easier than 17.

A lot of that could be contributed to the angst of waiting for Quinn to show any sign that he was even coming back to Vancouver. The season was ten days from officially starting and he hadn’t even re-signed with the Canucks.

He was still in Michigan.

Or that’s what she thought—what she expected—until his post appeared on her feed.

6 more years.

The newly christened hockey fan in her was ecstatic.

The pining ex-girlfriend was… desperate. Maybe.

To Quinn: is it too late to apologise and tell you i’ve been learning about hockey?

The lack of context bothered her and she sent a follow up text soon after.

To Quinn: congratulations on the contract. i’m proud of you

She didn’t think that context helped her case, either, but at least it was a reason to be texting him behind just missing him.

Laurel wasn’t expecting a text back with any speed. Returning to her job after a week of vacation time was hard enough; having to sign a whole new contract and join the team after they’d already been through the bulk of their training and bonding wasn’t something she could comprehend.

That was mostly because she’d heard from various Canucks fans at work about how damaging it was to the team for him and Petey to hold out so long.

She brought up YouTube to mindlessly watch something so that she didn’t dwell on her texts to Quinn, but she hadn’t even picked something when her phone buzzed and his name showed at the top of her screen.

From Quinn: Maybe there’s a table free at Elise. Heard about someone who’s big trophy wife fantasy was getting dinner there 🤔

Her heart sank.

It was a reasonable leap for him to make, she couldn’t fault him for it even if it made her want to claw at her skin and disappear into her couch for the rest of her life—but not before she made sure he knew it wasn’t like that.

To Quinn: it’s not about the contract. just didn’t know when you were back in town

From Quinn: Bad joke. Come over tomorrow after work?

The relief that overcame her was almost painful in how good it felt. Her heart was no longer sinking but instead racing faster and stronger than she knew how to deal with.

To Quinn: 💕

There was a pleasant, refreshing chill in the air as Laurel made the walk from her apartment to Quinn’s.

Haley had questioned where she was going for no other reason than Laurel didn’t change out of the clothes she’d worn to work—almost every time she’d left the house since May she’d changed into something more appropriate for a bar because, well, she was headed to a bar. They still weren’t friends but Haley worried enough that Laurel had to assure her it wasn’t self-destructive.

The bars had been pretty self-destructive. Seeing Quinn was the opposite.

She hoped, anyway.

He must have been sitting at the buzzer with how fast he let her into the building, and he was standing in his open door when she stepped out of the elevator.

“Welcome home?” she said, tilting it into a question when it crossed her mind that she didn’t actually know where he considered home. Maybe he’d just left home.

He smiled, “It’s good to be back. Come on, I pulled a few strings and have some food from Elise coming.

“Quinn…” Laurel trailed off, concerned that she’d been invited over as a joke.

“It’s really nice food and I know you like it. I really would have taken you there but I know my joke didn’t land.”

Laurel nodded, short and still uncertain. He carried on, though, guiding her into his apartment. He was acting like nothing had happened, like the last two times they’d seen each other hadn’t been disasters.

She washed her hands, taking a little extra time in the bathroom to recompose herself. He was being far nicer than he should have. She hadn’t expected him to be horrible to her—even if she’d been half concerned it was all an elaborately cruel joke—she just hadn’t expected him to welcome her in with open arms.

They ate peacefully, Laurel rather overwhelmed by how good the food was, by how Quinn had remembered what she’d ordered on her birthday. Quinn interspersed their eating with some stories from Michigan, so tentatively that he was obviously testing the waters.

She listened, grateful to have him back in front of her, delighted by the familiar awkwardness with which he carried himself.

She tried to fill him in on what she’d been up to while he was away, coming up short as she’d had no time off.

Quinn, seemingly realising she was floundering, turned the conversation in an entirely different direction on a hair pin.

“I didn’t do enough to help you get used to hockey and the life it comes with.”

Laurel blinked, stopping her wine glass as it was halfway to her mouth and putting it carefully back on the table. She said, measured, “You weren’t the problem, Quinn.”

“Maybe we share the blame but I—everyone I know goes from zero to sixty in like three weeks,” he explained, his hands twitching around his knife and fork. “Jack and Daisy have been virtually married since high school and I need to stop comparing my life to his but it’s a bit depressing when my go-to example of a relationship is my younger brother.”

“At least it’s a happy one. Mine are every relationship my mom ever blew up. I do a pretty good job replicating them.”

A sympathetic look crossed Quinn’s face, one Laurel didn’t feel entitled to, but he didn’t continue the conversation. He let go of his knife and reached his hand across the table to hold hers. He simply squeezed it comfortingly and smiled.

It lit up her entire body.

By the time they were washing up, Laurel was settling into his apartment as if she’d never left. Nothing changed since May, almost definitely because Quinn hadn’t been home, and she found her ice cream in the freezer where she’d left it and pulled two spoons from the drawer. Quinn followed her easily to the couch.

She turned sideways on the couch, crossing her legs so that she was facing him and he sat at the opposite end and also turned to face her. The ice cream container was settled onto the cushion between them, teetering precariously.

“Did you really go to a game without telling me?”

She startled, “You remember that?”

“Pretty sure I remember the entire convo word for word.”

It was a pretty quick way to bring down the mood, even if it looked like Quinn hadn’t intended it to be, the flinch that followed his words clue her into his regret.

“I did, yeah,” Laurel powered on. “You won and I had fun.”

He smiled and she smiled back, caught up in the immediate happiness that replaced the regret. Despite the happiness, he was hesitant when he asked, “Do you think you’ll want to go again?”

“I’d like to,” Laurel admitted, still smiling. “I should probably know the game, right?”

“The Devils are in town next month. Daisy might come. Mom won’t make it this time.”

“I can handle Daisy,” she assured him. “That’d be really great, Quinn. I don’t have the equivalent for social work in a hospital, but if we plan drinks any time soon I’ll make sure it’s a day you’re free. You can meet Haley if you want.”

She moved the ice-cream from between them and leant sideways to put it on the coffee table. The only thing keeping her from falling off the couch completely were Quinn’s quick reflexes and his hand shooting out to press against her rib cage.

She held her breath at the contact, at the easy way he helped her back onto the couch, and then at the sincerity in his voice as he said, “I’ll meet whoever you’ll let me meet, Laurel.”

“Letting people in is hard for me but I really want it to be you who changes that.”

He’d barely gotten out “Me, too” before Laurel was moving across the now empty space between them to capture his mouth in a kiss.

The morning after the game against the Devils—a 5-2 defeat that almost wished she hadn’t been present for—Laurel and Quinn squeezed in breakfast with Jack and Daisy before Jack got on a flight to Edmonton.

Jack was… Not what Laurel expected.

His arrival was so loud and energetic that she glanced sideways at Quinn to see how he was going to handle their breakfast being interrupted by a fan, and she took a couple of steps back just to be out of the way. Her confusion grew when Daisy walked in behind him, rolling her eyes as Jack launched himself at Quinn.

“They literally saw each other last night,” Daisy said, hugging Laurel. “It’s like this every time.”

“He’s not what I was expecting,” Laurel admitted. “Quinn’s so quiet and you are, too, that—”

“Daisy? Quiet? You pull your body double in for the game?” Jack asked, stepping away from Quinn. “I’m Jack—Daisy’s conned you.”

“I know how to read a room.”

“I’m Laurel.”

Given Jack’s entrance, the hug wasn’t entirely unexpected. She made eye contact with Quinn over Jack’s shoulder, saw the pleased smile on his face and knew that everything was really going to work out fine.

