#Fuck Knuckles is also in a band

[abstract-ostrich]

Some crappy doodles of my ocs because it's hard to draw today 😭

putting some background info on them in the tags if ur interested :P

[burningcomputerpersona]

i just saw a picture of the merch tents at sad summer fest and now i'm ridiculously excited for it

[rafesangelita]

♡ baecation sex with rafe

warnings: making out, dry humping, oral (m. and f. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, praise, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, drinking, mentions of both reader and rafe being under the influence, semi-public sex

a/n: i desperately need it to be summer time already!! i can’t wait to make more themed fics <3 also i just came up with this on a whim so i’m very sorry if it’s all over the place..

sex between you and rafe back home was already paradise, but sex when you two were actually in paradise? even better. being away from the outer banks meant that you and rafe had no worries, no time limit for how long you wanted to make love and stay in bed together afterwards, no interruptions. it was absolutely perfect. from the second you walked into the ultimate suite rafe surprised you with, he didn’t waste any time in getting your clothes off, leaving you in nothing but your soaked panties as he dragged your hips up and down his clothed cock.

“fuck—” he cursed under his breath, taking handfuls of your ass and groping the flesh there as you whimpered against his lips. he wouldn’t stop grinding your cunt against him until you’ve came at least two times, leaving behind a sticky mess as rafe kissed you until both of your lips were aching with need. he’d wake you up with his head in between your thighs, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore paired with the cries of his name was like music to his ears. shower sex was always a must, but not before returning the favor.

rafe could never get used to the sight of you on your knees for him. someone who he held up to the highest standard going down just for his pleasure, the idea alone had him painting your lips in record time. getting ready and leaving the suite was nearly impossible since rafe couldn’t keep his hands off of you, especially when you came striding out of the bathroom looking like a world class model in your flowy dress and sandals, the sight of you alone making him believe you couldn’t be real.

“you’re just so beautiful, i can’t help myself..” he whispered, making your lips part as you felt the head of his cock enter you slowly. as time goes on, you’re pleading with him to fuck you harder, but instead he shushes you and tells you there isn’t any rush. “m’gonna take my time, and you’re gonna take it the way i give it to you, yeah?” all objections would die in your throat the second he had his fingertips pressing hard circles into your clit. of course, you’re walking to the bar on shaky legs with the help of rafe’s arm wrapped around waist as he acts like he didn’t just rearrange your insides ten minutes prior.

he chooses a dark spot in the tavern for the two of you to sit at, ordering you both bottomless drinks until you’re giggling in his lap and he’s drunkenly leaving sloppy kisses along your jaw. his hands start roaming your body, and once they manage to slip underneath your dress, you find yourself burying your face in his shirt to muffle the moans leaving your lips. he’s knuckle deep inside your cunt, the aroma of coconut and hibiscus flowers filling his senses. the music is thumping in your chest, and once you’re clawing at his arm and your thighs start trembling around his hand, you’re thankful that no one can hear the half shriek you let out as the band in your tummy snaps and you come undone around his digits.

you two barely make it back to the suite in a fit of laughter, your sandals tucked tightly between rafe’s arm as you pulled him inside. of course, the length of your dress counteracted with your tipsy state and you’re flying to the floor with a small smack! you’re laughing too hard to feel any pain, your boyfriend sobering up for a second in order to rush down and check on you. “i’m okay, i’m okay!” you reassure him, pulling him down on top of you as you kiss him deeply. that’s exactly how you two end up having floor sex, rafe insisting for you to be on top so you weren’t scraping yourself up on the stone surface.

you rode him until he was digging his fingers into your skin, his jaw falling slack as he filled you up with his seed. rafe nearly lost all brain function when you kept up your ministrations, unintentionally overstimulating him as he groaned, his cerulean eyes rolling to the back of his head while you trailed wet pecks up his neck from his chest. rafe has to hold you in place, pulling you tight against his chest in order to regain control and keep you from milking him dry. “holy fuckkk,” he drawls out, cradling your head, “you’re insane.” it isn’t long before he’s picking you up bridal style, laying you down gently in the plush comforter before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

the next morning, you’re waking him up with breakfast in bed, having already made a full recovery from last night. you’re hand feeding him his fruit, both of you just basking in each other’s prescence while the birds sound from outside the balcony. “i don’t want to go home.” you sigh, your head now resting against rafe’s chest. he hums groggily, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “so then we won’t. i’ll extend the reservation.”

