#yeah i definitely improved so that's nice to see! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mockerycrow · 8 months

Text

UNDER THE SURFACE (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist — ghost icon by @yumethefrostypanda concept post here!

authors note; this is not my best work tbh, i wish i could improve it somehow, but i’m hoping you guys will like it anyway. Pretty sure this is my longest singular post, too! 4.7k words :-)

[WARNINGS: angst, spiraling thoughts, near panic attack, hurt/comfort, inaccurate medical stuff, vague descriptions of physical violence, very brief mention of possible self harm.]

YOU WERE USED to Simon being gone for long periods of time; you have been his roommate for two years now, nearly three. You know he’s military, it’s part of the reason why you were able to score being his roommate in the first place. At first, it was a very awkward arrangement. Simon himself wasn’t a very awkward person, no—he’s actually quite charismatic in his own way, a way that you could get along with. One of the reasons why the arrangement was strange at first was because you weren’t exactly able to get a one on one tour of the flat before agreeing, but you were a bit more trusting of this mysterious man because a mutual friend—Kate—sent you his contact information, considering you were looking for a new place to live since your lease was up.

Simon’s flat was void of any personality, really. Yes, you could tell by the way he organized everything that he had been in the military, probably for quite a while—but there weren’t any photos. No gaming systems; you discovered he did have a bookcase of quite a few books, but it was covered in a layer of dust. Despite this, when examining the books he owned, you could tell they were worn down—definitely loved. It made you smile a bit, seeing the different variety of books. A bit of personality, you think. Besides his room, it was like a completely furnished, no personality flat. You weren’t allowed in his room, not unless he gave you explicit permission, which you honored his boundaries. Simon was kind enough to offer you a space in his home—but you know he was quite weary of you, which was understandable. He helped you move in and you could tell he was watching you and your body language. Searching you for danger—but he slowly warmed up to you.

Another thing that you discovered that Simon was quite emotionally.. constipated. Over the first few months, you could tell he didn’t sleep as much as he probably should. He was always awake before you, and you would always find him in the kitchen, sipping on a hot cup of tea. After a few weeks of this routine—Simon rising much earlier than you, you figured maybe he couldn’t break the military’s strict routines.. Until one night you woke up from the sound of his heavy footsteps walking down the hall. You tensed in your bed and you sat up because Simon was silent as a ghost all the time. You didn’t even know if it was him at first, so in your half-asleep panicked state, you felt for your phone and you texted Simon’s contact, asking a messily texted “is that you walking around?” You blink your sleepiness away and wipe your eye as your phone vibrates with a “yeah. sorry.”

That was the first time you got some notion that Simon was thrown off guard from something, after another week of awakening from his noises, you began to realize that he was experiencing night terrors every couple of nights. His nightmares were never a thing you two discussed, exactly.. It was more of an unspoken rule to not talk about it. You would occasionally find yourself in the kitchen around the time you calculated when Simon would wake up—and you were right nearly every time—and you just.. coincidentally made him a cup of tea. To Simon’s pleasant surprise, you managed to get his tea right every single time. You’ve had your fair share of night terrors, so you knew how it could be sometimes. You wanted to do something nice for him, and he seemed flustered every time.

It took you a while to get used to him being gone for long periods of time. Simon appreciated that you never questioned too deeply into his career, even the times he would come home sporting a new injury, you were always willing to play doctor for him. Simon saw the concern in your eyes and sometimes he would share small stories of what happened, or maybe to get you to stop thinking about his injuries, a small story about his teammates. You slowly learned their names over the course of a year and a half, and you learned Simon’s rank as well. He is a lieutenant, and there’s a man called Captain Price, another man named Sergeant Kyle Garrick, and one more man named Sergeant John MacTavish, who Simon referred to as “Johnny” fondly.

It wasn’t common that Simon talked about work, which is the reason why it took about a year and a half to even get the information you did out of him. Over the time you’ve lived with him, you had decorated the flat to feel more comfortable and home-y. Simon only had a few requests, which you honored, and one of them was no pictures of him with his face showing. You shot him a curious and questioning look, but as always—you didn’t question him, and he was very thankful. You had gotten a few indoor plants as well that didn’t need much caring for and you wanted to liven up the place, y’know? You were okay with Simon not sharing much about his past or his work, because he was willing to listen to your little rambles about your interests and work. You were a bit hesitant, but Simon was very emotive and he never seemed annoyed or brushed you off.

Despite Simon’s reluctance to share anything of his own, he always heard you out if you needed to vent about something. He made sure you knew you could talk to him, even on days where you felt like you had no one to go to. You spent an entire night with him, just talking about anything and everything. It was the first real conversation you felt like you have had with anyone in such a long time. It was also the first night Simon really saw you. He watched as your eyebrows furrowed from uncomfortableness, the vulnerability being nearly too much to handle; something he could relate to on a personal level. So when you started showing these signs, he knew exactly when to change the subject. Simon quickly realized how to read you, and he somehow knew what you needed at different moments.

Simon flies into the airport late at night with a small duffel bag, tagged as a military bag. He sends you a quick “be home soon.” text. Simon doesn’t expect you to answer due to it being around 3 in the morning, and you indeed don’t answer him. He catches a taxi to your shared flat. Simon collects his things from the taxi before paying the driver and sending them off, and Simon lets out a slow breath as he takes in the achingly familiar sight of the place he lives in. He tugs the hood that remains sitting over his head closer to his face, which is covered by a black surgical mask. His hand tightens on the straps of the duffel bag before he approaches the flat building, taking out his keys as he approaches the elevator. Once Simon reaches the third floor, he wastes no time getting to the front door, and he isn’t sure why, but his heart is pounding inside of his chest.

Simon unlocks both the top lock and the doorknob to enter the flat—something he had taught you to do every single time. He pockets his keys as he enters and Simon pauses for a moment because he can’t put his finger on it, but something feels off the second he glanced inside. His eyes trail the living room which is clean, not one thing out of place. Simon takes a deep breath and he doesn’t brush off the weird feeling, because even when there’s no evidence something happened—he’s usually right. The blanket on the couch is perfectly folded and laid over the back cushions, the mini bookcase by the TV is dusted as always, your shoes.. Are not by the front door, but a different pair are..? These either are not your shoes, or they are new. You always warned Simon about bringing people over, and you definitely would’ve told him this time. The lamp is on in the living room, but it seems the lights are out everywhere else. Simon silently goes through his routine when he gets back late at night—taking his jacket off and hanging it up, he leaves his boots by the door, and he drops his keys into the dish.

Next step to his routine is to step into the kitchen and get a cup of actually good quality tea, unlike the shit the military provides him. He fills up the electric kettle and sets a timer on it, grabbing his favorite mug and the box of his favorite tea from the cabinets. Simon glances down the dark hall—he’s seeking for a sign of life from you because you’re usually getting up around this time to greet him. No matter what, you always seem to know when he returns—yet you aren’t leaving your room. There’s no light emitting from the hall nor underneath the doors, and fuck, it’s eating at him. Something is wrong—and what the fuck is it? Simon stands there for a moment, turning his head to watch the blue light blinking on the electric kettle. He watches it blink slowly as he tries to rack his brain for what could be wrong—maybe those shoes are someone else’s, but he could just have a stern conversation with you about it later. Maybe you came back from drinking with friends—no, if that was the case, he knows for a fact your belongings would be everywhere, maybe even a spilled glass of water in the kitchen. He’s had to clean that up a couple of times.

He raises his wrist and pulls up his sleeve a bit to look at his digital watch; it’s nearly 0400 now. Simon puts his hands on the counter, leaning his body weight against it. Did something happen at work, maybe that’s why it feels off? You’ve always had a commanding presence like he has, so maybe— “Fuck.” Simon hisses quietly, hooking a finger into the strap of his black face mask and he rips it off, tossing it without care onto the counter. He leans forward and checks the kettles timer for a second, and then he’s walking towards the hall. Simon passes by his room and he walks up to yours, and he tries to turn the doorknob to peak in to check on you, but—it’s locked? Simon lets out a harsh breath before trying the door again, and yeah, it’s locked. Simon swears under his breath and he knocks on the door, his stomach twisting and turning. Something is wrong, very very wrong, very fucking wrong—

You unlock the door and you open it just enough for you to peak out, and you use your phone flashlight to shine it in Simon’s face. He squints and puts his hand up, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Hey—you locked your door.” He points out quietly, and you’re just staring at him, your eyes wide and alert. Simon’s anxiety lessens, but your reaction doesn’t make it go away. “Y’alright?” Simon drawls out, his hand on the wood panel of the door. You let out a harsh breath and you let go of your phone, letting out a quiet, “Simon..” before you suddenly pull your door completely open, and you wrap your arms around his thick torso into a hug. Simon swears his heart jumps into his throat and then into his stomach, bouncing back into his chest because you hugged him. You two were never particularly touchy like that, maybe a fleeting touch here or two, usual drunken affection from you—but you barely ever hugged him like this, even when he returned from deployments. Your touch burns hot through his clothes, and he knows you wouldn’t touch him without asking, so when you do? He wraps an arm around you, his free arm resting on your shoulder. “Hey..” Simon breathes out, lost for words.

You don’t hold on long enough for the uncomfortable worry to creep up his spine just yet. You rip yourself away from him like he burned you, his hands falling to his sides. You offer a tight, weak smile—one that you could easily play off as a sign of fatigue. Simon’s breath stutters as he watches your hands linger near your chest in a subconscious defensive gesture, your fingers closing into a fist for a moment; as if you’re uncomfortable, almost overstimulated. Simon feels the way for the light switch and he flips it on, and your room looks normal—but you look.. off. You look a bit clammy, almost like you’re sick or bouncing off the walls with anxiety. His eyes flick to your fingers and the skin besides your thumbnail and your middle finger are picked to all hell, and you just.. don’t seem right. All of these.. signs, you’re showing are actually very subtle—he just notices everything about you. Simon knows what food you favor, what your favorite color is, what social situations what you tick, what makes you mad—he knows it all. “Three months went by slow,” You murmur, trying to start a conversation. Simon’s eyes narrow at you for a moment as he watches you back up to your bed; no, you don’t turn around, you back up. You don’t turn your back to Simon at all. Fuck. He watches you lift your mattress, causing him to lift an eyebrow. “They did,” Simon confirms. “What happened while I was gone?”

This wasn’t an unusual question for Simon to ask; but it had a completely different meaning to you this time. You feel your muscles tense as you grab something from under your mattress, and you put it back down. It glints from the overhead light in your bedroom—a.. pocket knife of some sort, a switchblade perhaps. Simon’s eyes narrow at how you pocket it oh so quickly into your pocket. “Nothing much,” You reply quickly, smoothing out your shirt. “Same old same old, work has been fine, uh..” You trail off for a moment, clearing your throat. “Look, let me take a shower—I’m sure you’re itching for something to eat, huh?” Simon watches you open your drawers and pick out some pants and a shirt. The knife comes to mind—why are you taking it with you? “I can make it myself.” Simon responds, his feet planted firmly where he had been standing the whole time. You shake your head and close the drawers once you collect your clothes.

“It’s tradition, Simon. I gotta.” You offer a stronger smile as you make your way towards the door, still avoiding showing your back towards him. Simon watches as you glance at your bedroom window before exiting your room, muttering a quiet “close the door when you leave”, which Simon obeys. He shuts the door with a click, and he watches you quickly scurry down the hall towards the bathroom. “Just let me shower first.” And with that, you step into the bathroom, close the door and you lock it before Simon can interject. He stands there for a moment, stunned. His chest tightens for a moment because you just felt so far away. You’ve created such unwanted distance—even as you’re not very touchy with him, you still bother him for every detail he’s willing to give up when he returns. You are constantly making jokes, inviting him into the kitchen when you’re about to make a welcome home meal—but this time? You were hiding in your room, locking your door, bringing a knife with you—in front of him. Did you think that could slip past him? Did something happen whilst he was gone, to cause you to bring it with you? Is it for self defense against something or someone?— Is it to use on yourself?

Simon feels his stomach turn at his thoughts. He shakes his head and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He walks past the bathroom, his footsteps stuttering for a moment in front of the door before he presses his lips into a thin line, returning to the kitchen to make himself some tea, the electric kettle had beeped long ago.

The next late morning, not much was different. Simon only slept a few hours, three or four—as per usual, he still woke up before you. He threw on a pair of sweatpants, and a black hoodie. He made his tea, made you a cup of what you prefer to drink in the morning, and he made a light breakfast for you both. Despite being in the military for a while and relying on cooks as well as MRE’s to get through his days, Simon is a decent cook. He made himself some sausage and fried eggs, and he made a plate or a bowl of what you prefer to eat in the morning. Simon sighs for a moment as he glances at the time—around 1100, and you still haven’t emerged from your room which is odd, especially now that Simon just came back home. He takes a moment to look at his food, and he decides then and there he will drag you out if he has to. Simon scoops up his plate as well as your food, and he heads down the hall towards your room. With his hands full, Simon balances for a second as he gently kicks the door as a way to knock, and then he stands on both of his feet again. “Oi, wake up!” Simon shouts, leaning close to the door to listen for your movement.