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eddies-house · 1 year

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The Under-Ground (18+ ONLY)

Chapter Two - Baggage

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 |

Modern!Barista!Eddie AU - As you continue to train Eddie, words are exchanged. Your life is in shambles and he only adds to it.

Enemies to Lovers, Modern!Barista!Eddie AU, Eddie x Fem Reader

12.1K Words

Warnings - Eddie is an asshole, eventual smut, mentions of drugs and drinking, I don't think there's anything else but please let me know if I missed anything

Author's Note: This story has been lingering in my mind and it took me so long to write this chapter because I want to do it right and I had the worst writer's block but now I am flooded with inspiration. Pls let me know how you feel about it so far

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The biting cold of the morning nipped at your skin, little pins and needles feeling like they were burying themselves there. The streets were glimmering with puddles, the rain from the night before leaving them behind and the moody clouds still lingering in the sky. No matter how long you’d lived in Hawkins the changing of the seasons would always sneak up on you like an unwelcome visitor. Gone were the days of walking around downtown with an iced coffee on your day off, the summer sun beaming down and flowers in full bloom while the trees were leafy and lush. No more lounging around on a bench outside of the college to complete a few assignments under the shade of a large oak tree in desperate need of a change of scenery in comparison to your shitty apartment. At least not until next Spring.

Hawkins Community College was a historical building that used to serve as the town hall but has since evolved into the college after the council elected to have the town hall relocated to a more practical location. The building was settled just south of downtown and was deemed ‘too out of the way’. Its bricks were a faded brown, weathered down over the years and not a high enough priority to keep maintained, though the sidewalks were freshly paved and the grass was as green as ever, the morning dew blanketing over it like a fresh coat of paint. The campus wasn’t very large seeing as Hawkins’ population wasn’t very impressive and the majority of its residents would travel elsewhere for college.

The front steps of the building were scuffed and scattered with various footprints from students and teachers who walked with purpose to their destination. On the very top step, front and center sat a disoriented Dustin Henderson, face scrunched up in perplexity. Though he was still attending Hawkins High as a current sophomore, he enlisted himself in one of the programs offered where students could take classes at Hawkins Community for college credits. Fingers desperately ruffling through the several papers in his dense binder, he argued with his mother while his phone was clutched in the other hand on speaker. Something about “I swear it was on the kitchen counter!” followed by the word ‘mom’ being shouted into the phone repeatedly as if it would solve his dilemma. When she apologetically let him know that there was no such mystery item, he only cursed as he facepalmed, ending the call with a defeated “Okay, love you. Bye.”

A heavy sigh escaped the boy as he slapped the binder onto the step beside him, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, agitated. Dustin was ironically your only college friend, not a best friend but you knew him well enough to gather that he’d definitely left his assignment at home and that this was going to dictate his mood for the entire day. His eyes resembled emeralds as his focus shifted from his dirty sneakers up to you, a hint of excitement swimming in the deep green of his irises.

“Rough morning?” You suggest with a sympathetic smile. He bites his lip in frustration as if he’s holding back every distressed thought racing through his head.

“Mhmm.” He squeaks, still refraining from word vomiting all over your peaceful morning, hands now resting on his denim covered knees.

“You forgot your essay, didn’t you?” You know you’ve poked the bear but you could feel how anxious he was to blow up about everything that went wrong that morning leading up to this moment and who were you to deny him? Henderson had a special place nestled in the corner of your heart, always loud and boisterous but also kind and delightful to be around.

He sucked in a breath before releasing every word that was prodding his brain. “All because my mom had to clean the goddamn house! She was all ‘Dusty, this is why we don’t leave our things around!’” He mocks his mothers voice with a high pitch, face twisting in dramatics. “I left it right on the counter where I could grab it on my way out but apparently, a ten page essay WITH MY NAME ON IT IN BIG BOLD LETTERS was thrown in the garbage. On its way to a landfill. Gone.” His shoulders tensed and all you could offer was a supportive hand to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Dustin.” You say carefully, the kid was a ticking time bomb sometimes. He waved you off, his way of saying ‘don’t worry about it’.

“And THEN, fucking Will made the dumbest move last night at our campaign. Completely tanked the whole thing.” His hands were thrown up in misery as he recalled the memory. “Eddie had the whole thing set up perfectly, we’ve been playing this campaign for weeks!” Dustin’s eyes shifted back and forth erratically as the whole thing played out in his mind, your eyes rolled at the mention of the metalhead. “Oh he was so pissed. You shoulda seen him, he was throwing dice, screaming at Will, screaming at Mike, screaming at ME! I finally talked him off the ledge but shit, he was revved up.”

Eddie hosted their DND club a majority of the time per Dustin and from what he tells you about those nights, Eddie is always a sadistic maniac. Dustin also swears that he’s like his big brother, next in line to King Steve although Steve took on more of a dad role. There was no way to imagine Eddie embodying the role of a big brother let alone displaying any kind of pleasant behavior. You cringed at the mere idea of him, knowing you’d have to endure him at work this evening.

Dustin continued his rant passionately. “And I’m sorry, I know you hate when I bring up Eddie for whatever reason but dude was not having it. My special edition dice are now lost in the abyss underneath his couch.” You shake your head in disapproval. “I told him I’d let it slide though cause he said he’d let me go with him to a concert.” He concludes with a shrug.

At this you nudge the boy’s shoulder, disappointed. “Dustin! He can’t bribe his way out of losing your dice after chucking them when he has a temper tantrum! If those dice are important to you then you need to stand your ground.” You instruct him.

He lets out a long sigh before responding. “Socks, respectfully, this is how our friendship with Eddie works. We piss each other off and then we move on. Like a few weeks ago, he kept making sexual sounds while I was on the phone with my mom so I hid his shoes from him after he got really stoned.” At this you can’t help but release a laugh.

“Good on you, Henderson.” You praise. “I guess I won’t need to step in when I see him at work later then. Sounds like you can handle yourself.” You begin pulling your binder from your bag in preparation for class.

Dustin shakes his head in confusion, waving his arms in front of him like he’s missing a piece of the puzzle. “Hold up, Eddie’s a barista now?” His tone is humorous, on the brink of cackling.

“Uh huh.” You answer nonchalantly while opening your binder and shuffling through a few papers, making a note in your planner for some homework you just remembered off the top of your head. “And our dear Stevie knew about it before me and just decided it’d be a good idea to see my reaction when he walked in the door for his first shift yesterday.” You chew on your pen as you attempt to remember any other assignments you may have forgotten to write down.

“Eddie? Eddie Munson? Metalhead, former drug dealer, thought it would be funny to piss in Steve’s beer, Eddie Munson? That Eddie?” Dustin gapes at you in disbelief to which you nod. “I’m sorry but–there’s no fucking way! A barista? He doesn’t even drink coffee, he hates trendy little cafes, and there’s no goddamn way he would apply for a job where both you AND Steve work. Sounds like his own personal hell.” The boy is laughing, clutching his stomach.

You hang your head and giggle along with him. As awful as the situation was, it did sound ridiculous enough to laugh. “I thought the same thing, Dusty. The universe just has it out for us.” You refer to you and Steve. As much as you had a rivalry with Eddie, Steve had his own beef with the guy. This posed as an issue seeing as Steve practically mothered Lucas, Mike, Will, Dustin, Max, and El ever since he was in high school when he dated Nancy Wheeler. The way Eddie and Steve fought resembled a divorced couple exchanging their kids in a Walmart parking lot. And to Steve’s disadvantage, Eddie always ended up at the notorious parties he threw since one of the kids always ended up blabbing after he distinctly told them not to. It always put a damper on your night when he showed up, giving you flashbacks to that one party years ago that you swore you’d forget about but it still lingered in the back of your mind.