[samulogy]

im begging for you to make a drummer bakugou based on that "i hate attention" video on tiktok of the girl on his lap

⊹ ᡣ𐭩₊⋆ divine agnes ! the coincidence that i also saw the video on my feed just as i was reading this ask. a bit suggestive, though not full-blown smut. fem!reader ♡

this was the part of the show everyone waited for.

it had started as a half-serious joke during rehearsals, but now, it was a signature moment—where the band performed shirtless and invited fans onto the stage. it was chaotic, but the fans loved it—always ate it up. every. single. time. katsuki, ever the showman despite his usual preference for controlled chaos, played along because, hell, why not? it wasn’t like anyone would hinder his ability to play the drums anyway.

tonight, as dunce face—their lead guitarist—went off stage and picked a handful of lucky fans onto the stage, his eyes locked onto you.

you stood out, not because you were screaming or jumping like the others, but because it felt like you were anticipating what is to come. a black, skin-tight dress that clung to your curves, highlighting the physical attributes of your chest, the stage lights making the fabric shimmer in a way that made katsuki’s throat feel dry.

before he could second-guess himself, he stood up, walked towards you—past eijirou and hanta, who were getting to know some of their chosen fans—and met you halfway on the stage.

“c’mere, princess,” he called, his voice rough but somehow carrying over the background music. “you enjoyin’ the show s’far?” bakugou took your hand—warm, steady—and guided you over to where his drums were and sat you carefully on his lap.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear over the music.

you looked down at him, smiling in a way that sent a slow burn through his chest. “yeah. i—yeah,” you whispered, unsure of what to say.

“relax, i ain’t gonna bite you,” he chuckled, letting your arms search for a place to ground yourself without feeling too awkward and uncomfortable. “hold on to me, yeah? wouldn’t want you fallin’ for someone else.”

katsuki barely had a second to brace himself before getting back into the rhythm. his hands moved on instinct, drumsticks striking with practiced precision, his legs pumping the pedals without missing a beat.

which was when he realized the problem.

his legs were moving.

you were sitting on his lap.

and every time his foot hit the bass pedal, every slight motion of his thighs—you moved with it.

you had your hands on his shoulders, gripping them lightly for balance, your pretty, sparkling nails pressing into his skin—he was sure it’ll leave a mark (good). every shift, every flex of his muscles beneath you made your body press just that much closer, and—fuck.

your dress.

that damn dress.

his eyes kept flickering down, catching glimpses of smooth skin, the curve of your chest barely restrained by the neckline, and the way the fabric clung to your waist. it was a distraction in the worst way possible, his brain fighting between focusing on the setlist and the fact that he had a gorgeous girl practically grinding on him in front of thousands of people. that particular friction had his mind reeling from thoughts, his pants suddenly feeling tighter from the straining of his throbbing cock.

you didn’t seem fazed at all, though. you were smiling down at him, completely unaware of the way his jaw had locked, how he had to dig his heels into the stage to stop himself from reacting.

“you look prettier up close,” you say, sultry whispers close to his ear that had katsuki huffing shortly.

this girl, fuck.

he forced himself to keep his cool, to rely on muscle memory to get through the song, but every little movement—it was practically humping at this point—sent another spark of heat racing through him. his fingers tightened around the drumsticks, knuckles white with the effort of keeping himself under control.

the worst part?

you were enjoying it.

not in a teasing, intentional way—but you were clearly having fun. there was nothing forced about the way you laughed when the crowd cheered, nothing fake about the way you met his eyes and grinned like you belonged there, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him.

he almost fucked up a beat. almost.

katsuki never messed up during a performance, even if he’s had a hundred girls on his lap before, doing the same thing you were, but you were making it damn difficult to keep his head in the game. the exception above all to all of this.

and just as suddenly as it started, the song was over.

he helped you off his lap, graceful as ever, and for the first time in his life, katsuki found himself staring at a girl as you thanked him before you walked away—not because he was annoyed, but because he wasn’t ready for you to go.

before you disappeared into the crowd of fans being escorted off the stage, he caught your wrist, his fingers brushing against your skin.