It takes a good minute and when Simon is about to knock again; he hears your doorknob unlock and you peak out the door, your eyes wide and alert again, although it’s obvious you had just woken up. You seem to relax when your tired mind’s gears turn and you realize it’s just Simon. You open your door wider and you rub your eye, and he spots the knife in your hand, partially obscured by the door. “Mm, sorry. I overslept.” You say, your voice heavy with sleep, vibrating in your chest. Simon makes a noncommittal noise before holding out your food, which you stare at for a moment you take it, your lips twitching into a weak smile. “Thanks, Simon.” He waits a few seconds, and you nearly shut your door on him.

Thanks, Simon. That’s all??

“Can I eat in your room wit’you?” Simon gruffs out, feeling sudden determination from this weird act you have going on. You blink for a moment and then you nod. “Just give me a sec.” You murmur. You shut the door in his face and he hears you shuffling about, moving something—sounds like your mattress. Are you putting your knife away??—and then you open your door, gesturing for Simon to walk into your room. Surely you don’t think you can hide this type of thing from him of all people, right? Why are you hiding it from him?

Simon enters your room, and you close the door behind him. You never used to do that—“What happened?” Simon stares at you for an answer, watching your face contort in a bit of confusion. You don’t say anything at first, and when you were about to open your mouth, Simon speaks. “I mean this in the nicest way possible—do ya take me f’a wanker?” Your jaw drops for a moment, your eyebrows furrowing. “What? No, of course not, Simon. Nothing happened, I’m not sure why—“

“Don’t,” Simon interrupts, putting his plate of food on your dresser. “Something has happened, and you’re lyin’ to me. You’re jumpy, you’re carryin’ a blood knife around, lovie—don’t think you can get that past me—and you won’t turn your back on me.” His lips press into a line as he watches your shoulder hunch up a bit, in an all too familiar defensive, tense position. The pit in Simon’s stomach begins to grow as you avert your eyes from, too. “You are barely talkin’ when you bloody damn near talk my ear off when I come home—you said, ‘Thanks, Simon.’ Not an over the top reaction about me doing something for th’both of’us, not a invite in, and last night—you’ve been locking your door.” You put your food down near yourself, and Simon catches the way your fingers are trembling. “I.. I’m allowed to lock my door, Simon. You don’t need to question me.” You say, attempting to hold a steady voice which barely works, your voice nearly cracking on the last word. Your heart is racing out of your chest and all you want to do is bolt at the door; which Simon catches on to. You watch him as he slowly begins to step in front of the door. “You tell me everything—even how your damn showers go. Why won’t you tell me this?” He demands, and his heart is pounding against his ribcage, too.

He watches your face contort into several different emotions and feelings; panic, sadness, anger, relief—the whole nine yards. Simon walks towards you when you begin to sob, and you sit down on your bed to avoid collapsing. His chest tightens as he murmurs name, wondering if he went too far. You reach your hands for him and not for one second does Simon hesitate this time. He wraps his arms around you, sitting right next to you on your mattress, your thighs touching together. He reaches up and rubs the nape of your neck as you openly sob and shutter into the crook of his neck and in his arms. His skin burns from your heat seeping into his clothes, a lively warmth that burns so hot but he welcomes so much more than he remembers that he used to. Your tears are hot, burning his skin with every drop that slides onto his neck, but he welcomes the sensation. “It’s alright, lovie. Let it out.” Simon murmurs, one of his arms tugging your body closer to his. He holds you in almost protective stance, like someone is threatening to drag you away from his grasp. You grab at the back of his hoodie, your chest beginning to heave. “Mm, no, c’mere; look at me, yeah?” Simon beckons you, his voice smooth and soft—which is extremely rare. Simon cups your cheek and lifts your head from where it rests in the crook of his neck, his hand instantly getting covered in the wetness of your tears that are streaming down your cheeks. You inhale sharply as you try to look at Simon, your eyes unfocused and you try so hard to focus on his pretty brown eyes, but you can’t seem to get ahold of yourself. You let out a panicked sob as your hand now tug on the front of his hoodie, and his voice is so far away, but his hand is molding to the curve of your jaw, like it belongs there.

You shut your eyes for a moment and you let Simon move you around as he wants, which he ends up guiding your head to his chest, and his grip loosens some so you don’t feel trapped. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, to catch your bearings; you can hear a faint ringing sound that you didn’t notice before, but you do note it’s slowly fading away, and in fades is Simon’s voice. He’s murmuring praises—and oh, he’s laying against the headboard of your bed frame now, with you laying on his chest. You feel yourself trembling against him, and embarrassment hits you hard. You’re tense—you don’t want to talk about any of it at all, but you know Simon. He will push you until you snap, even if it’s in your best interest to tell him. You reach up and play with a hoodie string of his, listening to his soft breathing. You hesitate for a moment before your lips part. “It was a week after you left.” Simon’s heart skips a beat, which you hear—you vaguely find it amusing, but he’s silent to allow you to continue. One of his hands is on your back, his thumb moving back and forth. “I..” You swallow spit so you don’t croak, as you’re convinced you might sound pathetic. As if Simon would ever think of you that way. “I was walking home from the pub, y’know, the one only just a few blocks away? It was late at night, I think the police said it was around 2 am. I stayed until closing, I was with some of my friends, uh..” You trail off for a moment, trying to recall everything that happened. Your hand pauses, and Simon senses your state. He begins to rub your back full on, murmuring, “It’s alright. Go on, then.”

You let out a shaky breath before continuing. “I was absolutely wasted, and there was this guy—grabbed me and I tried to get out of his hold, but he ended up fucking stabbing me. Robbed me of my shit.” Your voice cracks and the silence is deafening. Simon feels his heart drop into his stomach. You got stabbed? “Fuckin’ hell.. Why didn’t you call me? Or at least let me know?” Simon’s voice treats carefully, knowing that you’re still freaking out by the way you’re incredibly tense against him. “I know how important your focus is when you’re gone,” You respond, your voice staying quiet as well. You don’t look at Simon’s face because you know that you’ll break once again. You pick at the fabric of his hoodie, seeking comfort in his warmth, despite how you usually aren’t like this with him. “I didn’t want to take your focus because I know you, Simon. You would’ve backed out of whatever you were trying to do to come and help me.” Simon presses his lips into a thin line, staying quiet because you both know that you’re correct. Simon would drop everything to come home to you, to help you. “The guy nicked my lung, was in the hospital for a while.” Simon’s hand stutters for a moment, the smooth pattern of his palm rubbing your back being interrupted from shock. “Jesus—“ Simon hisses, and he can’t help but tug you closer. “You should’ve told me anyway, lovie.”

You sniffle and you rub your face into his hoodie, a muffled noncommittal noise coming from the back of your throat. He doesn’t say anything further, nor do you. Simon lays there with you on top of him, one of his hands caressing your back, the other wrapped around your body, sometimes coming up to rub the back of your neck. You don’t mention the way he doesn’t seem to tell you to move, and he doesn’t mention how touchy you’re being. Simon doesn’t want this moment to end—one where you’re vulnerable and trusting with him, one where you’re alive and well. He can’t help but wonder if he ever made you feel like you couldn’t tell him something? Simon feels simmering, muffled anger in his stomach because you didn’t want to interrupt his work for being stabbed, nicking a vital organ no less—he makes a mental note to sit you down and make you promise to call him if an issue or an injury like that ever arises again. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to push away what would happen if you didn’t do that—if that guy were to come back to try to finish the job and Simon wasn’t here, would you call him? Would you pick up your phone and dial his number? Would you text him? What if you got hurt again—would you call him?—Or would the hospital? He always imagined you’d be getting the call of his death, and not the other way around. Simon swears under his breath for a moment and opens his eyes; he doesn’t want to think about that anymore. He wants to stay in this moment with you—both himself and you alive. He glances down, your tear stained cheeks slowly drying, your eyelids closed. His fingers slide from the nape of your neck to the side, and he presses his fingers against your pulse.

Being here with you—he wants you to trust him, too; like he trusts you. That’s all he wants.

tag: @zzzennin

2K notes · View notes

chelseeebe · 4 months

Text

still into you

after abruptly leaving hawkins (and you) seven years ago, eddie munson, ex-boyfriend turned rockstar, makes a grand return. how will things pan out when your lives couldn’t be further apart?

this has been in the drafts for god knows how long and you can definitely tell where my writing started to improve as i came back to it.. hope y’all enjoy anyway! this is so long good lord. also includes a bit of bestfriendism with stevie!

18+. mdni. smut. mentions of alcohol. eddie is a dickhead. no use of y/n!

read part two here.

‎♡‧₊˚

‘you know he’s coming back next weekend?’ steve mutters, nodding towards you as you rip the sellotape from the brown box, beginning to stack the cans of soup.

‘is he? oh my god oh my god,’ feigning excitement with a straight face.

you’d already known he was coming back, you’d received the invitation just like everybody else. except, you’d swiftly put the gimmicky piece of paper into the trash and got on with your day. confused why everyone else seemed to be losing their goddamn minds over it.

he huffs quietly, helping you with the heavy tins, ‘are you gonna go?’ steve didn’t actually work in melvalds but came in on his breaks purely to chat and distract you from your work.

‘am i gonna go? hmm, let me think.. no.’

‘he wants to see you.. you should come,’ prodding his elbow into your side, collapsing the box into a flat piece of cardboard.

‘you spoke to him?’ ears perking up. you didn’t care if he’d mentioned you. no, really.

‘yeah.. he called a few weeks ago, y’know when the invitations got sent out,’ picking up the next box to start filling the shelf.

‘oh! it’s nice to know he called you and just hilarious to know i never got a phone call,’ getting frankly quite sick of hearing about eddie fucking munson and his grand return.

once upon a time, eddie had actually been your boyfriend. must’ve been 7 or so years ago by this point.. anyway, that was before he’d got his big break and decided that he was going to completely forget about hawkins.. and about you. you’d still been together after his first tiny tour, excitedly waiting for him to come home when he just.. never did.

he’d had the decency to at least call and tell you that he was breaking up with you.. we’re just in different places right now.. it’s not you.. i don’t want you to ruin your life waiting for me..

it was essentially a whole bunch of bullshit, because the very next month he was spotted with some bottle blonde model looking suspiciously close at some club he’d have absolutely hated the year prior. it was like a punch to the gut, flicking through the pages of the trashy magazine just knowing that you hadn’t been enough for this new lifestyle of his.

from then on, you’d decided to disengage with any and everything about him. turning the tv off when corroded coffin came on one of the morning talk shows, leaving the room at parties when one of his song’s inevitably came on and just completely blanking out of the conversation when his name was brought up. it was easier that way, saved your feelings and the awkward glances you’d get.

at some point things had become slightly more complicated and you’re not sure how exactly it had happened but you had wound up pregnant. and by jason carver no less. maybe it was your shared disdain for eddie that had brought you together. who knows?

but it had happened and now you had to deal with it. and although jason may come in a close second to world’s biggest assholes.. you had gained a beautiful daughter from it all and had become quite content with your single mom life.

people had come and gone, robin jetting off to some fancy college in california.. jonathan and nancy ending up in new york at some hot-shot newspaper.. the kids you’d sort of gathered had all gone off to various colleges, becoming adults themselves. all except for steve.

steve had stayed in hawkins like you, begrudgingly following his father’s footsteps, getting a job at his accounting firm. it was good money and kept his dad happy so he couldn’t fault it really. he’d even got his own place just down the street from your house and at some point you’d just accepted that he was probably your only friend in hawkins.

it had brought the two of you undeniably closer and maybe you’d even call him your best friend now. well, except for right now as he was beginning to piss you off with all this fussing over eddie.

‘you have to come.. it’s not just for him, everyone is going.. it’s a reunion,’ steve continues to pester you despite your efforts to shut him down.

‘steve, i’m not going and that’s that.’

he sighs, staring at you with a blank expression, ‘okay, well.. i’ll tell him it’s a maybe,’ checking his watch before frowning, ‘shit, i’m late.. i’ll see you later,’ throwing the empty cardboard to the floor before dashing off down the aisle, giving you an exaggerated wave as he disappears.

you just knew that he was not going to drop this until you agreed to go. but he could kick and scream as much as he liked, you had absolutely zero desire to go this flimsy reunion and even less desire to see eddie in the flesh.

it’s another dull week of stacking shelves and managing a team of absolute morons and before you know it, it’s the day before that fucking reunion and steve is still as incessant as ever that you must go.

‘my mom can look after ella.. please just come,’ he sounded like he was a second away from getting on his knees to actually beg you to go.

you’d started to just ignore him now, getting on with whatever you were doing, choosing to give him the silent treatment. he hated that.

‘you’re so annoying,’ he scoffs, still helping you unbox the bags of chips, ‘will you just come for five minutes.. you don’t even have to talk to eddie, it’s the first time we’ll all be together again.. puh-leaseee,’ breaking into a weird sort of sing-song tone.

you exhale through your nose, visibly frustrated by the man, ‘i’m going to ban you in a minute,’ raising your eyebrows, taking the same tone you used when ella was being a brat.

‘no you won’t,’ furrowing his brows, ‘what if i promise to stand in between you the whole night? i’ll beat him with a stick if he even tries to talk to you,’ completely serious with what he just said.

you chortle, covering your mouth as one of the elderly customers walks past, slightly bewildered by the noise that just escaped your mouth, ‘couldn’t you just beat him with a stick anyway?’

‘ehh.. not really, he is paying for the whole thing,’ straightening the bags of air he’d just placed on the shelf, ‘i mean, i could if you really want me to.’

you roll your eyes, of course he was. he’d rented the fanciest restaurant just outside of town for your gaggle of pals. any chance to flaunt the fact that he’d made it out of this hell hole and left the rest of you in the dirt.