“I hope you know this means that everyone’s going to be placing bets on who ends up dead first.” Dustin raises a brow at you, throwing his arm over your shoulder, shaking it playfully.

Standing up as classes were about to start, you shot him a glare. “I can definitely take him.” You state, holding your hand out to help him up. He takes it and shrugs, a grin on his face that tells you ‘I don’t know about that’. “Dustin. Please don’t tell me you think Eddie is going to get to me.” You scoff as he opens the heavy metal door leading into the building, the hinges creaking.

His face indicates that he’s bouncing a thought around before answering. “Well…” he begins. “You don’t know what he’s capable of. The guy is a menace. He can play games for as long as he needs to.” He further explains.

“Okay, you know what? I’m done talking about some asshole who doesn’t even matter to me.” You decide, the mostly vacant hallways echoing your footsteps as you step into the heated building.

“Ugh, it’s like having three parents who don’t get along. I know Eddie is a lot but maybe if you, I dunno, hung out with him you’d realize he’s actually also really cool.” Dustin has the audacity to suggest.

Huffing out a breath and holding your binder to your chest, you give him your final piece of mind. “Munson is never going to even get the time of day out of me let alone a besties hangout sesh.” You snap bitterly. Dustin’s hands raise in surrender, you’re done with this conversation and he knows better than to try and change your mind.

“Anyway…” he sighs, dropping his shoulders while you both make your way through the beige halls. “Max and Lucas are back together again.” He nudges your shoulder with his, causing you to sway as you walk. The couple were always on again, off again. One week Lucas would do something dumb like stand her up by accident to go to the mall with Mike and another Max would invalidate his feelings. It was something they claimed they were working out but after every breakup, everyone always reacted with an eye roll, knowing full well that the routine would repeat itself. You truly did root for them but if they were going to keep hurting each other, there was no reason for them to continue the relationship.

Glancing at Dustin, your face tells him that you’re not amused. “Tell me something new, Henderson.” You deadpan. He nods, exhaling as he racks his brain.

“Holy shit!” He sounds as if he’d just had a revelation. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!” His feet stomp on the linoleum floors in excitement, sneakers squeaking against the surface. “But you have to PROMISE not to tell anyone.” A finger is pointed at you in warning as you nod for him to continue. Dustin was very bad at keeping secrets. “Steve has a girlfriend.” He chirps.

Stopping dead in your tracks, shoes screeching against the floor, your eyes widen. Steve told you everything so if Dustin’s accusations were true you were going to have some words for him for not telling you. “Who?!” You inquire, full attention on the curly headed boy. “You’re lying, Steve would’ve told me!” You whine like a child.

“That’s the thing, he hasn’t told anyone. I saw some girl getting out of his car the other night in the mall parking lot. I didn’t get a good look at who it was cause it happened so fast.” He explains.

Your excitement drops at his words. “Dustin, that doesn’t mean he has a girlfriend, that means he’s messing around, he does it all the time.” You remind him of his reputation as King Steve.

“Well pardon me for being an optimist.” He sasses you, the two of you approaching the class.

“You’re really bad at gossiping.” You finish before stepping into the room, leaving him offended in the hallway.

–

Class was as bland as ever, your professor, Mr. Randall lectured about marketing the whole two and a half hours and you nearly fell asleep six times, Dustin jabbing the eraser end of his pencil into your side each time you started slouching as he caught up on his calculus homework. The closer to the evening it got, the more on edge you grew knowing you wouldn’t get to work the peaceful closing shift you were once used to but instead suffer a stress-inducing nightmare while training the local terror of Hawkins. Life sucked all the way around at the moment.

Bidding Dustin a ‘see you later’ while you were walking in sync just outside the building where you always parted, he flashed you a grin before begging you to snap him a photo of Eddie at work to send it to him later. More than likely for blackmail reasons for the next time they were pissing each other off. Their relationship was something you couldn’t quite get a grasp on however you didn’t attempt to even understand it past the fact that for some reason Dustin admired the man child as well as despised him sometimes in that brotherly way.

“Dustin, fuck off.” You tell him with a playful tone.

“What!? You don’t even like the guy. I’d venture to even say that this would be benefiting you in the long run.” He clasps his hands together in front of him in a pleading motion but you don’t seem to budge which his face falls at.

“I don’t need to be involved in your little war, I have my own!” A dramatic wave of your arms is enough to stop him from prodding.

With that you departed from the campus and headed straight to downtown a few hours shy of your shift to lounge around and chat with Robin. It was either that or go back to your shitty apartment and sit in the freezing stale air, at least this way you could revel in the warmth of the shop and sip on a hot chocolate which happened to be your favorite and the only hot drink you would ever order. Every other option had to be iced or it was a no go.

It was around two in the afternoon so there was time to be killed until five. You figured you’d grab your hot chocolate, gossip with Robin and Steve for a little, maybe work on some assignments, and then take a little walk through the park at the center of the square, a solid plan. The morning chill was long gone and it was now a tad warmer with the sun sitting high in the sky. The sidewalks were vacant since everyone was either at work or still in school which was a plus in your book, you liked to keep to yourself and found it especially annoying when you had to stop to interact with random patrons and were expected to indulge in stupid small talk that was lost on you the second you walked away.

A thirty minute walk later and you’d finally reached The Under-Ground, the smell of espresso already invading your nose before you even stepped into the building. As you reached for the metal handle, the door had already swung open with the bell chiming above it, a rushed Joyce Byers stumbling out with two full cup holders of hot coffees nearly flying out of her hands, eyes panicked and a startled gasp escaping her.

She mumbles your name with a nervous grin, her nose tinted pink from the fall air. “So sorry! I didn’t mean to run you over–I just–I was in such a hurry. I forgot to get the coffee for a staff meeting.” She further explains apologetically as she gestures with a tilt of her head to Melvald’s.

Your expression softens, Joyce was always the sweetest person you’d ever met and she was a regular at the shop. She was one person you didn’t mind engaging in small talk with because she was genuinely interested in your answers and took the initiative to further the conversation, asking how things were and telling you to let her know if you ever needed anything. You never took her up on the offer, there was no reason to bother her. Joyce was somewhat of a mother figure but in a quiet manner and you were so grateful whenever she graced you with her presence. Her boys were well mannered too, she’d done an amazing job raising them as a single mom. Obviously you’d hung out with Will since Steve was the designated neighborhood mom and that granted you rights to the movie nights, pool parties, and just about anything that Steve hosted which meant all the kids were there too. Will was a sweet kid, he was shy at first but an absolute menace once he was comfortable enough.

For some reason you had a connection with him as well as Joyce, they were like family just not by blood. Will had always comforted you if things ever felt off. If no one else in the group noticed your shift in mood, Will did and he would approach it graciously, silently nodding at you to ask if you were okay. From there you would communicate through your eyes and he’d gather what you were feeling from that alone. It was like having telepathy and somehow you would both silently step out from whatever scene you were in the middle of. If it was at Steve’s, the two of you would perch yourselves on the front steps and you would just let him know you weren’t feeling that great mentally. The conversation really wouldn’t go further than that but it didn’t need to, he was just there for you and you for him. It worked both ways, if Will looked particularly lonely you would nod your head toward the door and you’d both meet outside. Sometimes he’d hint that he found it annoying how clingy El and Mike were but you knew it meant that he was sick to his stomach that his best friend and his crush were basically making out on top of him. Jonathan had always made it a point to bring you to the side and thank you for providing that support to his brother and that it meant a lot to him. You’d always offer a small smile in return. The Byers held a special place in your heart, they were so effortlessly nice just because. They had no ulterior motive, just the intention to be good people.