“you liked it?” he asked, forcing his voice to sound steady, even though his heart was still pounding for an entirely different reason than adrenaline.

you tilted your head, considering. “i don’t really like too much attention,” you admitted. then, with a playful glint in your eyes, you added, “but… i wouldn’t mind if it came from you. in more ways than one, pretty boy.”

then you were gone, melting back into the sea of fans with your friends.

katsuki exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering heat crawling up his spine. suddenly the cold air of the place gave him chills, as if he hadn’t been shirtless for an hour and a half by now. he was about to turn back to his drum kit when he noticed something.

a small, folded note is sitting on his stool.

his name was scrawled on it, and when he opened it, he found a simple message—and a phone number. maybe you’ve expected this from the very beginning.

his lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but not quite anything else either.

tonight just got more memorable for him.

[jeongin-lvr]

🎼 ─┈┈ hubby heeseung ̩̩͙˚ ᩙ ⠀

husband! heeseung with the fattest crush on you literally ever. he worships the ground you walk on; he practically kneels before you, awaiting every need and command you bring to him. he’s so serious when he says he’d take every star out of the sky and give it to you as a gift if you asked. which also includes in bed when he has your face buried into the messed up, unkept bedsheets, whispering i love you’s as he kisses your g-spot with his fat cock. or when he has you in the shower, bent between your legs on his knees as water rushes down his back because you looked too pretty with soapy hair and skin. he mumbles against your clit as he does so, gurled by water but his point still comes across, “the prettiest girl... and you’re all mine, thank you...“

husband! heeseung who recites his vows as he fucks you in a mating press. its crazy but he does it every single time he has you all curled up, knees beside your head, too fucked out as buckets of his cum leaks out of you and stains the sheets. he’s telling you every promise he made on your wedding day and more. he’s reminding you it really is till death do you part. he doesn’t realize he’s doing it; it’s probably just because he gets so worked up, so full of love. every thrust into your flutterung hole is heaven, and all he can think about is how badly he loves you and how badly he wants to get you pregnant.

husband! heeseung who finds you the absolute sexiest when you’re wearing your glasses and his big t-shirt, bare legs, messy hair, rosy cheeks. it’s perfection, he can’t get enough. if he sees you like that fully expect to be completely ruined within the next hour. he fucks you with the glasses on, an dyou’re confused because he doesn’t get crazy like this when you actually dress up or put effort into your appearence, and all he has to say is, “this is the you that turns me on.“ he’ll pin your hands above your head and press your knees into your chest as he stuffs himself inside of you, loving the way the fabric of his shirt bunches at your hips. you weren’t even wearing any panties anyway, what did you expect <3

husband! heeseung who kisses your wedding bands whenever you two are having intimate, lazy sex. lifting your wrist and hand to his lips and pecking your knuckles, kissing on your shaky hands until his lips trace the cold metal, humming with a smile at the way your gaze flickers to his. its the cutest thing, immediately making you smile when you see the sparkles filling his gaze. its so obvious he loves you so much. he even promises to buy you more rings because, “you deserve it,“ and he never fails to fulfill his promise. the next day he somehow comes home from work with a new band, something new for your growing collection.

husband! heeseung who is the first to bring up kids and is very serious about wanting at least two. he’ll casually bring it up into conversations and its adorable... until he’s lifting you onto the counter and lifting your skirt because you’re ovulating and it’s, word for word, “the perfect time to get you pregnant.“ he says it sneakily, with a wink and a cunning grin. you can’t say no, especially since the idea of him being the father of your children was almost perfect. you’re both young but it doesn’t hurt to try does it? so he’s waking you up to his cock filling you up in the morning, or when you’re just watching a movie he ends up sitting you on his dick and filling you up. you have no complaints. just shaky legs and a nice, warm creampie.

husband! heeseung who finally gets you pregnant and is somehow even more obsessed with you. he’s doting on you hand and foot. every craving you get he’s finding every ingredient. every symptom you experience he’s researching diligently, telling you cures or remedies, scheduling doctors apointments to get an experts opinion. and on days when all you wanna do is be near him, feel him, feel sexy with him, he’s so perfect at being exactly what you need. he worships your body; praising you on how pretty you look full of his baby, how you’re glowing, kissing your ankles or your tits or anywhere you might feel a little unsure of.