‘i have a child, steve, i can’t just go out and leave her at home.. some of us aren’t free like you are,’ turning to face him with a stern hand on your hip.

‘i just told you my mom’ll look after her.. she hasn’t seen her in so long and.. and you can stay at mine and i’ll take you to her first thing in the morning,’ his eyes are round, glimmering in the harsh overhead lights.

‘i don’t have anything to wear,’ shrugging, you really didn’t. becoming a mother isn’t quite so glamorous and a lot of clothes you’d once fit into had become a little tight.

‘when d’you finish?’

narrowing your eyes at him, ‘two..’

‘great.. okay well, i’ll take a half-day and we can go shopping.. on me,’ wiggling his eyebrows at you. the thing about steve is that he believes that most problems can be solved by throwing money at it.

he wasn’t wrong, of course.

because you reluctantly agree to go shopping with him on the condition that you weren’t definitely going to this thing. you were just going to try on dresses. that was it.

you get a cab to the restaurant, there was no way in hell you were doing this sober nor did you want to subject steve to being sober for your sake. palms clammy as you clamber out of the vehicle, immediately regretting your decision.

no one would care if you didn’t go, right? you could quite easily just get back into the taxi and go home without forcing yourself to endure the night.

steve’s one step ahead of you, grabbing your hand so you can’t run away. throwing him an awful glare but you weren’t really mad, just annoyed that he’d succeeded in persuading you to come.

‘c’mon.. it won’t be so bad once you’re in there,’ smoothing down his fresh shirt as he begins to walk up the winding path, dragging you along behind him.

he’s wrong. it’s so much worse inside. the place was huge, extravagantly decorated and full of people you’d once regarded as your best friends, all too busy in their own conversations to notice you and steve walk in.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard from them, it had just been through occasional letters and christmas cards rather than seeing them face to face. robin would call sometimes, fill you in on whatever she had been up to and beg to speak to ella who absolutely loved it. you were sure they were on the same wavelength.

you look to steve with wary eyes, digging your fingertips into his hand, ‘we could just leave right now.. no one would even know,’ tugging gently on his arm.

‘hey,’ he whispers, ‘it’s okay.. look, robin’s coming over, we’ll say hi and see how you feel,’ using his spare hand to wave at the bubbly girl, dropping your hand to give her a hug.

‘oh my god,’ she rushes, ‘how are you? you look so good.. and i don’t mean you,’ pulling away from steve to throw her arms around you, her gentle hands rubbing on your back.

‘hah, it’s nice to see you too,’ steve rolls his eyes, grabbing two of the champagne flutes being ferried around by fancy waiters.

she pulls back, ‘i didn’t think you were coming.. how are you doing? how’s ella?’ the words falling out of her mouth at super speed, it was as if her mouth moved before her brain did.

‘i wasn’t gonna but i wanted to see you guys,’ you nod, taking the glass from steve’s outstretched hand and taking a lengthy sip, ‘i’m okay.. ella’s okay.. you’ll have to come and see her before you leave.’

‘i will i will! i literally landed like two hours ago and had to rush but i’m back until friday,’ her hands flying around as she spoke, ‘come and say hello..’ her arm intertwines with yours as she leans in closer to your ear, ‘he’s staring y’know..’

your eyes roll back on their own, not even wanting to search the room for him, ‘i’m not speaking to him so he can stare all he likes,’ straightening up as you approach the group robin had left.

nancy’s talking to max about something in incredible detail but is quite to stop when you approach, mouth in a small ‘o’ as she hugs you, ‘you came? i thought we were gonna miss you,’ grinning wide when she pulls back.

you give an overdramatic sigh, ‘of course i had to come.. you’d all miss me too much,’ waving to the rest of the group.

there are a lot of small pleasantries swapped, asking about their journey’s here and how they’d been.. standard small talk. but then el asks to see a picture of ella, ecstatic that their names were so similar. you’d come prepared, pulling the creased picture out of your bag.

they all gush and coo over her, it was a picture you’d snapped from her first day of kindergarten, cheesing with her pigtails and pink hair bobbles. passing it around the gathered group, still steadily sipping on the bitter champagne.

‘who’s that?’ eddie asks, you hadn’t noticed him sidle over to the crowd, stood peering over lucas’ shoulder at the photograph.

your eyes meet his, seeing his face for the first time in what felt like centuries. he looked older, obviously, still sporting the same long curls except now it actually looked as if it’d been styled. he’s in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms now littered with tattoos and a nice looking watch. your heart just about stops beating when you realise you’ll now have to explain exactly who that is.

‘uh.. that’s ella,’ you nod, not quite meeting his eyes, ‘..my daughter,’ taking the photo from lucas’ hand, the atmosphere had quite suddenly shifted and people begin to scatter, starting their own conversations so they don’t have to bare witness to this one.

‘oh.. oh, right.. well, congratulations then,’ the shadow of a smile on his lips, could he feel how fucking awkward this was?

‘thank you,’ giving him a half nod, startled as steve’s hand brushes the small of your back. he’d seen that you were in conversation and had left dustin to fulfil his security guard promise.

‘it’s nice that you two found each other.. you have a beautiful daughter,’ still not fully committed to smiling but he was getting there.

your face contorts, immediately looking to steve before letting out a god awful cackle, ‘oh no.. she’s not steve’s,’ covering your mouth before another taunting laugh comes out.

steve is trying to stifle his grin but fails, reaching his hand out to shake eddie’s hand, ‘ah man, no ella’s not mine but she is beautiful, isn’t she? how are you?’

you’re eternally grateful that he he’s managed to sway the conversation and you aren’t forced to explain why or how you’d had a child with jason fucking carver. turning back to robin as you hear steve ramble on about work and corroded coffin’s new album, something you had absolutely no care about.

‘shall we get another drink?’ robin asks, eyeing the open bar and your empty glass.

‘please.’

the rest of the night is going.. relatively well. it’s kinda unsettling to watch the younger kids drink legally, getting more boisterous and loud as the night progresses. it’s nice, if not a little sad just thinking about how you weren’t really able to enjoy yourself at their age because you had a newborn.

you must’ve been deep in thought as you don’t even notice eddie creep up to the empty table, standing awkwardly besides your chair, ‘can we talk?’

your eyes shoot up to meet his, baffled by his presence, ‘what could we possibly have to talk about?’

he exhales through his nose, ‘uh.. a lot? we don’t have to do it here.. i have a room upstairs or.. outside?’

‘no,’ gripping onto your glass of wine, desperately trying to grab the attention of someone behind eddie to come and save you, ‘i don’t want to speak to you.’

he’s exasperated, clutching onto his beer with strained white knuckles. how were you ever supposed to move past this when you wouldn’t even give him the opportunity to explain himself. but that was exactly it. you didn’t care about any of the silly excuses you’re sure he’d conjured up, he did what he did and that was that.

‘i’m trying here..’ sounding exasperated, ‘how ‘bout dinner? sometime this week, on me,’ his voice is deeper now, raspier. you figure as a result of constant partying and chain smoking while on tour.

‘i have a child and a job.. i don’t have time for dinner with you on top of that,’ swallowing the rest of the sweet white wine, putting the empty glass back on the table with a forceful slam.

you make brief eye contact with will who was passing behind eddie and decide to take the opportunity to pounce, standing from your chair and rushing over the second he nears your table.

‘will.. hey,’ speeding to catch him up, mouthing a small save me, clinging to his arm as you move away from eddie who was stood deflated at the table.

will thankfully catches your drift, steering you towards the bar, ‘you okay? i was just about to leave..’ placing his empty glass onto the bar with a soft sigh.

‘what? no.. if i can’t go then you’re not allowed either,’ talking sternly to the boy even though he now towered above you and just about everybody else in here.

he screws up his face, looking over to the dance floor, ‘it’s just..’ sighing once again, ‘awful, isn’t it?’ following his gaze to an intoxicated mike performing an elaborate air guitar routine in the middle of the floor.

it wasn’t exactly the same, but you could empathise with the difficult situation and that foul feeling in your stomach that you were sure he could feel too. you could imagine that it wasn’t easy to see the man you’d once, or perhaps still loved after so long. in fact, you didn’t really need to imagine at all.

deciding it was better to change the subject, distract him from the unraveling scene on the dance floor, ‘d’you smoke?’

he looks around quickly, watching out for a listening jonathan, you assume before he nods quickly, ‘but no one can know,’ a hint of a smile creeping onto his face.

you return the devilish grin before hooking your arm in his, pulling him towards the door where you could get the hell away from annoying men and their long black hair.

it’s gone three by the time you get back to steve’s, genuinely having to coax him from the party and into the cab you’d shared with a belligerent dustin, making sure he had got home safely.

‘i wasn’t too mean, was i?’ snuggled up in steve’s blankets, facing each other in the low light of his room.

‘nooo, no you were on fire,’ he laughs, he was still tipsy and slightly reeking of booze as he lay next to you.

‘really? you’re sure?’ he was definitely just drunk and blabbing on but you’d take it.

‘yes.. it was perfect,’ he hiccups, interrupting his sentence, ‘buuut.. and i’m not the only one who said this so don’t kill me..’ kissing the back of his teeth, ‘you’re not gonna like what i have to say.’

‘what? what is it?’ prodding his shoulder with a quick jab. knowing eddie, he’d probably gone round the party whispering some bullshit about the two of you.

‘well..’ holding his hands in the air, ‘there’s still chemistry there.. y’know i could see it,’ raising his eyebrows, hands collapsing onto the blanket.

‘right, i’m going to sleep.. you’re drunk and just saying stupid shit now,’ rolling your eyes as you settle into the soft pillow, closing your eyes so you no longer had to entertain his idiotic nonsense.

he chortles, hiccuping mid-laugh which makes a horrid choking noise, ‘i’m not that drunk.. robin said it too,’ the lamp clicks off, darkening the room, ‘and dustin..’

‘go to sleep steve,’ unamused and tired.

‘okay okay.. goodnight,’ he calls, you can hear the smile in his voice as he turns to face the other way, taking that as your opportunity to rest your head on his back, nuzzling into the soft cotton t-shirt.

monday is particularly awful and you’re reminded exactly why you don’t drink often. two days on and you’re still exhausted, half-heartedly filling the shelves and just trying to make it to two o’clock.

in your tired state, one of the bottles of shampoo you were putting out, falls out of your hand and rolls off somewhere down the aisle. you sigh, a deep, fed-up, exhaustive sigh and get up to go and fetch it when the bottle appears before your face, a tattooed, ring-filled hand latched onto it.

‘carver? really?’ eddie frowns, watching you from above, eyebrows furrowed together.

you place the bottle onto it’s rightful spot on the shelf and choose to ignore him. if he’d come all the way down here just to piss you off about your poor life choices then he could get fucked.

‘when’d that happen?’

blanking him again as you continue to put stuff onto the shelves. this was the easiest way to guarantee that you weren’t going to get yourself fired for being rude to him.

‘you gonna ignore me? i just wanna know,’ still poking and prodding, he clearly wasn’t very good at picking up on context clues.

nothing.

‘fuck, can you just talk to me for five minutes?’ your silence was driving him crazy, aggravating him to no end.

‘i’m at work, so no,’ hurriedly trying to finish the stock you had so you had an excuse to rush out the back and away from him.

he was fortunate that it was a quiet monday, the store full of mostly older ladies who had no idea who he was. you sorta hoped that he’d get mobbed and would have to hurry off and leave you alone.

‘why jason? out of literally everyone else in this shithole you choose jason?’ screwing his face up in disgust.

you slam the box cutter down with a loud clatter, causing a few turned heads and raised eyebrows. fuck ‘em. if you had done what you’d really wanted to do, you’d be locked up forever.

‘i don’t know if you remember this but my boyfriend of like, two years ran away and never came home so yeah.. that kinda fucked with me a little and lucky for me, jason carver was there and also hated my ex’s guts.. so it was perfect, you know?’ staring flatly at him, you were not dealing with his shit today.

eddie scoffs, ‘so you had a kid with him? and now.. what? you play happy families just to spite me? is that it?’

‘yes eddie, i had a whole child just to piss you off.’

he gawps back at you, clearly also did not possess the ability to sense sarcasm.

‘no,’ scowling at him, ‘it was an accident and now he’s.. i dunno, coaching basketball at some school in ohio or some shit.. why don’t you go and bother him?’

‘so you’re not together?’

you can only roll your eyes in response, in sheer disbelief that he’d made such a fuss because he couldn’t just outright ask if you were single.

un-fucking-believable.

you’ve had just about enough of this conversation, pulling your little trolley back towards the swing doors that lead to the warehouse. at least he wasn’t allowed in there.

‘wait! wait..’ he grabs onto the other side of the trolley, stopping you from walking off, ‘have dinner with me tonight or.. tomorrow?’ eyes big and pleading.

‘now why would i do that?’

‘because i want to explain myself.. i need to.’

one of the younger shoppers notices who he is and begins trying to talk to him, coming over to where you two stood rather excitedly. eddie is kind enough to smile and give her a few polite words, eyes still latched onto yours despite the ecstatic woman beside him.

‘okay,’ honestly just wanting to get away from all this commotion, ‘tomorrow.’

his scowl subsides, replaced by a gleaming grin, ‘six o’clock.. pino’s, i’ll sort it, okay?’ already starting to walk away from the crazy woman.