Taking in Joyce’s disoriented demeanor, you shake your head and help her to steady a leaning coffee that almost escaped the cup holder. “That’s okay, I almost crashed into you.” You tell her.

“No, that was my fault! I really wanna catch up with you but I have to go!” She says rather quickly, worried as she begins to scurry back to Melvald’s. Telling her you’ll have to catch up soon over coffee and that she knows where to find you, she agrees and hurries into the store. You can’t help letting out a small giggle at her antics.

Finally sauntering into The Under-Ground, the warmth wraps around you like a cozy cocoon, something that was all too unfamiliar at this stage in your life given the circumstances of your apartment where you were meant to spend most of your time but did everything in your power to stay away from. You welcomed the hot air like a big hug, eyes shutting in content with a deep sigh. The tables are empty save for one in the very corner where a businessman sipped on a latte while putting together a powerpoint on his laptop. Steve leaned against the counter scrolling away until he felt your gaze on him, raising his brows in expectancy.

“You’re here early…” He points out.

Irritably, you set your bag on one of the tables before making your way over to the register. “So what you’re saying is, you’re not happy to see me, Stevie?” You ask with mock hurt.

Steve scoffs as he stands on the opposite side of the register as if to ring you up. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He explains. “I mean, you seem to be coming in earlier and earlier. Can’t get enough of me?” A wink is offered your way.

You gag at this, painting disgust on your features. “No offense but you’re not my type and I think you know that by now.” You joke. The chances of you and Steve getting together were as great as the chances of him and Robin getting together, zero. And it was mutual but you had this ongoing joke. “Now can you please make me a hot chocolate?” You request with a pout. “Pleeeeease.” You add, swaying back and forth like a child asking their mother for candy.

All you receive in return is an eye roll as he begrudgingly obliges and spins on his heels to prepare the drink. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You tell him in an annoyingly high pitched voice.

“Whatever, SOCKS.” He pronounces the nickname loudly, the businessman in the corner momentarily looking up at him in displeasure. You give Steve a glare while taking a seat at your chosen table in the book corner, mouthing his words, mocking him with a dramatic facial expression.

Shortly after taking a seat, Robin emerges from the back and claims the chair next to you silently, her hair thrown up in a messy ponytail on top of her head, face indicating business. “You see, Steve was given one job and that was to ask you how last night went with Munson but clearly he was incapable of even the smallest task.” She rants. “So here I am. Asking. How did it go? Is he still alive?” She pushes, crossing her arms while awaiting an answer.

Raising a brow at her, you continue pulling out your laptop as planned. “I’m only gonna say this once.” You affirm. Steve’s ears perk up as he rushes over while struggling to fit the lid onto your hot chocolate, face twisted in concentration as he approaches the table. “He’s the actual spawn of the devil and I have contemplated quitting–” Robin goes to interrupt you before you hold up a finger, finishing your thoughts. “But I will not give him that power and I’m going to keep working and will only talk to him when absolutely necessary. I’m also going to forever hold a grudge against Steve for even letting Munson hear the nickname ‘Socks’. My tranquil closing time has become my own private hell, thanks Steve.” You ramble. “Also, yes. He’s still very much alive, unfortunately.” You say in monotone.

Steve looks taken back, a hand flying up over his heart in surprise, temporarily giving up on securing the lid of your drink. “Thanks, Steve??? I didn’t personally hire him! I admit I slipped up on the name but give me a break here.” He whines.

You reach for the hot chocolate, making grabby hands as you frown at a distraught Steve, hoping he’ll at least nudge the cup toward your reach. He throws his hands up in the air with a scoff. “Socks, I didn’t mean to rile you up by not telling you he got hired, okay?! I made a dumb decision thinking it would be better for you and it bit me in the ass. I’m sorry.” In usual Steve fashion he stares at you with giant pleading eyes, his long lashes blinking at you while his lips pout, all pretty and pink as if he were a Barbie doll.

“Really, Steve?” Robin mocks, a smirk pulling at her lips.

You finally pipe up, still reaching for the drink across the table. “Steve, I’ll forgive you if you hand me my drink.” You bargain, tongue darting out in concentration as you inch your fingers toward the chocolatey goodness hidden in a paper cup. Steve snatches it up and pushes it into your hands, the warmth of the beverage consuming your palms. The lid is still barely sitting on top, you gently pull it off to allow it to cool down.

Triumphantly, Steve strolls back behind the counter. “So we’re good? I’m free of my mistake?” He shouts to you. You and Robin share a look, her attempting to take a sip of your hot chocolate only to burn her tongue, a series of huffing noises leaving her as he waves her hands up and down in front of her mouth.

“Hoth, hoth, hoth.” She lisps.

You offer Steve a thumbs up from across the room while shaking your head at Robin. “All good, Stevie. Until the next time you cross me.” You half joke. “Robin, it’s hot chocolate. Hot.” You remind her as she pinches her tongue with her fingers, her brows knit together. She whines in response, rushing away to relieve her scalded tongue with some water. It turns out, you didn’t get that gossip session with Robin seeing as she was too occupied with soothing her tongue along with a sudden wave of customers. Next time, you suppose. You’ll have another chance to rant and rave to each other soon enough.

–

The espresso machine whirs and creates a hum as you craft a macchiato for the customer standing idly by the to go counter. It’s 5:15. And you work the shop alone. Not that you would usually complain, the evening rush was nothing you couldn’t handle on your own but training a new hire wasn’t something you could bypass so either way it would need to get done and the sooner your new terror of a coworker could do things independently, the better. And yet, he was fifteen minutes late, nowhere in sight, not even the roar of his stupid motorcycle in the distance.

Robin and Steve had taken off at five on the dot, Steve complaining that he was responsible for hauling everyone to Lucas’ basketball game and you grateful for having the night shift. Sports were a complete snoozefest and although you’d love to support Lucas it just wasn’t your scene. Of course you’d go when you were free but there was that sliver of relief when you weren’t required to subject yourself to the highschool gym full of sweaty kids and squeaking shoes.

With a polite smile, the drink is gingerly handed to the customer and you are offered a half assed thank you before they exit, no eye contact while they stare down at their phone. You shrug it off, glancing around at the few people that are lounging around at the tables either working on their laptops or reading. Everyone seems satisfied and no tables are in need of tidying or wiping down so you return to the hot chocolate you had been nursing, now chocolate milk if anything but still delicious. Leaning against the counter as you sip, you allow yourself a moment of meditation, breathing in–and out–in—and out, the cocoa taste lingering on your tongue in between sips.

As if god himself had it out for you, your brief moment of silence and tranquility is rudely interrupted by the blaring engine of a certain someone’s dumbass motorcycle, whipping around the corner and into a spot dead center in front of the shop. You note that you’ll have to have a conversation with him about parking in the back so customers can actually use those spots provided–he won’t listen but at least Ronnie won’t be able to put the blame on you. Rolling your eyes at the delinquent, he makes his way into the building, pulling his helmet off and shaking his shaggy mane around like a dog.

Knowing that you can’t reprimand him the way you so desire in front of customers, you shoot him daggers from where you lean, gripping the paper cup tight enough to leave crescents from your nails. If he doesn’t even have the decency to show up for work on time, why should you have to endure closing with him every night? Why is it that you’re seemingly being punished by the universe? Haven’t you had enough already? My apartment sucks, I sleep on a lumpy mattress in the corner on the hard ass floor, my heater doesn’t work even though it's getting cold, hell, even some of my lights don’t work, rent is being raised next month, classes are kicking my ass, and now that actual spawn of satan gets to unleash his wrath on me every day. The thoughts consume you momentarily until Eddie spins around from clocking in on the computer, delivering a smirk with an amused expression underlying his features. And you’re having none of it, it’s only his second day and he’s pulling this shit? Absolutely not.