[bluelockmaniac]

꒰ WILL YOU MARRY ME? ꒱₊ ⊹

▯ synopsis. how bllk boys propose to you ★ ft. sae, rin, kaiser, nagi x fem!reader

YOU CHOOSE WHETHER OR NOT YOU ACCEPT THEIR PROPOSAL !

itoshi sae. private, no words, & silent romance.

sae taking you out on late-night, fancy dinner dates was a regular occurrence. what was unusual tonight, however, was the way his sharp gaze lingered keenly on your every movement as you slid on your thigh-high stockings.

the mattress dips next to you, and you glance up innocently to see your boyfriend, dressed in a simple yet elegant beige suit. he appeared as calm and composed as ever, yet there was something unfamiliar about his approach that you couldn't quite pinpoint.

to your surprise, he takes your hand, caressing it gently with his thumb before sliding an intricate diamond ring onto your ring finger. your breath hitches as he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on your knuckles. he peers up at you through his thick lashes, lacing his fingers through yours, chuckling softly at the sight of your ridiculously wide eyes.

but you feel something else, this time resting in your other hand's palm. two tickets to spain.

PROPOSAL: ACCEPTED or REJECTED?

itoshi rin. also private, but awkward.

it had been an entire hour since rin had asked you to leave your shared bedroom. you had complied without question, assuming that perhaps he needed time to analyze a football game to prepare for an upcoming match, and you perfectly understood how important his career was to him.

suddenly, you heard your boyfriend's peculiar, startling voice calling out to you from the room. you immediately turned off your television, dashing to the sound of his urgent words. you burst open through the door, only to abruptly collide into his firm chest. your hand flew to your face to rub your nose in pain, but you quickly noticed the slight quivering of his fingers as he shut the door behind you.

his eyes take you in with uncharacteristic nervousness, before strangely glancing away as his hand digs into his suit pocket . . . suit?

your mouth hangs open in shock as he fishes out a velvety crimson ring box. however, much to his dismay, his attempt at trying to open the small, lavish box fell short of his expectations as it slipped from his restless grip and hit the ground with a soft thud.

"fuck," he curses under his breath.

the white-gold tapered ring spun in its place momentarily, before coming to a rest in front of you.

PROPOSAL: ACCEPTED or REJECTED?

michael kaiser. semi-public, romantic.

you thought you would never catch kaiser dropping down on one knee to slip a pretty ring onto your finger. and you were right— you wouldn't.

a pair of cerulean eyes were glued to you as you gave your order to the waitress. their owner swirled his glass of champagne, a subtle, persistent smirk resting on his lips. you felt him brazenly intertwine his fingers with yours, gently rubbing your knuckles as you made an effort to quietly ignore his gesture.

kaiser took this opportunity, while your attention was on the waitress, to deftly maneuver a three-stone rose quartz ring onto your finger. you hadn’t even noticed the cold touch of the metal band around your skin, assuming it was just his cool fingertips.

as the waitress left, you glanced back at kaiser and furrowed your brows in embarrassment when you realized he had been staring at you intently this entire time. “what? is there something on my face?" you asked, tilting your head to the side.

he grins, setting his glass on the table before pulling out a red rose and tossing it to where you hand lay. “no, meine liebe,” he teased, pointing to your hand, “but there certainly is something on your finger.”

curious, you glanced down and almost immediately, a loud gasp escaped past your parted lips, drawing the attention of diners around you.

PROPOSAL: ACCEPTED or REJECTED?

seishiro nagi. straight to the point.

"mmh, baby, 'was your ring size?" he mumbles, adjusting his head on his comfortable pillow (your lap) slightly. your hand freezes, halting the pleasant motion of your fingers raking through his snowy white hair.

"heyyy..." he whines, poking your thigh gently, "keep going, don' stop..."

you quickly nudge his head, eliciting a low groan from the large man. "sei... are you planning to propose to me?" you ask, meeting his gaze with hope.

he pushes himself up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, then pulls you onto his lap. he blinks sleepily before sighing, then resting his hands on both of your cheeks. "i thought we were practically married, but reo kept nagging me about buyin' you a ring or something..."

he leans in closer, forehead meeting yours. he strokes your lip with his thumb before taking you by surprise with a lazy kiss. he pulls away and looks back at you, eyes wordlessly demanding answers.

"well?" he tilts his head. "will you marry me?"

PROPOSAL: ACCEPTED or REJECTED?

a/n: me personallyyy . . . all four will be accepted but a girl can dream .

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform !

[casually-eat-my-soul]

Sterek idea: Stiles magic actually revolving around strings, like with his murder board, and that one scene with Lydia where she plucks the string. But he doesn’t know, it’s just something he learned from his mother.

He keeps string in his pockets and tied around his fingers. He ties string bracelets around the wrists of the people he loves as protection.