‘right,’ you nod, pulling your trolley away and into the back warehouse, leaning against the concrete wall. the whole exchange was tiring, knocking whatever tiny bit of energy out of you.

were you actually gonna go?

absolutely fucking not.

by the time six rolls around the next night, you really had forgotten all about it. rushing to get ella her dinner after swimming lessons, already worrying about paying for yet another field trip she’d sprung on you earlier. you’d begun to wonder if they even taught in the classrooms anymore with the amount of permission slips she brought home.

she’s finally settled into bed, after much protesting and a lot of coaxing. you’re just about to finally relax on the couch when someone hammers on your front door. and if you weren’t already pissed off with ella’s whining, you were most definitely about to be with whichever mindless prick was banging on your door.

‘what do you want?’ you hiss, jerking the door open to reveal a pathetic looking eddie on the other side, face forlorn and dejected.

he’s in that white shirt again. it makes you sick to your stomach to admit that it really does look good on him. his arms now more defined, the cotton sticking to his muscles, briefly showcasing the new tattoos underneath. maybe he’d actually got off of his ass and did something other than smoke weed all day.

‘oh so you are alive, d’you forget about something?’ he’s snarling now, having conjured up some elaborate excuse in his head as to why you hadn’t showed, only to find you at home, seemingly with no care in the world.

‘oops,’ the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile, you hadn’t even actually meant to stand him up, you were just gonna call his hotel and cancel but the thought had just completely slipped your mind.

and even if it shouldn’t, it really did feel good. knowing he was the one sat waiting for you for once.

‘oops? i sat there for an hour waiting for you and then spent the last hour trying to convince dustin to give me your fucking address.. and all you can say is oops?’

you shrug, ‘feels pretty shitty to be forgotten about, doesn’t it?’ tilting your head, watching as his face falls. he’d been got.

‘okay.. okay, i get it, and i’m sorry.. there’s not a day that goes by that i don’t feel like shit for how i treated you,’ his head dips low, looking particularly sorry for himself.

and for a second you do too. not that he deserved it. quickly having to remind yourself exactly what he had done to you, which was not at all helped by the fact that he now had everything he’d ever wanted in life.

and you couldn’t fault your life. truly. but fuck did it sting sometimes, to know that your life had stagnated, stuck in the same shitty town you’d grown up in while he was on the other side of the country, more money than sense and a hoard of doting fans that would do absolutely anything he’d ask of them.

‘good,’ you bark, going to slam the door shut only for it to bang against his black boot wedged in the door, ‘if you don’t move your foot i’ll- i’ll call the police.’

‘no you won’t,’ his hand reaches out to grab onto the other side of the handle, he could’ve easily pushed his way in if he’d really wanted, ‘let’s talk.. like adults,’ begging you now, ‘please.’

you huff, this would end with you either letting him in or being forced to wake ella after you bashed his head into the doorframe. it was easier to just accept the first option and you’d find some bullshit to get him to leave later on.

opening the door wider to let him in, keeping your eyes square on the ground as he walks through, peering around at your home. probably comparing it to his mansion in the hollywood hills the pretentious fuck.

‘nice..’ he nods, leaning in to look at the photo of you and ella a few christmas’ ago, she was tiny then, sporting a miniature santa hat.

‘yeah well, she’s asleep upstairs so.. make it quick,’ you frown, closing the door behind him, watching as his eyes take in the cluttered room, smile fading when he catches sight of the singular picture you have up of jason and ella.

‘i can’t believe you chose to fuck jason of all people.. i mean, i’ve made some shitty decisions in my life but..’ he stops himself from going any further when he sees your face, if looks could kill, he’d be long gone by now.

‘did you come here for a reason? or are you here to talk about my life decisions.. because i really don’t want to hear it from you,’ crossing your arms over your chest, wanting him out of your house.

‘no.. no, shit- i’m sorry,’ he shuffles on his feet, banging his head, ‘i wanna talk.. properly.’

you roll your hand to motion for him to continue, ‘go on..’

he inhales, chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to psyche himself up to actually say what he wanted to say. it wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, he just couldn’t string it together to make sense.

‘i’m sorry for the way i treated you.. it wasn’t right and i know that now,’ his hand coming to rub the back of his clammy next, why was your house so fucking hot?

‘okay.. apology accepted, was that everything?’ you say flatly, glancing up the stairs to make sure ella wasn’t awake and out of her room.

his face falls, ‘can you just.. just let me explain,’ his adam apple bobbing as he swallows, ‘why don’t you sit down..’ motioning towards your ratty couch.

you relent your stern stature, hesitantly going to sit on the couch, trying to ensure that he couldn’t possibly sit next to you by sprawling your legs out onto the empty cushion. so he takes the seat furthest away, running his hands down his tight jeans. designer, no less.. the only person you knew stupid enough to spend thousands on designer jeans just to tear holes in them.

‘when i ended things with you, i wasn’t.. well, it was me, but i had my manager screaming in my ear that it’d never work and he could hook me up with some fuckin’ model.. it’d help the band.. so that’s what i did,’ and for once, he looked genuinely remorseful, fiddling with the loose threads on his expensive jeans.

‘so you sold out? that’s your excuse?’

his head shoots up, mouth hung open with absolute disgust all over his face, ‘i am not a sell out.’

which is incredibly refutable, you’d heard a snippet of one of their recent songs on the radio at work and it had sounded exactly like the commercial shit he used to rag on when you were together. not a touch on the corroded coffin you sat and watched practice for hours on end.

‘oh? so you didn’t break up with me to further your career? you just wanted to fuck hot models? which one is it ‘cause i’m a little confused here,’ completely losing it, springing up from your slouched position.

‘okay, yeah.. yeah i did, i broke up with you because i wanted to fuckin’ make something of my life.. and look at where i am and look at-,’

‘-don’t you dare finish that sentence,’ you snap, gritting your teeth together as you near his face, positively shaking with rage.

‘what’re you gonna do? you gonna hit me? do it,’ his chin tilted to match your elevated position, eyes glued to yours.

‘i should.’

his lips twitch into a smirk, ‘you won’t.’

and before your brain has the time to really process your next movements, he balls his fist into your t-shirt, causing your chest to collide into his as his lips smash into yours, knocking the air out of your lungs.

scrambling to find his shoulders for balance, sliding one hand onto his stubbly cheek. it’s all teeth and tongues, he’s ravenous and unrelenting, letting go of his grip on your shirt to place his hands on your hips, ‘move,’ mumbling against your lips as he attempts to manoeuvre you onto his lap while twisting around.

he slides down the couch, keeping a solid hold of your body as you find the right position. your legs are either side of his waist, sliding into the gap between his body and the couch sitting right on his crotch. wasting absolutely zero time in connecting your lips against, honestly not wanting to run the risk of him opening his mouth and ruining this.

his large hands find solace on your ass, creeping up to remove the oversized shirt you’d thrown on. you place your hand above his, restricting him from moving any further. it’s not that you were embarrassed- okay, maybe you were a little. but your body had changed since becoming a mom and eddie had become accustomed to gorgeous models and perfect women that he’d certainly not want to see your boring, frumpy mom body.

he groans in protest, trying again to lift the shirt further only for your fingernails to dig into his hand, ‘no,’ speaking into the filthy kiss.

eddie pulls away from the kiss, fingers coming to gently brush the hair from your face, ‘you can’t be serious? i’ve seen it all before,’ he grumbles, fingers itching to try lift it again.

‘not like this you haven’t.. i just.. want it on, okay?’

‘no- why won’t you let me take this off?’ fingers curling around the hem, already trying his luck with getting it up again.

you sigh, meeting his blown out eyes with your glossy ones, ‘i don’t even know what i’m doing.. fuck,’ attempting to climb off of his lap while the spare hand he has on your ass clamps you down, keeping you pressed to him.

‘hey.. hey, keep it on.. i don’t care,’ already trying to chase your lips, ‘i’m just saying, you don’t need to,’ the denim covering his growing erection starting to rub against your throbbing clit, the sparse material of your pajama shorts were not leaving much to the imagination.

‘jesus christ, just take it off,’ giving up in your protest, it was useless against eddie’s persistence.

you press your lips to his the second your shirt is off, there was no time to judge your body if he couldn’t see it. pulling at his jacket to get it off, the metal buttons digging into your now bare skin.

‘i didn’t.. i didn’t mean.. what i said..’ babbling through the kiss as he shimmies out of the jacket, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

‘shut up,’ you whine, running your hand along the length of his chest until you reach the hem of his black shirt, gripping your fingers around the fabric and lifting it slightly, exposing his midriff, the soft trail of hair ascending the skin.

his head jerks backwards, allowing you to tug the shirt off, finally allowing his eyes to wander to your chest. ‘holy shit,’ he remarks like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. it’s futile for him to pretend that he hadn’t seen some amazing boobs in his time so you scoff, rolling your eyes.

working your hand at his belt buckle, fiddling with the metal until it pops undone. he’s hard already and it makes you groan, brushing your hand over the raised denim. this week seriously must’ve been difficult if he was getting hard so easily over you.

it doesn’t ever occur to you how much of a mistake this was. and even if it did, you didn’t have much time to ponder on it as his hands are grabbing at your breasts, palming them as his lips suck at your jaw and down onto your neck softly. guaranteed to leave a lovely violet mark that the old ladies at work would certainly gasp at.

he’s helping you with his jeans, one hand gripping onto your waist to keep you steady as he lifts his hips from the couch and the other hurriedly yanking them down just enough to reveal his boxers. that’s the next port of call, fingers grabbing at the thin black cotton, pulling them down his thighs as his cock springs into action.

eddie’s lips are still on your neck while you mindlessly wrap your hand around his cock, pumping your fist as you shuffle upwards. his breath hitches in his throat, still peppering sloppy kisses to the sensitive skin.

‘oh god,’ he whines into your collarbone, feeling his eyelashes flutter against your jaw. for a man who had been painted as womaniser in the media, he sure was still just as pathetic as he used to be underneath you.

you’re a little annoyed that it’s you who’s taking control right now. after so many years of disrespect from his end, you think he at least owed it to you to take charge.

your hand grabs onto his shoulder, pulling his face from your neck, ‘be quiet, okay?’ sitting taller to position yourself comfortably, the harsh fabric of the couch grazing your knees.

he nods, sliding his hand up your waist and back to your hip, taking in the sight of you. you wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, but truthfully, you really did miss him sometimes. missed the way his pretty pink lips looked after being glued to yours or the way he gazed at you doing the most mundane tasks.

you cant your hips, sinking down onto his length slowly, biting down onto your bottom lip as his cock fills you to the hilt. his eyelids flicker, fingernails digging into your doughy hips. it’s been a little while since you’d done this so you have to take a second to become accustomed to the slight stretch. it’s good, in the most masochistic way.

your hands cling onto his shoulders, watching his slack jaw, tiny breaths escaping from his mouth as you attempt to move. painstakingly slow at first, knees beginning to shake as you try to remember what you should even be doing. your cheeks flushing, feeling so incredibly embarrassed. the man was fucking models and then you’re here, pitifully trying to ride him. it’s awful, you know it’s awful.

his arm comes to snake around your waist, taking matters into his own hands and flipping the two of you around, your back suddenly pressed into the couch. holy shit. you appreciate the initiative, wrapping your legs around his waist, readjusting your grip on his shoulders.

‘need you a little faster than that darling,’ large hands digging into the couch either side of your head. you’d feel utterly mortified if you weren’t thoroughly enjoying the sight of him looming over you, his hair falling beautifully into your face.

eddie starts slow at first, moving his hips slowly, obviously well versed. your mouth opens but no noise escapes, well aware that you weren’t the only ones in your house. instead you pant softly, desperate for his lips to grace yours again.

it’s not long before he’s quickening his pace, unable to contain himself when you feel so perfect around him. ‘i missed you- fuck, i’ve missed you so much,’ he groans, keeping his voice low despite wanting to start screaming.

you don’t reply, too fucked-out to even think about words. eyes drooping as his cock nudges against the soft spongy spot no one other than him had been able to reach.

the couch creaks beneath you, the old thing unable to keep up with his rutting hips, the top of your head knocking into the arm rest every time his hips collided with yours. your living room had never bore witness to such filth and as quiet as you were trying to be, the sounds are indistinguishable.

having to bite down onto your lip when his thumb meets your clit, legs tightening around his waist with every soft circle he draws around the sensitive bud. eddie was never bad in bed but holy shit, maybe money had done something right for him.

he sits up, soft sighs falling out of his lips as his hand disconnects from your clit, sliding toward your knee and positioning your leg onto his shoulder. your nails press into his forearm, willing yourself to stay quiet even now he’s seemingly trying to kill you.

and through it all, he’s smirking. relishing the way you’re writhing around, trying not to cum when he nudges against that sweet, spongy spot this position allowed.

his thumb finds your clit again, ‘holy shit sweetheart.. you gonna cum?’ grunting softly with every thrust.

you’re positively wrecked beneath him, face pressed into the couch cushion as your stomach flips. panting into the fabric, incoherent ramblings of eddie’s name and a bunch of curse words fill the room.

‘cum for me baby.. shit,’ struggling to keep his own pace as you tighten around him, leg trembling around his neck as your orgasm takes over. pleasure overtaking your limbs as your hips buck instinctively, thankfully muffled by the couch.

‘oh my god,’ you breathe, struggling to see straight when your eyes eventually reopen, gazing up at eddie above, certain he’s about to draw blood from his teeth digging in to his lip.