Your brows furrow in rage but your voice comes out in a hushed but cruel whisper. “Were you out rolling with the raccoons again?” You refer to the time he crashed one of Steve’s parties, maybe it was New Years; he got so wasted that he began befriending some raccoons out near the pool. He laid on the ground for at least two hours and nearly cried when they ran off, crushing whatever dream he had of either taking them home or whatever he was planning in his drunken state of mind. In any case, it was something everyone held over him, especially you on the rare occasion that you had to associate with him–so if he wanted to dick around at work and make your life hell (as if he hadn’t already done that) then you would throw anything you could at him to cause him grief. There was no playing nice.

The slightest hue of pink makes its way across his cheeks before he straightens his posture in a means to intimidate you. “Calm down there, Socks. Don’t get your panties in a twist over lil ol’ me.” His brow raises as if to challenge you. Your comment got to him–flustered him. He’s trying to hide it but you can detect the embarrassment seeping out of his pores, the hatred he has for the fact that he let his vulnerability slip out in his drunken haze that night and the look on your face indicating that you have the upperhand here.

Taking the lid off of your remaining hot chocolate gone cold, you slurp up the contents of the cup, a layer of the melty whip cream decorating your top lip as you give him a cocky glare. “Trust me, nobodies getting their panties in a twist over you, Munson.” You reply, checking around him to make sure no customers are listening in on the exchange.

His notorious grin takes over his features, dimples on full display and you could just kick him in his stupid teeth. Leaning in ever so slightly, his breath fans over your face, tobacco evident. One hand rests next to you on the counter, the other gripping his helmet. “Nice stache.” He whispers, tapping the counter twice before heading toward the back.

Nice stache? What kind of come back–oh. You gently bring your fingers up to your top lip, feeling the obvious whip cream sitting comfortably there and you feel your blood run hot in embarrassment as well as rage. What makes it worse is that he had nothing to do with it, it just happened and that gave him the upperhand in return. The universe or some higher power really it out for you and clearly wasn’t rooting for you in this war.

Tossing the cup angrily into the trash and wiping off your lip, a quiet groan escapes you, Eddie sauntering in actually wearing an apron today. Except it's littered in several pins and patches, some room in between to add more later on. “Do you even care that you’re–” You check the clock. “Twenty minutes late?!” You finish, still attempting to stay quiet enough that the remaining customer’s wouldn’t hear. “And–and your apron. Do you think you can do whatever you want?” You whisper yell furiously. A stupid question, you realize as it tumbles out of your mouth.

“Yes, actually. I’m a free man in a free country. What a foreign concept.” He says tying his hair back into a low bun, a few select pieces framing his face. “Why don’t you worry about yourself.” He snaps. “Also…” He begins with a point of his finger. “Who the hell drinks hot chocolate as someone who works in a coffee shop?” He mocks. You can’t help but glance at the glint that catches at his earlobe, a little silver hoop reflecting off the lights, something you otherwise wouldn’t notice if not for his hair being pulled back. You would dare to even call it cute if he wasn’t such a menace, an absolute barbarian that you vowed to never give the time of day to again and yet here you are, giving several hours of your life.

A scoff is earned from you while you cross your arms, leaning on one hip with sass. The attitude is there but you have no response to counter him. He stares at you expectantly and you come up with nothing but a mumble under your breath. “Caffeine makes me anxious.” He barely catches it, humming for you to repeat it again. “Hot chocolate doesn’t have caffeine in it, I try to limit my caffeine okay!?” You snap, still quiet enough to not draw attention.

Rolling his eyes, he seems to ignore your answer and strolls over to the front counter, reaching over and snatching up a ham and cheese sandwich without a care in the world, immediately tearing into it. You resist the urge to grab it right out of his hand and launch it across the room, instead opting to massage your temples with your fingers, taking deep breaths. It was either that or you’d have a homicide charge on your hands. Sure you also snuck sandwiches from the cooler however you were discrete and no one ever noticed. If Eddie kept it up, you’d get in trouble for his misbehavior.

“Do you want this job or not?” You sigh, trying to reason. He chews disgustingly on the sandwich, crumbs rolling down his chest. He shrugs. A scream is awaiting in your lungs, an unreleased scream of pent up rage for the immature boy towering over you. It doesn’t escape but it so desperately wants to. “Munson.” You grit your teeth, fists forming at your sides.

“Hmm?” He hums carelessly, scarfing down the remaining bites and tossing the wrapper into the trash.

Another deep breath, you try to clear your energy. “If we don’t at least cooperate here, I am out of a job and I cannot afford to be out of a job.” You plead with him, eyes becoming the slightest bit watery much to your distaste. It’s not on purpose, things are really just that bad.

“What? Did your trust fund run out?” He bites, and it hurts. Though it's not the most vile thing someone could say it pinches you and leaves behind a nagging pain. Trust fund? Who did he think you were?

“Excuse me?” You breathe out, stepping slightly closer to him, still on alert for any customers who might listen in but you’re still in the clear.

“Yeah, did mommy and daddy cut you off? Welcome to the real world.” His words are like knives cutting into your skin. They shouldn’t be, you know that. His words are meaningless to you–are they though? Where did he even come up with the idea that you came from any sort of wealth? Sure in high school you were stable enough but nowhere near Harrington wealthy. Was he referring to you living comfortably? If that's the case he would be elated to know that you had close to nothing these days. But you can’t give him that satisfaction.

Brushing off the interaction as if nothing was said, you grab the clipboard from one of the drawers to find where you left off in training last night and what boxes remained to be checked off. “So yesterday we learned cleaning procedures and counting the register. Today we pick up learning drink recipes.” You suck it up and push through. His words are nothing, he is nothing. A certain emotion flashes in his eyes when you glance up to scold him for not paying attention. You can’t put your finger on what it is but it must be some type of regret for taking this job, there’s something sadder to it though. He is nothing to me but a warning from the universe on what to stay away from.

–

“Okay so five pumps of caramel.” Eddie confirms with you, eyes drooping in boredom. The shop is now devoid of customers, the evening rush long gone as it was now 7:30 and you only expected to see maybe five more customers at most before closing, giving you ample time to stuff Eddie’s dumb brain with all the drink recipes possible so he could eventually do everything by himself and you’d no longer have to convene with him.

An exhale leaves your lungs while you rest your head in your hands on the counter, shaking your head. “No. Four. Four pumps of caramel. Four.” You reiterate, patience wearing thin. At least he wasn’t arguing with every word that left your mouth. “Let’s take a break from that one and try this one instead.” You advise, pushing a new recipe card in front of him. This one was for a simple iced mocha. “So for this one you start off with three pumps of chocolate and then two shots of espresso.” You instruct, eyes tired and the bags underneath them giving it away.

Eddie reaches for one of the syrups and before you can stop him, he’s pumping three pumps of hazelnut into the cup, your hand smacking your face in frustration. “Eddie, do you just not read the labels?” You question.

He fakes a laugh, shoving the syrup back into its place. “Do you just not read the labels?” He mocks in a high voice. Your patience is wavering but you know you just need to get through this. The sooner he finishes training, the sooner you will have peace and quiet.

“Try again.” You tell him, holding back all of the anger rattling in your bones. He rolls his eyes and grabs the correct syrup this time. Except as he pumps it into the cup, you find that his pumps are way too big, not like you taught him earlier. He’s pushing down too far. “Too far! You’re pumping too far, it’s too much!” You tell him as the bottom of the cup becomes filled too high with chocolate, practically taking up where the espresso should go.

“Okay, you are like the worst teacher ever.” He states while sloshing around the flavored syrup in the clear cup, coating it around the sides as it maneuvers in his hand.