One night when Derek come over to ask for research sometime during season 2/3. Stiles just looks at Derek and sees how mentally, emotionally and physically drained he is. So without thinking he unties the red string from his pinky and wraps it around Derek’s pinky. Maybe also presses a kiss on the knuckle.

Derek is so confused about what just happened but he doesn’t want to untie the string from his pinky. He also doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to hunt down a deer and give it to stiles but he’s going to ignore that.

(Scott who sees the string around Derek’s pinky proceeds the wear as many of the string bracelets that stiles made him over the years…because he’ll be fucking damned if Derek is the only one wearing stiles strings. This becomes a status among the betas with how many strings and how colourful the strings are. Derek is only one to have a red string. The betas buy stiles red strings to get him to complete their collection but he never does. He growls at Erica when she tries to steal his string)

And then Stiles gets kidnapped and none of the werewolves can pick up a scent, it’s like he vanished from thin air. Derek is losing his mind when he feels a tug on his pinky, and he swears he can see a red string floating from finger into the distance. He follows the string and finds Stiles. The string falls of his finger when he rescue a stiles but he ends up picking it up and puts it his wallet.

When they get married Derek ties the string around his wedding band. And Derek always make sure to buy stiles as much string as he wants.

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru’s just a centuries-old vampire trying to blend in at uni, but you—his clingy, masochistic, and weirdly romantic bloodbag—keep ruining his cover (and his self-control) with love bites and reckless affection.

freaky pt. 2 don’t click unless ur a freak | masterlist.

satoru doesn’t understand how he got here. how he went from being the bloodthirsty, ageless menace of vampire folklore to sitting in the campus caf with an econ textbook, a blood sugar spike, and his absolutely deranged girlfriend tangled around him like a fever dream he forgot to wake up from. a very clingy fever dream. a limpet. a warm, slightly-bleeding parasite he has somehow imprinted on like a very stupid duckling.

well. maybe he does know how. it’s you. it’s always you. you, with your warm pulse and warmer eyes and unshakeable belief that pain equals affection. you, who walk around with band-aids in your bag that aren’t even for you. you, who offer your blood like it’s a bag of chips at a party. he’s survived centuries. inquisitions. the invention of the microwave. a taylor swift era he will never emotionally recover from.

and yet one breathy, “baby, i’m dizzy... drink me,” and this thousand-year-old apex predator is half-hard and suckling your wrist like a juice pouch. like a capri sun, if capri suns came with giggles and a moan.

he’s not proud of it. well. he is. but he won’t say that out loud.

he’s supposed to be blending in. the plan was simple. enroll, lay low, graduate, don’t fall in love with a psychotic bloodbag who thinks blood in a transfusion pouch is “sterile and emotionally distant.” he was going to ace his classes, eat mystery meat from the caf, and maybe grow a man bun. but no. you showed up. you with your sleepy eyes and compulsive need for skin-to-skin contact. you with the kind of scent that makes his fangs throb and his frontal lobe go static.

he shifts in his seat, dragging his textbook higher on his lap to hide the frankly criminal situation in his jeans. you squirm in his lap like you know, legs swinging lazily, cheek squished into the crook of his neck. your nose twitches a little, like a rabbit. one of your fingers is wrapped around the hoodie drawstring, the other gently poking at his ribs like a particularly affectionate woodpecker. it’s his hoodie. oversized, black, now faintly stained with the scent of your shampoo. he doesn’t want it back.

“you drank my breakfast,” you mumble, your voice a sleepy, petulant little thing. it buzzes against his throat like a threat and a plea all at once.

satoru groans. not from guilt—he has none—but from the sheer absurdity of this dynamic. he taps your nose with a knuckle, smirking despite himself.

“you climbed through my window at 3 a.m. and sat on my face. i thought it was a trade.”

you lean back just far enough to give him a look. that look. the one with narrowed eyes and twitching lips, the one that says you’re mad and loving it. your hair’s a mess. your eye bags are adorable. he wants to cradle your head and also maybe bonk it against a soft wall.

“don’t pretend like you didn’t like it. you purred.”

“vampires don’t purr,” he says, clearly lying.

“you made a sound. it was feral. like a cat being offered rotisserie chicken.”

“i was dying,” he tries.

“you were moaning.”

his mouth opens, then closes. his eyebrow twitches. he hates how easily you win.