‘where.. where shall i- shit,’ he squeezes out, feeling his hips begin to stutter, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he’s just about quick enough to pull out, thick ropes of cum paint your thighs. narrowly avoiding the couch.

if you had the energy to get annoyed, you would’ve snapped, but in all honesty, your brain was still reeling and anger was the last thing you felt.

eddie reaches over, ever the gentleman and grabs his shirt to clean his mess. didn’t matter to him obviously, he had more than enough money to buy another.

and there it is. the bitterness filling your body again the second he’s no longer on top of you, or inside of you rather. you attempt to bite it down.

‘you wanna talk now?’ he asks, pulling his boxers back up to a more respectable position.

‘i’m tired eddie,’ and you are, on a school night like tonight you’d have been fast asleep by now.

he sighs, shoulders slumping over. even after you’d just had the most mind-altering sex, you couldn’t speak to him. ‘please,’ pleading with you almost, desperate for one more chance.

maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe the dopamine still pumping through your brain but you concede, pulling your shirt back over your head before motioning for him to speak.

‘i don’t have any excuses, i’m just-,’ he sighs, turning on the couch to face you fully, ‘i’m sorry for hurting you, i was wrong and i know that,’ his eyes are dipped, peering at you from underneath his spindly lashes, ‘why d’you think i’ve avoided this place for so long?’

‘i don’t know? because you’re a pussy? because you’re too scared to face me?’ letting the words rattle off your tongue without much thought.

‘because i’m embarrassed,’ he corrects, without much offence, ‘because i’m ashamed and feel like i owe you more than some dick and a shitty apology.. i just didn’t know how i could ever make it up to you,’ half-moon eyes glossy in the low light.

your heart thumps in your chest, blood echoing through your ears. eddie munson, world renowned rockstar was sat on your couch, apologising for something you should’ve forgotten about a long time ago.

the years of hatred and avoidance come tumbling down in a millisecond. all you’d ever wanted was to hear him say sorry. to admit that he’d fucked you over for a life of fame and now you had it, you weren’t exactly sure what to even do with it.

‘okay.. now what? are you gonna make it up to me? because i want to believe you eddie, i do.. but you can’t just traipse in here and expect me to forgive you like that,’ the tears roll over, sliding down your warm cheeks.

he nods, grabbing onto your hands in a last ditch gesture to show his sincerity, ‘i’m going to.. i-i want to,’ he’s still nodding, bringing his face closer to yours, ‘tell me how, i’ll do anything,’ adam’s apple bobbing with every word.

‘stay here,’ your eyes are trained on him, ignoring the blurred vision, ‘not forever, just for now,’ lips pursed, ready to be broken once more.

you half-expect him to come out with some sorry excuse, tell you he had to get back to his hotel so he couldn’t possible stay here.

but he doesn’t.

eddie takes your hand, tugging it gently and with words you don’t register, babbles something about bed. so you follow him, allowing him to guide you to your room and slide in between the sheets next to you.

everything is so gentle, soft and pure. something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

‘hey.. sweetheart,’ eddie’s hand gently shakes your arm, whispering into your ear, ‘you awake?’

you squint in the dim light, feeling his hand descend onto your waist, chest pressed against your back, ‘i am now,’ you grumble, it was early.. early even by ella’s standards.

‘i gotta go.. you got work today?’ he asks, making no effort to actually get up and leave your bed though.

you nod into the pillow, rubbing your sleep heavy eyes. in your sleep hazed state, you shuffle, moving backwards against him.

‘okay.. shit- don’t do that,’ strained as you shift against him, unknowingly brushing against his cock, ‘i’ll be back.. after you..’ he’s losing it a little now, ‘after you finish..’ lips pressed to your ear.

you were moving deliberately now, just ever-so-slightly rocking your hips back and forth, you could feel him growing against your ass.

‘i can’t..’ he groans, grip tightening on your hip,

‘please,’ you breathe, reaching backwards to find his mop of curls, taking a fistful for leverage as his own hip’s thrust into your backside, his low growls only spurring you on.

you had been on your own for so long now, could he really blame you?

eddie doesn’t leave for another hour, creeping out of your house with his head low and a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

the key turns in your door as you’re loading the dishwasher. you’d given steve a spare for emergencies but it seemed to get used for anything but.

he slinks into the kitchen where you stand with your back to him, ‘hey,’ already knowing who it was.

‘well hello,’ announcing his presence, something about his tone of voice already seemed off, he sounded short, annoyed almost, ‘how have you been?’

‘i’m good..’ you spin to face him, puzzled by his strange demeanour, ‘how are you?’

he’s holding onto something behind his back but you can’t quite catch a glimpse, ‘actually.. i’m a little pissed off,’ you can tell he’s not completely serious by the hint of a smile on his face.

‘hmm? why’s that?’

he looks around the room expectedly, ‘oh i don’t know.. you don’t have anything to tell me, do you?’ shaking his head, still gripping onto this mystery object.

‘no..’ narrowing your eyes, determining whether he knew what you thought he knew.

he did, he one hundred percent did. holy fuck. he’d figured you out already. eddie had opened his big, stupid mouth and told dustin, who would’ve told steve and god knows who else. fucking moron.

‘no? soo..’ his pulls the magazine from behind his back, flipping it to the page he’d already saved, ‘this isn’t real then?’ shoving the glossy pages into your face, ‘because to me.. this looks an awful lot like eddie.. at this very house,’ he jabs his finger at the pixelated image, ‘and this little blob here.. that’s you, no?’

you’re utterly gobsmacked. mouth hung open in pure shock. because that most definitely was eddie.. and your house.. and you. you hadn’t seen anyone with a camera, hell, you hadn’t seen anyone on the street at all.

‘and correct me if i’m wrong, but is this not our friend eddie leaving your house the next morning?’ showing the next image of him leaving your house the day after, hair unruly and messed up, holding his denim jacket in his arms as he climbs into his car.

your mouth moves but no words come out, croaking as you struggle to meet steve’s eyes. completely speechless, there was no feasible excuse. you had been caught with your pants down. literally.

‘i can explain,’ waving your hands around while steve stands smug against the kitchen counter. ‘..no i can’t,’ shoulders slumped as you blink at your best friend, no you really couldn’t. suppose you could’ve come up with some lie about a look-a-like you’d been seeing but that would’ve made you look particularly strange.

‘were you ever gonna tell me?’ he’s almost hurt that you hadn’t ran to him to tell him immediately. this was true best friend gossip and you’d kept him from it.

‘i was! steve.. i don’t even know what happened- he came over to apologise and then we were arguing and then.. then we had sex and it’s not my fault..’ you’re trying, and failing, to contain your smile, flashing your cheeky grin to your best friend in the hopes he would let this slide.

‘i can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ jutting his bottom lip out, ‘so, you’re getting back together?’ his eyes sceptical yet sparkling with a sense of hope. you’re grateful that all he seems to care about is the fact you lied. or actually, withheld the truth as you preferred it.

‘no.. well.. no, we had dinner together yesterday and he might’ve stayed over but no..’ shaking your head, ‘he’s leaving again soon and we both know what happened last time..’ you shrug, leaning back against the counter, ‘i guess i don’t hate him now, that’s good isn’t it?’

steve looks perplexed, ‘wait wait wait.. so you’re just.. screwing around? and then he leaves again, that’s it? what’s the point?’ taking a seat at the small kitchen table, fully engrossed in the conversation.

‘i dunno.. i guess that’s it?’ you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he’d be leaving again, in fact, you hadn’t really had time to think much at all about what was happening.

you’d just sort of acknowledged that at some point he’d go back to california and you’d stay here and whatever was happening would.. end? it wasn’t as if you were going to be super upset about it like you once were. lots of people fuck their ex’s.. this was fine.

because that’s what this is, right?

just sex with an ex?

‘that’s it?’ steve reiterates, looking completely flabbergasted that the woman who once left the room whenever eddie munson’s name was mentioned was now being so casual about this.

‘yeah,’ you shrug, not wanting to make a massive deal out of it though you could always rely on steve to be over dramatic on your behalf.

‘no,’ he straightens up in the chair, ‘all of this can’t be for nothing,’ sounding utterly exasperated, ‘you two obviously belong together so why don’t you go for it? i could see you living it up out in la.. big house, big car-,’

you cut him off before he can divulge into his delusions any further, ‘i think you’re getting ahead of yourself steve,’ shaking your head at his ludicrous attitude.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it once or twice but it seemed silly to start imagining this crazy life together after all these years. he’d barely just made it into your good graces again, you were hardly going to run off to california with him. it was utter delusion.

‘okay okay..’ he scoffs, ‘but i still think you need to talk to him. i don’t want you getting hurt again, okay? just make sure that you’re both on the same page,’ nodding as he stands from his seat and begins to rummage through your cupboards for something to eat.

he was probably right and you knew it deep down. you weren’t keen on being the one to bring the conversation up, not after that first night. after you had sobbed in his arms in bed, letting him soothe you to sleep with a bunch of probable empty promises.

when eddie lets himself into your house a few hours later, steve’s eyebrows fly up his forehead but he doesn’t say a word. instead, he nods at the man, keeping his opinions to himself.

the pair of you resemble an old married couple, except you’re the grumpy old man with your wife cuddled into your side. your wife being steve that is.

‘oh.. is this uh, something that happens often?’ eddie asks, settling into the empty chair across from you. slightly miffed that steve was nestled into your side.

‘yup,’ you nod, smiling at him your chin resting on steve’s head. he hadn’t a reason to be jealous, you’d really rather poke your eyeballs out with a fork than do anything remotely sexual with steve.

‘right.. yeah okay,’ eddie says, looking perplexed but sitting back in the chair. if he was going to stick around then this would have to be something that he got used to. because you sure as hell weren’t going to stop being so close with steve for the guy that broke your heart at eighteen.

‘you want a drink?’ you ask, realising that you should probably be a good host even if it was only eddie.

‘yeah sure.’

you untangle yourself from steve and trundle off into the kitchen. steve takes this as the perfect opportunity to grill eddie on his intentions, sitting up straight and making sure that you were really gone before beginning his interrogation.

‘so.. you two?’

eddie shrugs, not wanting to get into it with steve after such a long day.

steve sighs, leaning toward eddie, ‘i’m gonna say this once.. but if you hurt her again, i will kill you,’ staring the other man down. contempt in his eyes. he was dead serious too.

‘i’m not- i’m not gonna hurt her,’ eddie sits up, praying that you’d hurry back with this damn drink.

‘i mean it eddie,’ raising his eyebrows, ‘you didn’t see how she was after you left.. i’m not going through that again, i’m not letting her go through that again.’

‘steve-,’ eddie blinks, stopping himself as you re-enter the room. hoping that you hadn’t heard their conversation, he’d only just got you to stop hating him. he wasn’t prepared to go back to that like, ever.

‘what’re you talking about?’ placing the bottle of beer in front of eddie and collapsing back into your spot on the couch.

‘football,’ steve answers quickly, groaning as he pushes himself off of the sofa, ‘i’m gonna head home, got work in the morning but i’ll see you tomorrow,’ he smiles, winking at you from above.

‘okay,’ you utter, sounding more like a question than a statement, watching carefully as he gathers his things without so much as a glance at eddie. you can only imagine what was actually said but that was truly none of your business.

you’d just grill eddie later to make sure steve hasn’t been too much of an asshole.

‘byee,’ you call out behind him, already eyeing a sheepish eddie. this’d probably be it. you’d known it was coming at some point, you just weren’t sure of when.

if steve’s sudden departure was anything to go off, you were probably right.

the door clicks shut and you turn your attention to eddie who was still sat on the solemn chair. oh god. maybe you had got a little used to having him around again and now to know that it’d all be coming to an abrupt end once again.. yeah you felt a tad shit.

‘what’d you say?’ you ask outright, it made zero sense to beat around the bush.

‘me?’ he looks almost offended, ‘i didn’t say shit.. didn’t get the chance to,’ but he’s smiling ever so slightly and your heart relaxes.

christ you were so stupid. letting him back into your life just to let him walk away a second time. perhaps you’d done something horrific in a past life to deserve this same fate twice.

‘so what did he say?’ you press, unsure of if your even wanted the answer.

eddie sighs before coming to collapse on the couch next to you, ‘it wasn’t important.. look, i wanna be honest with you,’ his hand comes to grab yours and you freeze, bracing yourself for what was inevitably going to come next. ‘you mean a lot to me and.. and i don’t want you to think that i don’t care or that i’m just leaving you again,’ his eyes are focussed on yours, full of what you hope is sincerity.

you don’t reply, instead you nod slightly and urge him to continue. this was it. the kicker.

‘i’ve gotta go back to la next week,’ his grip tightens around your hand, ‘but i’m coming back as soon as i can, okay?’ he’s serious too and you’d like to believe him but if the past was anything to go by, you weren’t eager.

you nod silently. fuck this. once again, you were sat before eddie munson, listening to his plans to jet off to la. it felt like the cruelest case of deja-vu. if anything, you want to kick yourself for even allowing him to wiggle his way back into your heart. most people know better after the first time.

‘it’s three weeks.. maybe a month, but i’m coming back, i promise,’ he pleads, hanging his head low. he knows there’s absolutely nothing he could say to you that would make you believe him but he had to try.

you hum, frowning just a little before finally replying, ‘i’ve heard that before,’ not meaning to sound as snarky as you did, but it was true.