A hand drags down your face and you swear you’ve lost years of your life just in the past two nights. “Train yourself then.” You slap your hand on the counter, making your way over to the book corner and taking a seat in your favorite spot near the window to gaze at the streetlights.

His face contorts in confusion as if he had no idea why you were giving up on him. “Fine.” He mutters, taking a look at the little card that had the instructions for an iced vanilla coffee concoction. He can’t stop himself from glancing over to you in the corner, the warm glow of the street lights embracing you like a blanket. And he can’t shy away from the pang of guilt in his chest. Yet he continues to find himself at your throat every time, and you at his rightfully so. At least you have reason to be, he’s just a pathetic excuse of emotions buried under skin that dug himself so deep into a hole over the years there was no way out and all he could do was what he did best–shove people away and just play the part that had always been assigned to him since birth.

The sudden wail of the blender has you jolting and looking over behind the counter only to find Eddie manning the machine. You were too beyond exhausted to care anymore. If he wanted to start making milkshakes in spite of you then so be it. Your sight continued to set on the glow of the streetlights over the sidewalk. It didn’t rain today or tonight thankfully since you’d have to walk home. As you close your eyes, you imagine the warmth of the lights engulfing you and bask in the heat of the shop, silently cursing your landlord for not being attentive to your broken heater, leaving you with chattering teeth every night. If you could sleep in the back room you would, however that would be an awkward conversation with Ronnie and the openers, Max and El who took on the earliest shift from 4:30AM to 8:30AM, when Robin and Steve would relieve them of their duties. It was funny how your whole group seemed to now run The Under-Ground but you couldn’t come up with a better team if you tried. Save for Eddie, you could definitely find someone a hundred times better and then you would have the perfect team.

You continued to wander around in your imagination, the blender coming to a halt but you were too lost to even open an eye. The sound of cups scattering on the counter had you wincing but not once leaving your mind, not yet. It was rare that you were able to just sit and not think about the stressors in your life. That relaxation is shattered when a cup is slammed down in front of you, the noise causing you to jump back in your seat, eyes flashing open only to be meant with a perfectly curated blended iced mocha, down to the whip cream and chocolate drizzle on top. Behind it stands Eddie with his arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes stuck on the drink and not your reaction. All you offer is a nod, hand wrapping around the cup as you push it back toward him across the dark wood. What did he want? An applause? He did his job, congratulations.

“Good?” He asks for approval, much to your surprise.

“Mhm.” You nod again, standing up and making your way back behind the counter, leaving him to stare at his creation. There was no way you would give him any type of praise even if he did make the drink without any flaws.

“You didn’t even taste it.” He continues to stare down at the beverage on the table, his voice monotone.

As you start to mark a few things off for inventory, pen gliding across the paper, you hold out your other hand, paying him no mind in any other manner. Reluctantly, he scoops up the drink and strides over, shoving it in your hand like a pissed off child. You take a sip and are impressed that it actually tastes good but rather than give him any kind of compliment, you offer another nod. He’s starting to hate that response and if he receives another nod from you he may pull his hair out. The cold condensation stings your palm so you set the drink down, again pushing it toward him without so much as a glance.

“Just admit it, Socks.” He starts, grabbing the mocha and licking the whip cream from the top. “I did good and you hate it. Oh but if King Steve or Robin made it you’d be falling at their feet.” His tone is low and his gaze is intense as he burns into your side profile.

Continuing to ignore him, you jot down a few notes on the inventory sheet for some things that Ronnie may need to order more of on the next shipment. He scoffs, beginning to walk away from you when you decide to speak up. “Steve and Robin didn’t make me hate myself.” You remind him. It’s as if time slowed down the moment you spoke, the way you let the words roll off your tongue so truthfully, as if those words were in the bible. Eddie wasn’t religious by any means but that’s how disastrous your words felt. Yet he still finds comfort in playing his part.

“I made you hate yourself?” He seethes. “I made you hate yourself.” He repeats gritting his teeth. He knows he shouldn’t let himself go any further, it's a bad idea and it's simply not true what he’s about to say. But he can’t stop himself from assuming his role, he doesn’t know any different. He shouldn’t venture into territory where he knows he can never return from. “Babe.” The name is far from its endearing meaning, its dripping in hostility, soaked in venom. “I never made you hate yourself, you did that just fine all on your own.” The moment the words pierce the air he knows he shouldn’t have said them because there wasn’t even the slightest hint of honesty. The ugliest parts of him jumped out and now he has to suffer the damages.

A swell of tears stings the backs of your eyes and you desperately suck them back, refusing to let him have this. Your fists clench as you drop the pen from your grasp, your side profile still facing him, him standing in your peripheral. Suddenly you're gripping the counter with white knuckles, slowly shifting your gaze to the cowardly man a few feet away. His mouth opens and closes as if trying to take back what he said but he’s coming to realize it isn’t an option. In all honesty, the way you look right now frightens him. There’s suddenly no emotion behind your gaze. And then you fire right back at him.

“I hope you hate yourself just as much as I hate myself. I hate you more than I hate myself.” It stings like a deep scrape after you’ve fallen off your bike as a child, the dirt wedging itself into the skin. Again, his mouth opens and closes but there’s nothing to respond with. This may be his last shift since you’re probably going to tell Ronnie that he did some kind of fucked up thing just to get him fired and Ronnie will believe you over him–of course he will. He deserves it. But it would also mean he’s back right where he started, no one wanting to hire him. The Munson name really carried its burdens. He already had a secure job during the day at the auto shop, Jax & Sons but he needed the extra income. The only reason Ronnie hired him at The Under-Ground was because the owner, Beth’s husband Sam, owned The Hideout and Eddie was at least welcome there with the other rejects most of the time. While The Hideout wasn’t hiring, Sam referred him to The Under-Ground and assured him he would put in a good word with his wife. They were too good to him and he was starting to regret their kindness toward him, he deserved to be run over and have the shit kicked out of him.

No further words were spoken the rest of the night. Eddie was handed the clip board with the checklist for training, a silent demand that he train himself the rest of the shift while you occupied yourself with finishing some inventory, cleaning, and serving the few customers that came in. He quietly figured things out, familiarizing himself with the ingredients and learning quicker than he thought. Whenever he had a question, he refrained and decided he’d either ask you at a later time or eventually sort it out on his own. He should quit but there weren’t any other options if he wanted to keep himself fed and continue saving up to get out of Hawkins. Nowhere else was going to hire him, especially for the night shift. He was lucky they even trusted him to close with a girl though Sam seemed to put the rumors about him to rest if his wife and Ronnie had anything to hold against him and he would forever be grateful although now he didn’t feel he deserved that grace even if he was an innocent man that never amounted to the things his dad did.

–

Night after night for the remainder of the week, the evening shift was filled with tension and bruised feelings. If you had to so much as speak to Eddie it would be short and to the point, no sugarcoating. Each time you instructed him to clean something or do a task he would roll his eyes but oblige. He was the least of your problems and you were going to make sure it stayed that way. His training was almost complete and he was starting to pick up on a rhythm which meant you wouldn’t have to engage with him nearly as much. By Friday you’d fallen into a routine and while not in the best of circumstances, it was fine since not a whole lot of arguing happened since the previous incident.

You would attend to the customers with a friendly smile and a higher than your normal octave voice as usual and he would be his sarcastic self while also seeming to charm people with his damn dimples. Ronnie didn’t appear to be phased by all the pins and patches that adorned Eddie’s apron when he made an appearance randomly yesterday, to your dissatisfaction. You guess as long as none of them had anything offensive then he left him alone. Why did you care anyway? You didn’t.