‘i’m serious, i’m not.. not gonna lose you again, i’ve learnt my lesson,’ his eyes are big and pleading and you’re thrown right back to being eighteen, listening to him convince you how going to la would be the best decision.

‘so.. what? you’re gonna come back to hawkins just to see me? i don’t-,’ you sigh, as much as you wanted to believe him, it just wasn’t plausible in your mind, ‘i just don’t understand, are we together or are you just coming back to fuck? you don’t have to, you know? i’ve made peace with it all and i’m fine.. you don’t have to lie to me anymore.’

if anyone was going to fuck this up, it would be you. that’s for certain.

‘what the fuck?’ he exclaims, genuinely flabbergasted, ‘this is me telling you that i’m serious about this.. about you,’ he takes your hand into his properly, scooting around to face you fully, ‘i love being here with you, and ella and there is nothing out in la worth more than this,’ you think he might just start crying, or you might. or perhaps both of you.

you sniff, not wanting to speak in fear of bursting into hysterics. it was all just so confusing and weird. you’d grown accustomed to eddie being on the other side of the country and now suddenly he was back in your life with what seemed like a a declaration of love. it was just too much to handle. and maybe you blame yourself a little, for not truly thinking about the implications of fucking your ex that had abandoned you years prior. but now it all just seemed to be hurtling in the most intense direction.

you were the one that had told him to stay after all. because really, you could’ve kicked him out, refused to ever even acknowledge him again. but you hadn’t.

‘are you telling me the truth?’ is all that you manage to squeak out. baring resemblance to a small child.

you really must’ve looked pathetic, eyes brimming with tears, bottom lip quivering as you hold in the implosion of emotions. it’s always scary being vulnerable with someone, let alone someone that once meant so much to you.

he still did. as much as you’re absolutely petrified to admit it, he’d weaselled his way back into your heart and now here you are, a mess of emotions and perplexing feelings that are too complicated to handle.

‘i promise you,’ he sighs, clearly fed up of your whining, ‘i’m coming back this time.’

and maybe you’re stupid. maybe you’re still hung up on some high school relationship that ended long ago but you can’t help it, you nod.

idiotically believing him because what else can you do after letting him into your home and your heart again.

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x female reader

2K notes · View notes

chaoticyumelikes · 2 months

Text

Sun Wukong and Macaque whith GN! Reader

In which you accidentally step on their tails😬

Sun Wukong

You were just going to fetch something. Totally normal, innocent and completely unaware of your surroundings. When suddenly you hear a yelp!

You freeze and as if in slow motion, you look at your foot, then at a tail, your gaze follows the trail of the tail to its owner being none other than Sun Wukong who is bearing a heartbreaking expression of absolute betrayal and hurt in his eyes. Immediately you stepped off his tail!

Your apologies started as well as the poor monkey King caressed his hurt tail away from you. You begged his forgiveness but he pouts and turns his back to you.

You know his tail was sensitive so in your natural guilt you told him you'd do anything. His ears perked up at that "Anything?" he asked to which you replied "Of course".

If only you could see his smirk...

He turns to you teary-eyed as he says: "Cuddle with me? " and immediately you sit on the couch with him, cuddling him and giving him kisses. Overall comforting him.

If you try to move away he WILL use your guilt against you.

"Where are you going? I see, you just step on my tail and then leave me" you narrow your eyes at him but you relent and he happily welcomes you into his arms with grabby hands peppering your face with kisses and then nuzzling into you with the biggest smile on his face.

That's right, you are stuck with him the whole day. Everything that day, you do for him.

"Wow! We should make a holiday out of this day!" as soon as you turn to him with a suspicious look on your face he continues "As the day you mercilessly stepped on my poor poor tail" one hand dramatically set on his forehead as the other caresses his tail for emphasis.

You made him his favourite food and you watched his favorite show that has him as the main character till you pass out.

The next day comes and you watch over the training session with MK. You watch as they spar when MK accidentally hits Wukong on his tail. MK grimaces, apologizing to his master while Wukong just laughs.

"It's ok bud! It's sensitive but not THAT sensitive, see?" he then uses his tail as an improv chair to show himself off... that is until you appeared behind them, hands on your hips, fury in your eyes.

"Oh, I definitely see." The Monkey King, Sage Equal to Heaven froze, his expression one of horror. "Peaches ~~~" he tries but to no avail. You are fuming!

How dare he use your guilt against you! You were really worried for him. you storm away with a very apologetic King on your tail.

Let's just say the next day was your day cause there's no way this immortal monkey will rest until you forgive him.

Macaque

When you step on his tail not only do you jump from his yell, he is genuinely crossed with you. He doesn't even let you apologise, he just pouts and goes into the shadows, leaving you there yelling "I'm sooorryyyyyy!

The day goes by with you trying to call him without success. Successive texts apologising were ignored.

You made his favourite food for dinner when he showed up. With teary eyes, you latch yourself onto him apologizing.

"Heeyyy! What are you talking about? Oh! Do you mean my tail? It's ok, it was an accident!"

"So you forgive meeee?" you ask him with big eyes.

"Sure" he chuckles "Wow! you made my favourite food! Today just keeps getting better! A whole day's nap and a great dinner!"

"Come again?"

"Yeah, I was upset and went to walk to let some steam and see if my tail was alright but then I forgave you, saw this nice tree and started writing my next play based on this event and took a nap till now- Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I tried to call you several times! I left you texts! I was worried!"

"What texts?" he goes to check his phone when his face got horrified at the number of missed calls and unbelievable number of unread texts. He looked at you sheepishly, his hand went to rub his neck "Caaaaaan you believe I had my cell on silent... ?...... Heh..... Silly me..... Heheh..? "

Now it was your turn to pout. You were worried about the very relationship and he was napping??? You turn your back on him, as you stomp into your shared room.

"Wait! I'm sorry alright? Where are you going?"

"NAPPING!"

...

"Sooo, does that mean you forgive me? Sugarplum? Come on!"

You quickly forgave him however since no doors can stop your shadow-wielding cute boyfriend into cuddling in an absolute apologetic mission.

#lego monkie kid #sun wukong x reader #macaque x reader #lmk sun wukong #lmk macaque #gn!reader

381 notes · View notes

reqxxyt · 1 year

Text

the minute i fell

pairings: charles l. x f!reader

summary: in which Charles and Carlos make a bet to get with the photographer of Ferrari, a reserved introvert, but finally getting the chance to speak to her, Charles realizes he already lost.

warnings: i had no idea how to end this.. very rushed ending

wc: 2.1k

masterlist requests are open!

[unedited]

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

The duo sat on the paddock floor, laughing along as others passed them in the ferrari garage not taking into consideration of their conversation.

“I’m telling you, I am amazing with the women” Charles claimed while Carlos gave him a non convinced look, not accepting his claim. A familiar figure caught Carlos’ eye ready to prove Charles wrong.

“What about y/n?” Carlos said, a bit quieter as the two turned analyzing her movements as she was adjusting the camera settings, ready to pack and leave. Charles’ gaze longed as he was about to reject the proposal before he heard the spaniard next to him say “Or you could always prove yourself wrong”

Charles competitive spirit flamed as he just nodded, turning his gaze away from the girl towards Carlos just nodding his head making the other just smirk, already loving the idea of how this would turn out.

It was well known in the garage that y/n didn’t like to be bothered, very quiet and reserved to others. Everyone at some point tried to be friendly towards her but her blunt responses would cause them to turn away, thinking she didn’t like them, didn’t like anyone.

So when Charles got up he automatically crossed off all of his starter questions knowing it would only end the conversation in 2 seconds. On the other end, the girl was exhausted, having dealt with trying to capture the best moments of the weekend with a constant headache and jetlag. But the job overweight the cons everytime, she was only ever quiet because she was too focused on her job, not allowing anyone to interrupt her during her time. Yes, she already knew most saw her as rude, but she didn’t mind that, at least they stopped pretending to be nice the first week.

“Capture all the good moments?” at first she thought Charles wasn’t speaking to her, still focused on tuning some camera settings until she heard him clear his throat in front of her finally making her look up. He waited for a proper response but all he received was a tight smile and a barely noticeable nod. The girl was about to gather her belongings, thinking the conversation was done but instead he kept talking to her, “Maybe I’ll get an early preview?”

“Yeah, maybe” she said simply, getting her tote bag and ready to walk out, but Charles didn’t seem to give up almost blocking her exit before she scurried next to him and squeezed outside.

“What are you doing later tonight?” he ran up to her, catching up to her fast pace clearly catching the hint but refusing to give up this early after Carlos doubted him. Y/n simply shrugged mumbling a soft “don’t know”

“What if-” he was interrupted with y/n turning and catching him off guard as she finally grew annoyed and said “What do you want, Charles? Seriously, do you find it entertaining to talk to someone who doesn’t want a conversation right now?”

Charles stood, stunned at her questions, finally gathering his thoughts after a couple of moments, commenting “This is the most you’ve spoken. Improvement” the corners of his lips twitch upwards as she sighed, growing more irritated that that was the portion he focused on more. Before he could say anything more on her ‘improvement’ she turned saying a simple “Goodnight” leaving Charles to think to himself while his teammate was trying not to laugh a few feet away seeing Charles’ failed attempt with front row seats.

A couple of days later

Y/n would be lying if she said she didn’t hate the plan for today, it consisted of having to do a photoshoot with the two drivers. She was hoping to not have to interact with Charles but the way the past couple of days had gone he would definitely try something.

She had finally finished adjusting the lighting on the scene, seeing the two drivers walk up to their designated areas and before she could even wrap around the strap on my neck, she spotted Charles with messed up hair. The photographer looked around, hoping to find their hairdresser but found them nowhere near, with a heavy sigh she walked to Charles and trying to keep the most distance, leaned upwards and adjusted the strands that stuck out not daring to make eye contact or take a smell of his fresh cologne.

Charles tried his best to keep her in that same position, praying her gaze would lower to his own, thinking eye contact could help him with achieving this stupid bet he already began regretting and having doubts of his own, but he refused to accept defeat. Seeing her simply turn around after finishing made him internally frustrated, trying to come up with another idea while she was still here.

After the first set, Charles subconcecially ran his hands through his hair, not realizing he had messed it up until he heard her steps forward him replacing his hand with her own as she ran through it, trying her best to fix his mess. In that moment, Charles felt his own heart speed up, realizing just how pretty the girl was from up close, with a focused gaze having her nose scrunch before leaning back down. This time, she glanced back at him, making direct eye contact but stepped back forcing herself away from him.

“Fix your shirt Leclerc” she commented, waiting on him as she walked back to her original position. Charles looked down only seeing it tucked in slightly. His innocent smile grew with curious eyes as he asked

“Why not fix it for me?” he immediately noticed the way her cheeks got pink, whether that be from the bright sun or his question he doesn’t want the answer to, wanting his own delusions to be the true meaning but she just glared at him, ignoring how the sun somehow made his eyes look perfect at the current angle.

“That would be considered inappropriate” she said, looking back down, ready to take the next set right after he could fix it but she just looked up at him seeing his innocent smile. She turned to Carlos, asking him to fix it and he did with no obligation, she just smiled to herself afterwards before taking another couple of photos, checking them afterwards ready to take the final set at the next location.

The two followed the girl to the next location with a safe enough distance where she couldn’t hear their whispered conversation.

“No luck?” Carlos asked even though already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from him and finally admit to defeat but Charles only refused, saying “it’s only been a couple of days”

Carlos just hummed before the two finally caught back up to the girl, waiting for them by the two cars. She instructed them where to stand, giving them simple instructions thinking it shouldn’t be that difficult completely forgetting she was dealing with an irratating Charles today. He stood a couple of feet away from his position,

“Can you scoot to the left a little, Charles?” she asked, trying her best to appear polite and surprisingly he did as he was told with no obligation. She took the first picture, making sure there was no odd glare anywhere before finally getting back down to take more shots. Taking the final picture, she concluded the day with a simple ‘perfect’.

The girl was looking through them all, making some adjustments not appearing to notice the Monacan driver walking up to her, only managing to spook her with a simple greeting, only earning a glare right after.

"Do you need something else" she asked, putting her camera down to face him and while the gesture may have meant little to the photographer it meant an advancement to Charles, making eye contact was his specialty.

"Just making sure I look good" he said with his charming smile, she only nodded mumbling a barely audible "You always do" but Charles had heard, not so clear but he could make up the mumble, making his smirk grow just by a millimeter.

"Is it too late for you to fix my hair" he asked with a hint of mischief in his tone but she only stared blankly, not the slightest amused, ready to walk away from the conversation but he grasped her wrist before she could take a step holding her back, sending a strange sensation to both.

"Terrble joke" he apoligized, knowing he was giving her a hard time. He sighed, debating the options before finally admitting, "Truth is, me and Carlos had this bet going on for the past couple of days, now thinking about it, it was stupid. I won’t bother you again, just please don’t hate me"

"I already knew" she shrugged not appearing the slightest suuprised meanwhile Charles nearly had his whole jaw agape of the reveal. "I was waiting for when you would tell me"

"You knew? Since when?" he didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or stupid. Definetly both.

"The first day" she said ready turn now before saying "Don’t worry, I could never hate the prettiest driver"

The next day had been quite normal, considering Charles stopped bothering the girl, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The girl he couldn’t get, had started off as a bet where he would have her fall for him, turned to him falling for her.

“Hey, Charles?” Her voice made his heart spike up, turning to see her with a small smile. “Mind helping me with something?”

He nodded, waiting for her request as she fiddled with her ear, taking out a single earring.

“I lost my earring earlier, mind helping me look of it?” he noticed her earring, one similar to another he had spotted not too far, a golden stud with diamond specs. He just nodded, observing it in her hand before replying with a simple sure. Without saying much else, he headed to the last place he saw it last with the girl trailing behind him.

“I think I saw it earlier around here” he informed, starting the search with her. “I’ve never seen you wear jewelry before” he attempted to make a conversation and while the girl hesitated, she decided to reply with interest, “I don’t. Normally I am not allowed to, I only wear them on formal occasions really. But the one time I tried wearing it, i seemed to have lost it”

Charles only chuckled, searching the area with more detail. “It sure looks pretty, gift, I assume?” he wanted the conversation to last a lifetime, hearing her voice made him both comfortable and on suspense.

“Yeah, my mother gave it to me. The only gift she gave me and I’ve lost it” her voice filled with sorrow and Charles immedietly filled terrible, ready to apoligize for even bringing it up but all she gave him was a reassuring smile, “It’s okay, I just need to find it is all”

The search continued, lasting an hour before the girl gave a tired sigh, feeling her eyes trickled with water but she refused to cry, at least not in front of someone. She was ready to give up, clinging onto the one that she hasn’t lost yet hoping to anyone that could hear to allow her to find the gift. Meanwhile, Charles refused to give up not needing her frowned expression to be the appearance she gives him everyday because he couldn’t find her precious item. Not too long afterward, he finally spotted it, underneath a rug, he immediately grasped it letting out a soft yell, enough for her to hear him

“Found it!” immediately, she went to him observing the earring before confirming it and thanking him, excitement struck her as she leaped forward grabbing the sides of his face pushing her lips to his.

Charles arms fell to his sides, still needing time to react before closing her in his embrace wanting to deepen the kiss, eager for more, still ensuring to keep grasp of the earring. The kiss only lasted a minute before the girl finally brought herself back, bringing her hands to her sides, no longer looking at the earring but needing a positive reaction from the driver she as well was having a headache about the past couple of days.

Seeing no reaction, she immediately grasped the earring thanking him silently but before she could turn away, he grabbed the sides of her face pulling her back in for another taste, she immediately melted in his arms, almost dropping the earring. After the two separated, their eyes wouldnt dare leave each other for a second, Charles lifting a corner of his mouth, feeling all types of adrenaline while the girl in his arms tried her best to calm down not sure if she was liking the rapid pace her heart was going.

“Hope this isn’t part of your plan Leclerc” was all she could let out, with a shaky breath. Charles only smiled, reassuring her

“I lost the minute I started falling”

#charles leclerc #f1 #f1 x you #f1 reader #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x y/n #reader insert #formula 1 #charles leclerc x reader #f1 fandom #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #fluff

2K notes · View notes

shinelikethunder · 6 months

Note

THANK YLU SO MUCH OH MY WORD????? I actually feel like I understand all of this now… thank you for going through it so thoroughly, that’s so nice of you oh my gosh🥺

Also yeah Firefox rules— but… ahsjshdh again, weird question, any particular extension you’d recommend (other than uBlock origin)? I’ve seen people say you should keep extensions to a minimum as to not make your browser fingerprint super unique or something? But blocking cookies does sound cool, and I also didn’t know you could do that w/ extensions? I’ll leave you alone now I promise😭

you're welcome! i can't believe i've become one of the obnoxious Linux evangelists, but much like Tumblr, it's become the least-bad OS left standing just by continuing to get minor quality-of-life improvements while its competitors race to make themselves annoying to the point of unusability.

so the thing about browser fingerprinting is 1. it's less common than abuse of tracking cookies, and exists partially as a fallback to keep tracking you even when you're blocking the easier methods, 2. Firefox now does its best to block it, 3. if you're using Firefox on a desktop Linux computer, that is probably much more identifying in and of itself than any given combination of popular extensions. i've pretty much embraced privacy nihilism on that particular issue.

you still want to be choosy about your add-ons, though, because they can see and manipulate pretty much everything you do in your browser, and malicious ones can really fuck your shit up. uBlock Origin is maybe the most trusted adblocker out there, Multi-Account Container tabs is developed by Mozilla itself, and Privacy Badger is an EFF project, so i have no qualms recommending any of them. personally i run a few more on top of that: Decentraleyes and ClearURLs to mop up a couple more kinds of tracking crud; separate extensions to force all Amazon/Facebook/etc browsing to be quarantined in dedicated containers; a password manager; and just for the sake of fun & minor website tinkering, Tampermonkey and XKit Rewritten. your mileage may vary on the risks vs. benefits; useful and popular browser add-ons have been taken over in the past by bad actors.

i'm definitely not claiming this add-on stack is a cure-all for anything, because there's no way to fully escape the data parasites while still existing in society. it does, however, noticeably increase my level of peace and fucking quiet on the interweb, as well as affording me the petty satisfaction of making their jobs more difficult.

#anonymous #recs

291 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months

Text

The Grey Zone 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, age gap, bullying, toxic parental figures, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your parents has never been good, and that with a family friend takes a strange turn(goth!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: This is what happens when I decide to say fuck it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. ��

The scent of matcha dampens your corset. Lucky for you, it’s black and won’t stain. That’s the one worry you rarely face in your life; stains. Dark fabric does more favours than just slimming you.

Still, that sunny side isn’t enough to brighten your mood. Your day has been shrouded in dark clouds. Your wasted Starbucks matcha and spoiled study sessions weigh down your feet, the thick treads of your boots clomping down the pavement. And on the bus, you nearly fell right on your face with no seats free to sit.

You look up as you approach your father’s ranch house style home. He didn’t take much pride in you but the house was always a gem for him to show off. Almost all your life, it was under one renovation or another. He was always trying to fix things up, including you.

Your mother enabled his endless ‘improvements’ so long as he bribed her with something pretty. That was her thing. He builds, she decorates, and you are the one ornament that doesn’t fit. At least, that’s what it’s felt like since your turn towards black nail polish and fishnets at thirteen. Seven years later and there was still the same angst woven into your parental relationships.

You tramp up the steps of the porch, not noticing the figure sat on the handcrafted bench near the large squared paned windows. Mr. Hansen sits with a can of craft beer in hand, arching a brow at the can as he reads it skeptically. He glances over, not so surprised by your sudden appearance.

You take your earbuds out as the racket scratches from the tiny speakers. You thin your lips, smiles not exactly your forte. He sits up and puts the can down on the bench.

“Tastes like fermented socks,” he says coolly, “your dad never has anything good.”

“Mm,” you grumble as you grip the leather strap of your studded knapsack. “Yeah…”

“You want it? Just don’t tattle on me,” he offers as he taps the aluminum brim.

You shake your head.

“I won’t tell,” he smirks.

“You’re right, it tastes like socks,” you say dully.

He chuckles and brings his hand up, smoothing his palm across the buzzed side of his head. He looks at you, a bit longer than usual. You have the urge to take out your phone and check your reflection.

“I should–”

“That new?”

You speak at the same time. Awkward. Mr. Hansen isn’t usually that out of sync. He has a confidence that makes you feel even more clueless.

“What?” You blink and twist your toe into the wood.

“That shirt.”

You look down at the boned black corset with the violet trim, over a plain black turtleneck. You got it from a vintage store years ago. You’ve worn it so much, the boning holds the shape of your body. You shake your head and shrug.

“Hmm, looks nice.”

The compliment catches you further off guard than his solitary presence. He’s blunt and to the point. The only person you’ve ever heard tell your father the truth. And you know your style is not to everyone's taste.

Looking at him, it's definitely not his. Cream coloured pants, burgundy loafers with golden buckles, and polo striped in shades of goldenrod and garnet.

“Thanks,” you keep from sucking your lip in, not wanting to smear your lip stain. “I should… go.”

“Sure,” he sits back, leaning against the window frame, “if you see your dad, send him out. He ditched me like fifteen minutes ago to find some nonsense sports card.”

“Right,” you continue across the porch.

In your peripheral, his head turns but you don’t meet his gaze. You pull open the screen door, innately aware of him watching you. Why?

The interior door is ajar. You step inside and the spring of the screen snaps it shut behind you. You put your bag on the console table just inside, and lean on it as you unlace your boots. Your mother would subject you to her shrill disapproval if you leave dirt on the runner again.

As you stand, you check your reflection in the round mirror hung on the wall, a frame of golden oak leaves around it. You don’t look that bad. You fixed most of your smeared eyeliner before you left the mall and your lip stain has stuck pretty well. You might be a bit shiny from sweat but nothing egregious.

Before you can grab your bag, the screen door opens. You wince and look at Mr. Hansen as he enters. He is close as he lets the door shut softly and you quickly snatch your knapsack and move away from him.

“Second thought, gotta hit the bathroom,” he explains but pauses and wiggles his nose, the gesture made more obvious by the trim of hair beneath, “smells like grass.”

“Uh, yeah,” you sling your bag from your elbow, “spilled my tea.”

“Probably a good thing if it smells like a lawn,” he scoffs and kicks off his velvet loafers.

“Probably,” you agree glumly and turn away.

“Too bad though. Hope you didn’t burn yourself.”

You stop again, at the bottom of the stairs. You glance back at him. He’s being strangely nice. This isn’t the same man who called you Wednesday Addams and teased you how he was certain that you must sleep in a coffin. Is something wrong? Is your dad okay?

“Hey,” your dad’s voice booms down the stairs above you. You spin and look up at his descent. He carries the old cigar box he keeps his collectibles in, “home early. Thought you were studying.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m just going to do it here–” you say.

“Your mother wants you to help with dinner tonight,” he doesn’t let you finish. As he nears he stops, looking you up and down like he always does. You have to know that he hates everything about you. “Colourful.”

“Dad,” you whisper a weak plea.

He doesn’t answer you as he shoulders past. You frown but don’t look back. You don’t want to show how much it hurts. Even if it happens every day, it still crushes you. It’s just clothes, why does he care so much? You remember the day he stopped taking you to car shows with him, the day you refused to take out your earrings. That was the switch.

“Studying, huh? Boring, but admirable,” Mr. Hansen comments, “think most dad’s would love to hear that from their daughters, huh, Ray?”

Your father just huffs, “depends what they’re studying.”

You keep on up the stairs. You won’t argue, not in front of company. Especially not in front of Mr. Hansen.

“Degree isn’t worth much when you dress like that,” you hear his remark before you get to the top.

You peek back downstairs but can’t see the landing below. Funny, you got a job and they don’t care what you wear, they just want you to show up. If only you had the courage to say it out loud. If only it would make a difference.

You shuffle to your room, just down the hall from your father’s. He occupies the primary room and your mother sleeps in her studio, just the next doorway. They can be amiable, given they don’t spend too much time together. Their relationship is more transactional than affectionate.

You wouldn’t know much about that, though. You’re only guessing. The closest you got to a relationship was when Travis invited you under the bleaches… that’s a memory worth forgetting.

You close your door before you can get carried away. You stopped worrying about your parents’ marriage right before high school. You realised then, there wasn’t any use in fretting in it. In fact, you became almost hopeful that one day they would split.

You put your bag on your bed and look around. The vanity you painted black stands beside the dark curtains. Little bat stickers decorate the edges of the mirror, your collection of antique vials and painted bottles line one side, and your make up chest sits on the other. It’s your little cave, the one place no one can tell you who to be.

You turn on the lamp in the shape of a crystal ball. You undo your corset and peel off your turtleneck, leaving the damp clothing in the hamper. You pull on a black and white striped sweater instead.

You unpack your laptop and climb up on your high queen. The frame has curling iron posts, a particularly gothic design with a peak at the center of the headboard. You love it even if it scratches the paint off the wall.

You pile your pillows up, building a cosy nest to catch up on your work. It’s maybe ten minutes before there’s pounding on your door. Your mother doesn’t wait for an answer. You’ve learned not to expect her to. You look over as she flips on the overhead lights, ruining the subtle ambience of your bedside lamp.

“Uh, hello,” she snips, “your dad said he told you about dinner.”

You frown, “it’s only four–”

“Yes, and? I’m making a bouillabaisse. It needs lots of time,” she retorts, “besides, the table will need to be set for our company.”

“Company? You mean Mr. Hansen–”

“Er yeah,” she sniffs, “don’t be so dumb and stop asking questions.”

“Just curious,” you close your laptop and push yourself across the bed, “coming…”

Your voice trails off as your mother’s already gone, your door left slightly ajar. You huff and follow her tracks, her steps on the stairs as you get to the hallway. You pull your door shut behind you, checking to make sure the fault mechanism catches.

You continue downstairs and follow the impatient clanging of your mother. She’s never very subtle. She already has a glass of red on the counter. She’ll bark at you over it as she tells you exactly how to cook and refuse to do any of it herself.

“Oh, honey,” she says dramatically as she slams the soup pot on the burner, “you look so grim. What happened to that new gloss I bought you?”

“The pink stuff?” You utter as you pick at your sleeves.

“It went so nice with your complexion,” she preens, “it would look so nice with a new dress. I was online shopping today–”

“Mom,” you cross your arms.