The evening swarm of coffee addicts had arrived and you churned out drinks left and right, earning tips with the help of your perky attitude that you’d learn to put on over time. It aggravated you that Eddie had no issue charming his way into bigger tips, it’s like he was a professional. Some patrons would give him nasty looks while others, particularly the older moms who you’d definitely seen with a husband at some point, would pay him extra attention and drop larger bills into the tip jar while flipping their hair and lingering around longer than necessary. It made your stomach churn. Regardless, you continued to put on a smile and work through the rush, hoping by the end of the night the tips split up would give you a little bit of extra rent money to save for next month. It wasn’t like you were in a position to save money, living paycheck to paycheck but something had to give and you needed that cushion so you actually had a place to live.

As the night winded down and people were heading home, neglecting the coffee shop until early in the morning, you took a rag to the tables to clean and straighten up while Eddie obnoxiously banged on the espresso machine that had been giving everyone a hard time all week, periodically getting stuck and then spewing espresso everywhere. “Fuckin’ piece of shit machine.” He mutters, trying to pry off the panel to get a look inside at the machinery.

Not wanting to be responsible for a five hundred dollar machine broken by none other than your jackass coworker, you decide to step in, shouting over to him. “Would you knock it off? We have someone who comes in to fix the machines and I’m not going to be responsible–” A loud clank of metal stops you as Eddie jiggles a screwdriver you weren’t even sure how he found in the machine. He pries the screwdriver into the machine as if trying to loosen something stuck in the gears, succeeding when a few coffee beans fly out and fall to the floor, a shit eating grin on his face.

“Fixed it.” He confirms, shutting the panel and running the machine with a test shot of espresso, the liquid coming out smoothly rather than spraying him in the face. You shake your head, choosing to keep your mouth shut. If anything bad happens with the machine you didn’t see it and it wasn’t your fault. You were not an accomplice if it malfunctioned on his watch.

Eddie glances over at you now sweeping up under one of the tables, somewhat disappointed that you won’t revel in his victory over the machine but also remembering the atmosphere he created from the very beginning, never deserving your positive attention in the first place. It was 8:00PM, only an hour away from closing and the college students who had occupied the tables earlier were no longer around, the only sounds being the upbeat jazz music playing from the speakers. He sparked an idea.

Jogging to the back room where his eye caught the music system the very first day, he starts messing around with it, fingers searching in the back where his eyes can’t see behind the wall for a wire. Biting his lip in concentration, he locates it with a triumphant hum.

Too overcome with sweeping the floors clean, you only notice Eddie is no longer in the room when a shrieking guitar blares through the shop’s speakers, leaving you covering your ears and dropping the broom with a smack to the ground. It’s some kind of metal song that you’ve possibly heard before but wouldn’t be able to recall the name. Before you can map out your next moves, Eddie appears in the doorway to the back, grinning ear to ear genuinely. “I hacked the stereo, how sick is that?” He goes back to his spot behind the counter, head banging away.

“Shut it off!” You yell over the noise. Either he pretends not to hear you or he really can’t hear you over how loud it is. Now you’re afraid that some of the neighboring businesses will call the cops or something and it’s on your dime. “Eddie!” You shout once again with no reaction from him. You take the initiative and scurry into the back, finding the stereo system with a wire coming out of it and Eddie’s phone plugged in. You scowl and unplug it, killing all sound, an offended “what the fuck!” heard from the front of the shop as you soothe your ear drums in the quiet.

He starts to make his way toward the back only to be stopped by you nearly running him over as you walk with a purpose back out to finish cleaning. “Um, excuse you?” He gestures your way as if you’d stepped on his ego.

The broom is picked back up from its spot on the floor and you finish off by sweeping the remaining dirt into the dust pan, not responding. When you look up again, he’s not there and you know he’s definitely gone to the back to plug his phone back in. Your suspicions are confirmed when the riff is taking over the speakers once again, drums pounding through the sound system. A groan emerges from deep within you as you empty the dust pan into the trash. There was no winning with him, he always pushed back and you had no energy to keep up. As he emerges from the back again, he doesn’t even look in your direction.

“Can you at least turn it down!?” You yell over the music, hoping he would find some kind of humility within himself so you didn’t go home with a headache. It wasn’t just that it was too loud, it was overwhelming, your anxiety was spiking and no matter how much you breathed and told yourself to calm down, the volume of the song playing had your heart rate beating faster than you felt it could even keep up with. Eddie continues ignoring you, and you know damn well that he heard your request since you were close enough, standing just a few feet away. You swallowed hard as you attempted to keep your cool, keep your nervous system in check. I’m okay, I’m okay, nothing is going to happen.

And there was no reason to believe anything bad would happen but your brain was screaming at you that the escalation of the metal riff playing was a warning signal and you couldn’t talk yourself off the ledge. As much as you tried to contain your breathing and keep it steady, it became erratic as you stumbled over to one of the tables and thankfully made it into a chair. Your elbows rested on the table top while you covered your ears in an attempt to muffle the suddenly overwhelming sound that wouldn’t otherwise bother you had it not taken you by surprise earlier and had the volume not been set the highest the speakers allowed.

The world around you blurred out while you seemed to fall apart because of a stupid issue you had with loud sounds that caught you off guard. You couldn’t think straight, you couldn’t even think to just run to the back and unplug it again. You didn’t even register that there were hands waving in front of you and a pair of big brown eyes worriedly looking at you. His lips were moving but there was no way to understand what was being said in this state. And then he was gone from your vision as you choked on a breath caught in your throat. You were about to make a run for the door just to get your bearings back when the room went silent and suddenly things started to slowly become clear again. When you turn your body in your seat toward the back, Eddie stands there with a shocked expression painted on his face, mouth dropped open.

“I—I didn’t—I’m—I—“ For probably the first time ever Eddie Munson is speechless. No quirky comments, no stupid jokes, just stuttering. Your breathing, while a lot better now, is still heavy as you recover from the sudden panic. “I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have—“ Before he can continue rambling you save him the energy.

“Just—leave it.” You demand, putting a hand up to signal him to stop. A warning to never mention it again. He owed you that much.

Then he goes on to do something you’d never expect. He makes his way to the table you’ve sat yourself at and pulls out a chair, sitting across from you. “Are you okay?” He asks, eyes wide and concerned, hands clasped together on top of the table as he fidgets with his clunky rings. What the fuck did he care? He’d jump at any chance to see you upset, why was right now any different?

All you can do is look at him in distress, displaying how you felt on your face and in your body language. “Oka—does it look like I’m okay?!” You respond, throwing your arms up before they fall back into your lap. Your outburst quickly dwindles, a shyer demeanor taking over as you both linger in the quiet, in the aftermath of what he believes may have been an anxiety attack. “I’m—I'm fine.” You finally decide, standing and acting as if nothing just happened, taking your place behind the counter. Eddie looks dumbfounded, unsure of any of his next moves so as to keep the peace for once in his fucking life. He’d experienced lots of trauma before but never had to come face to face with the kind of terror that took over your face, never experienced being on the other end of the turmoil. While he’s sure he’s gone through what you just had except with other triggers, there was not one idea in his head about how to approach the situation, how he would dare to even console you if that’s all you really needed. In a sense, he’s a tad grateful that you seemed to snap out of it on your own but that also makes him feel like the most terrible person on planet earth. What kind of man was he if not some duplicate of his dad like everyone says and like he feels he’s doomed to be? He had been in your shoes before, experienced the true fear you held in your body and no one was there for him. So when he was there fully capable of providing some kind of comfort, he did nothing and suddenly he was his dad. In his mind he was his dad, doing nothing, helping no one but himself.

Suddenly he felt like he was 12 years old again, sinking in on himself but before he could be pulled any deeper he shot up and rapidly blinked his eyes. And you were there perfectly normal, trying to sneakily set aside a sandwich for yourself but it didn’t go unnoticed, it’s not like he cared though. Had he become this big of a fuck up without realizing it? He was no better than the man that abandoned him at 12, he genuinely believed he was on the same path as the man that single handedly tore his son’s life apart, who raised him in a crack house until things got too complicated and left only to be arrested 48 hours later. Eddie had to stop thinking, he was pulling himself down again, an anchor might as well be tied to his ankle.

“I—I need a break.” He exhales, not listening if you had any protests which you didn’t, you just tuned him out as the bell on the door jingled and he stopped outside for a cigarette. Who smokes cigarettes anymore? You wonder. Well you answer your own question when you remember the hick town you live in, many people still smoked cigarettes out here but most of them were older. It was now around 8:45PM, almost time to go home to try and knock out in the chill stale air of your room. The bell above the door rings again and you glance up but don’t find Eddie and instead meet the vibrant blue eyes of Jason Carver. While not a close friend, you’d known each other throughout high school and had a few mutual friends and even found yourselves in some of the same study groups during finals.

“Hey!” He greets you like an old friend, a smile on his face, his bright white teeth glimmering in the light.

“Jason! I thought you were away for college in Boston.” You say, remembering that he was able to escape this small town and move onto bigger things. Of course he was, his family had everything lined up for him. He stuck to his plan and it seemed to be going well for him. Something you wish you could say for yourself but you never even had a plan if you’re honest.

“Yeah, I’m just in town for the week. I flew in earlier today. My grandmas sick so you know…” He doesn’t finish the sentence and doesn’t have to for you to understand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” You sympathize with him.

“No, it’s okay. This has happened a few times, it just seems like this might be it.” He tells you with a sad nod of his head. “Anyway, is that Eddie Munson outside?” He asks, changing the subject. You almost roll your eyes at his name but quickly remember how many fights the two had been in previously, usually Eddie walking away with no more than a black eye or a busted lip and Jason always looking worse. You don’t want to encourage another here tonight so you just nod, shyly avoiding Jason’s gaze. “Hey, is that freak bothering you while you work? Is he harassing you?” He starts to sound like he’s getting worked up, the opposite of your intention. Jason was always super forward especially when he was agitated which is why you always gravitated away from him. He’d always put on a sweet front but then come out with pure anger the moment he heard something he didn’t like.

“No!” You blurt out, unsure of why you’re even protecting Eddie in any way. Maybe it’s the fact that while you do hate Eddie with every nerve ending in your body, Jason only hates him for being everything he’s not. For not being popular, not engaging in sports, not going to church. None of those are why you hated Eddie but Jason had this bottled up rage toward him and you had the smallest inkling that he was envious in some weird way of the metalhead. “No, he’s not bothering me. He just works here and he’s on break. He doesn’t even talk to me.” You try to talk him down. Jason looks at you with suspicion, not fully believing you. Why you were even explaining yourself to him was beyond you.

Reluctantly, he drops it and continues on with the small talk which you find yourself growing bored of. Jason was turning out to be someone that reminded you of your parents, fairly conservative and tightly wound up. In high school he was a bit more laid back but it seems that whatever college he goes to has morphed him into another stereotypical white guy. The conversation couldn’t end soon enough for you as he started getting into a story about his frat house. You tried to hide your distaste but the air just felt sour. Not once did he even ask what you’d been up to, immediately going off about himself. As if he could read your mind, the bell above the door is heard and Eddie slowly walks back in, his face twisted in a scowl.

Jason looks toward him at the sound of the bell, freezing to stare him down as if it would intimidate him. Did he forget the several times Eddie handed his ass to him? If this was going to happen again right now, it was guaranteed that with Eddie being a man now, he’d have no problem taking him down. Jason was a man now too and while he had muscle from what you could see peeking out from under the sleeve of his polo, Eddie had grit and there was no way to go against that.

“Munson.” Jason greets with a nod of his head, a fake smile on his face. Eddie offers no greeting in return, only a glare as he makes his way back behind the counter.

“Anyway, it was great catching up with you.” Jason directs his attention back to you. “We should hang out while I’m in town. Here’s my number.” He says cockily, using a nearby pen to scribble on one of the shop’s business cards, placing it in your hand.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, um. Okay.” You respond with uncertainty. The number would be tossed aside the moment he stepped out the door but you appeased him the best you could while he stood in front of you. As he backs up toward the door, he shoots you a wink. While he thinks butterflies are fluttering within you right now, you’re actually internally cringing. And with that, he was gone, finally. You piece together that he hadn’t even purchased a coffee. The more you think about it, he may as well have pissed on you in an attempt to assert dominance over Eddie. Men were stupid creatures.

Eddie huffs out a laugh as he doodles on his hand, nothing left to do besides leave and lock up. You pay him no mind while you begin to quickly count the drawer so you’d be able to leave on time. “Fuckin’ tool.” Eddie mumbles to himself.

While you agree, you don’t want to give him any satisfaction so you continue counting the money. Finding that everything is accounted for, you lock up the drawer and grab your bag from the back while Eddie silently does the same. You meet at the door in some unspoken agreement, him holding the door as you step out into the chill air, turning to shut the door and lock it while he puts his motorcycle helmet on and walks over, straddling his bike. As you shove the keys back into your bag and start your journey home, he clears his throat. “Watch out for Carver. He’s not all sparkles and sunshine.” He says revving his bike. Who was he to tell you what to do? Though you had no interest in Jason whatsoever, you weren’t going to let Eddie tell you what to do, he was the last person on earth you would listen to.

“Oh, I’m sorry? I could say the same about you. You don’t get to tell me who to watch out for.” You step closer toward the bike, a hand on your hip while the nagging cold pinches at your skin. If your jaw was tightened it was both out of anger and due to the cold.

“Listen, Socks–”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap.

“I’m serious, Carver–” His voice is muffled under the helmet.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve trying to tell me what I can and can’t do, Munson.” You’re trying to get in his face somewhat but it's hard and a little humiliating when you can only see a reflection of yourself in his visor.

“When something happens you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He points a finger at you sternly.

“Oh! My hero!” You say with sarcasm laced in the words. “I don’t need some drop out lecturing me about what I do or who I associate with in my free time.” The insult shouldn’t affect him, he’s been called every name in the book. But it does, for some reason it does.

“Do whatever the hell you want.” You can’t see his face under the helmet but if you could you knew he’d be clenching his teeth and flexing his jaw by the way he said it. In seconds he speeds away, bike screeching annoyingly down the street.

It had been a long day. A long week even. The only silver lining was that tomorrow was your Friday and after that you’d have at least one day to not think about work and Eddie Munson’s stupid attitude. The shop was closed on Sundays and though it wasn’t very enticing to think about sitting in your room catching up on homework, it was far better than having to argue with the equivalent of a stubborn six year old in a man’s body.

Eddie on the other hand was feeling things he’d never experienced before. There was this persistent worry in the back of his mind that he didn’t know what to do with. His emotions had been gathered up and thrown into the wind so suddenly and he was struggling to grasp every single one so he could tuck it away again. And you only angered him beyond comprehension, even if he deserved every venomous word thrown his way, he couldn’t deny that you provoked him in ways no other human has. The way you had no issue with telling him off but let Jason talk over you made his blood boil. It was none of his business, genuinely. That’s what he told himself but deep down he knew it was his business the second Jason flashed that fake smile at him that said everything.

~end~

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tags - @mmunson86 @haylaansmi @batkin028 @obscureenigmatic

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson series

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