“Don’t be a brat. You know, when I was your age, I would’ve loved if my mother still bought me clothes. She made me work for everything I had. She wouldn’t even buy me tampons.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“Don’t be sorry, get the fish out. Don’t forget the mussels…”

You do as she says. You take out the vast array of fish along with the vegetables she lists off. She empties her glass by the time you start adding ingredients to the blender for the base. You’ve never been a fan of the dish but the last time you tried to convince her on something similar, you went to bed with a stinging cheek. She pours a second glass as you run the motor, holding it extra long to override her nagging.

She leans on the counter, swirling her glass. You can smell her cabinet-laced breath. She’s tipsy already. You add oil to the pot and wait for it to heat up.

“You look so dreary in black,” she mopes, “what happened to my little girl?”

“I’m twenty,” you offer flatly.

“Oh, you started this long before that,” she snarls, “you never wanted to be pretty for your mama.”

“I…” you look down, “this is pretty. To me.”

“You look like one of those girls on the internet…” her head wobbles and she slurps from her glass, “I’ve seen the type. They wear tights like yours and nothing else. What are you always doing on your computer, anyway?”

The accusation scalds you. You shake your head and add the chopped onion, fennel, and leek to the hot oil. This isn’t the first time she’s made the insinuation. Like that time she found certain websites saved on your father’s iPad. It couldn’t have been him, he wouldn’t look at those things. And there was only one other person to blame.

“Schoolwork,” you sigh, “mom,” you look at her wine glass, almost empty again, “how about some water–”

“How about you don’t tell me what to do,” she points at you with a long red nail, “I am your mother, not the other way around.”

“I know,” you grab a rubber spatula and push around the veggies and oil. The fragrant aroma rises in the air. It stokes your appetite.

“Mmm, something smells delicious,” Mr. Hansen’s voice enters ahead of him as you glance over.

Your mother turns and leans her elbows back on the counter, pushing her chest out. You know this part too. Not just with him but the gardener and even the garbage man. Your eyes flick to Mr. Hansen’s before you quickly return your attention to the pot.

“Looks delicious too,” your mother slithers as she leers at him, “Lloyd, I didn’t even get a chance to thank you for the merlot!” She raises her glass sloppily, “there’s enough left for you.”

“Ah, Connie, that’s nice of you,” he replies as he nears, “but it’s cabernet, actually. And my stomach was turned by that craft bullshit.”

He comes close to the stove, standing beside you as he peers down into the pot. The heat from the stove couples with that of his proximity. Your mother drains her glass and pulls away from the counter.

“More for me,” she chimes and grabs the bottle.

You feel a warmth on your lower back as Mr. Hansen’s cologne mingles with the scent of your cooking, “what’s for dinner, sweetheart?”

You realise he’s touching you. His hand slips under the wool of your sweater and his thumb rubs the skin along the top of your pants. You freeze and keep your hand steady as you simmer the veggies. You peek over at your mother, she’s too distracted with her glass.

“Bouillabaisse,” you answer in a brittle voice. You shift and his hand falls away, grazing the top of your pocket, a tickle on your ass.

“Mmm, fish,” he purrs, “I’m starving.”

“Shoo, shoo,” your mother waves her hand at him, “won’t cook faster with you hovering around.”

“Fine, fine,” he raises his hands defensively, “don’t burn yourself, Connie. I see you doing all this hard work–”

“Oh, you,” she sneers and grabs the dish cloth from in front of you where it hangs from the oven handle. She whips the end in his direction, “no wonder you and my husband get along.” She snaps him with it again, “you’re a bunch of jackasses.”

He cackles, unbothered by her anger, but retreating nonetheless. You keep your head down and your mother takes another thick gulp. She scoffs.

“Men,” she slurs, “no good. If you won’t listen to me about anything, you take that in, hon. They’re all trash.”

You refuse to look after Mr. Hansen or think about the shadow of his touch on your skin. Men are confusing, that’s enough to keep you away.

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #the grey zone #the gray man #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #au #dark fic #dark!fic #series

362 notes · View notes

ao3cassandraic · 9 months

Text

What does Aziraphale know and when does he know it? Part 3, The Fiasco

Prologue, Part 1, and Part 2, for those who need them.

Let's play an incredibly clichéd game about acting: What's My Motivation?

When Aziraphale walks back into the bookshop after his chinwag with the Metatron, Crowley's motivation is singular and steel-strong: he wants to declare his love for Aziraphale and truly launch Our Side. That's it. That's all there is.

If only things were so clear for our poor angel. If we accept my prior analysis, at this point he's got several things he needs to do, all of them in the name of thwarting the Metatron's wiles:

Like Shax, inform Crowley that something -- something still unclear, but definitely something -- is going down in the up. Up up. (Beautiful bookending here. Beautiful.)

Beg for Crowley's help to...

Make a plan to deal with it. (And he's all out of plan-juice after the demon fight in the bookshop, poor angel.)

All this without letting the Metatron know that Aziraphale doesn't trust him, didn't buy his bullshit, doesn't want to accept his job offer but may have to accept to have any chance of thwarting him (or, you know, surviving), and thinks the whole business reeks to (you should excuse the expression) high Heaven. He has reason to think this feat can be pulled off, because he knows from the chinwag that the Metatron is neither infallible nor omniscient.

So yeah, I think there's some playwright or screenwriter slogan about characters who are talking to one another having completely different conversations at the same time? Totally what's happening here.

In a truly remarkable bit of dramatic irony, Crowley, who is usually a stickler for kayfabe, has utterly dropped it -- he's being gorgeously heart-on-his-sleeve sincere -- while Aziraphale, who is often slack about kayfabe, is playacting for the Metatron's benefit like their lives depend on it. This... doesn't help them get on the same page. (Litotes. Your key to quality meta.)

Let's see how that works out for them.

As Nina and Maggie leave after blowing Crowley's brain to smithereens, Aziraphale continues taking deep breaths to pull himself together, pasting on a smile for the ladies... and, as it turns out, for the Metatron watching from across the street.

He who hesitates is lost; the determined, singleminded Crowley starts in. Aziraphale tries non-verbally to stop him. That's what the hands-out pushing-down-and-away gesture is -- with a quick sidewise glance out the window toward the Metatron, no less. But Crowley will not be stopped, so Aziraphale has to use his words -- "hold that thought."

Not "no." Not "I'm talking blithely over you for no reason." Just "not now, please, I need help." And again, I can't blame him. He does need help, urgently, because whatever bullshit the Metatron laid down about "take all the time you need," he's expecting an answer from Aziraphale (and it jolly well better be "yes" at that) and worse, he's not leaving the vicinity to wait for it.

So Aziraphale starts explaining the Metatron's offer, sounding rather forced and inarticulate. None of the bodily markers of true Aziraphalean joy are present. He's holding his torso straight and still, and his hands are not doing the shoulder-level wave of joy -- they're doing the aimless-gesture dance of anxious confusion.

He says, "The Metatron... you know, I don't think he's as bad a fellow -- well, I think I might have misjudged him."

When Aziraphale's happy, he tosses around words like "nice" and "kind" and "good." Did y'all hear any of those words? I didn't. I heard another covert call for help: I misjudged the Metatron, Crowley, he's not as bad as I thought -- he's so, so much worse! And he rather reasonably thinks Crowley will pick up on this because they've played a lot of rounds of the kayfabe clue-dropping improv game over the millennia, the last round not fifteen minutes ago.

Then Aziraphale recounts the chinwag. His words appear accurate (the cuts back and forth to the chinwag itself are pretty seamless), though again, we don't know what he might be leaving out.

Crowley is distracted from his purpose by the raised bribe. "He said what?!"

If I'm Aziraphale in this moment, with the Metatron all but physically dragging me back to Heaven, I would want Crowley with me there in the worst way! Going to Heaven together, rather than Aziraphale alone, might be the start of a plan capable of thwarting the Metatron! So I don't think Aziraphale's starry-eyed statement of the offer is about wanting to change Crowley (though the implication absolutely is there for us to pick up on and dislike). I don't think it's about keeping Crowley safe, either -- anyplace with the Metatron in it is categorically not safe. It's a "yes, actually, this might work! do you think it'll work? will you come with me and see?"

Aziraphale then puts on the unhappiest happy-news performance ever. No happy hands. No shoulder shimmies. His voice is in its highest, most anxious register. His smile is decidedly tense and kayfabe-y.

Over the next part of the fiasco, Aziraphale figures out that Crowley hasn't picked up the kayfabe phone; the angel's face visibly falls as he listens to Crowley rant. Crowley's taking all this seriously -- which is also reasonable; Crowley's being honest and Aziraphale, historically, mostly ignores kayfabe. And this is a problem, because Aziraphale still needs Crowley to locate a clue, still needs a plan, still needs help.

So Aziraphale calls back to the s1 bandstand: he starts telling the same old whoppers about good and evil and Heaven and Hell, whoppers so transparent to Crowley (and likely enough to fool the Metatron, what with his contempt for everyone ever) that Crowley must pick up on the kayfabe, mustn't he? Mustn't he?

But he doesn't. Crowley doesn't pick up on it. (Again, fair. He's had to put up with centuries of Aziraphalean unexamined self-righteousness.) He just says "Tell me you said no," with a strong undercurrent of "if you actually care for and value me, you bloody well said no."

And Aziraphale can't, because the Metatron is watching, explain that he didn't say no because the Metatron was not taking no for an answer, and because Aziraphale himself doesn't know what to do, which response will lead to a Metatron-thwarting. He's running out of kayfabe lines to say that will get Crowley back onside, and this desperation shows in his face and his two or three fruitless attempts to speak, before he finally says, sincerely to my ear, that he could make a difference.

Which is what he's trying to do! It's his motivation! He wants to make a difference by thwarting the fucking Metatron! Which may well mean going back to Heaven!

But this isn't the meaning that Crowley hears (and a lot of us missed it too, me included at first -- no shade, Gaiman and Sheen did a lights-out job of trick-with-the-truth with that line). Crowley hears that Aziraphale wants to go work with the Metatron to do Heaven's will, and he'll trample Crowley's very identity to do so. So Crowley, still singleminded, still determined, now as desperate as Aziraphale to be understood, finally forces himself as close as he can get to a declaration of love.

Watch Aziraphale as Crowley declares them a team, a group. He glances out toward the Metatron again. He looks anxious and unhappy, hardly the face of an angel whose long-time unacknowledged partner is finally acknowledging their partnership. This isn't what Aziraphale needs just then. Just then, Aziraphale needs Crowley's help, and he can't for the life of him figure out how to tell Crowley that without tipping off the Metatron to the kayfabe. He's failed at it how many times by now?

Then Crowley pulls a second bandstand: "we can just go off together." Aziraphale, as other meta-ists have noted, can't say yes to this any more than he did in s1. He's got a Metatron to thwart! So he shakes his head, and he begs Crowley to come with him, repeating that they can make a difference. That's sincere! He wants them to! But, to my ear, there's still a teensy bit of possible kayfabe in there, with "second-in-command." That just rings false.

"You can't leave this bookshop." "Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever." Kayfabe, kayfabe, kayfabe -- Aziraphale is a guardian and an avowed and demonstrated preservationist. This line is for the Metatron to buy and Crowley to finally do a proper WTF about.

And Crowley WTFs, all right, but in the wrong way, putting on his shades and heading for the door. Now Aziraphale is truly desperate -- he tries to call Crowley back, and he tells another part of the truth: "I NEED YOU!" To help. To thwart the Metatron.

And yet another part of the truth, duly kayfabed, with the angel starting to be a bit irked at Crowley's stubborn misapprehension: "I don't think you understand what I'm offering you." Namely, a chance to thwart the Metatron.

Crowley sure doesn't. He suuuuuuuuuuuure doesn't. He's still having a completely different conversation. Aziraphale gives up in exasperated despair: "then there's nothing more to say." And on his face at that moment: calculation and displeasure, because he still has a Metatron to thwart and it's looking like he'll have to do it alone.

Only Crowley has more to say, about the absence of nightingales and us-es. And Aziraphale's face is all are you fucking kidding me with this shit? Aziraphale still has a Metatron to thwart, and if Crowley won't help, the least he can do is get out of the way, as Aziraphale made him do in their earlier argument over helping Jimbriel.

He looks away, giving Crowley the chance to jump him, haul him in by the lapels, and kiss him. Because that's the conversation Crowley's been having all along.

If I'm Aziraphale in this moment, my brain is exploding in several directions. I have a Metatron to thwart. He's watching this drama from across the street. What is he thinking, and how do I deal with him now? I don't have Crowley's help to thwart him. With that in mind, do I accept or refuse the job offer? I have finally figured out the urgency of the conversation Crowley thought we were having. I'm so terribly sorry I didn't make any gestures toward that conversation, because -- Crowley is actually kissing me, there aren't enough WTFs in the entire history of the entire universe for this!

No wonder his hands are tentative. No wonder the camera doesn't let us see much of his face; the above is a lot to convey for even the mega-ultra-talented Master of Microexpressions Michael Sheen.

Aziraphale, shocked and irked and scared and brain-exploded and feeling new things, tries kayfabe (mixed with truth; he is direly irked at Crowley's obtuseness) one last time: "I forgive you." Surely this time Crowley's got to --

But no. Still no uptake. Crowley leaves. Fiasco complete.

Next post will be the last: The Aftermath. Plus some comment on this as, in my view, the most parsimonious and narratively accommodating read on the scene, ergo (again, in my view) the likeliest.

#gos2spoilers #gos2 spoilers #good omens season 2 spoilers #the fucking metatron #the final fifteen minutes #good omens meta #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands

282 notes · View notes