“you can’t keep skipping meals just so i’ll drink from you,” he mutters, trying to nuzzle into your hair and hide his shame. you smell like sweat, sugar, and fabric softener. and blood. always blood. he hates how good it smells. how safe it smells.

you hum, fiddling with the drawstring again. “i like when you drink from me. it’s romantic. also, it stings. in a good way. like heartbreak and exfoliation.”

he chokes. on air. or pride. or both. because what the fuck does that even mean. heartbreak and exfoliation?? you say things like that with a straight face. he’s going to die of cringe and love.

his fangs throb. he tilts his head away before instinct takes over and he bites you in front of god and econ majors.

“people are staring,” he mutters, mostly to his own dignity.

“let them,” you whisper, and then, you bite him. right on the shoulder. through the hoodie. not hard, but with intent.

he flinches, ears ringing. his hand flies to your waist, gripping tighter. you giggle, eyes shining with delight.

he wants to throw you across the room and then chase after you like a cartoon villain with a bouquet. he wants to handcraft you a coffin with silk sheets. he wants to bite you and then tuck you in with a heating pad. he is not okay.

he drinks from you again that night. you kiss his cheek, brush his hair back, and murmur filthy, loving nonsense in his ear until he caves. he always caves.

you’re on his bed, straddling his lap, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. you tilt your head, breath hitching as his fangs sink in. your hands are in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. he licks over the bite gently, trying not to bite again just from how pretty you look blinking up at him like he’s the only thing in the world.

“you’re obsessed with me,” you say, dreamy and drunk on blood loss.

he pulls back, lips wet, pupils dilated. he licks his fangs. he tries to look annoyed. he probably just looks lovesick.

“you just thanked me for biting you.”

“yeah,” you sigh. “you’re my favorite pain.”

he stares. you smile. he shoves his hoodie sleeve over your face like a curtain, mostly so you don’t see how red his ears are.

he thinks he should probably feel guilty. or concerned. or call a priest. instead, he just feels this stupid, gnawing devotion that makes his stomach hurt and his hands shake and his soul vibrate in weird little circles around you.

you shift in his lap, content and bleeding and smiling like you’ve won the lottery. he’s the prize. you treat him like one. like he’s special. like he’s not a monster. it undoes him. every time.

he sighs. you hum. his hand slips under the hem of your hoodie and finds skin. warm. alive.

he’s doomed. hopelessly, gloriously, pathetically doomed.

and for once in his stupid long life, it feels like the best mistake he’s ever made.

[ghostyuri]

just can’t resist you

hiii

pairing…post-rescue!natalie scatorccio x fem!reader

in which…nat is only your friend. she plans on keeping it that way, because she swears a girl like you would never be into her.

before you read…angst with comfort. sexual and vulgar language. reader is described to be girly! nat thinks you’re straight. creepy guy being a weirdo. wc 3.4k.

the trailer smells like burnt popcorn and spilled beer.

you had burnt the popcorn; nat’s spaghetti-o-stained microwave is nearing its end, and apparently, three minutes had meant burning the kernels to a nearly inedible crisp. natalie didn’t complain, she grabbed a bowl and snacked on it with pleasure.

not surprising, she's also the same woman who picks black licorice in a candy store.

natalie had spilled the beer, knocking it over on your cherry red skirt when she moved in closer to you on her couch, peppered with small circular burn holes and fur from a stray cat she lets sleepover during stormy nights. she apologized immediately and with an insane amount of worry, like the liquid would cause you to melt.

you were fine, you told her that again and again, even when she was wiping the fabric of your skirt with the nearest dirty laundry on the floor and a rushed hand—you had grabbed hers softly with your own to stop her.

she looked at you with those gleaming puppy eyes that always made you weak.

it was a miracle you made it seven months on the dot with her—just like this. two people who somehow fit in this dull town like pieces from different puzzles, that still managed to click. natalie had even called you her friend. and she didn’t use that word lightly…it made you blush. whatever this was, it wasn’t something she could have with just anyone.

it’s special.

you are too fucking sweet, and initially that made her want to vomit.

when you fluttered your eyes at her at the diner, offering her the special pie of the day with a kind smile she didn’t commonly receive. she said ‘no,’ with a lifeless expression; the first time.

the second occasion, the ‘no,’ was spoken above a whisper. she was sitting in the corner and avoided your eyes at that time.

you didn’t pry; you had absolutely no room to. a pretty and mysterious stranger’s problems were not your own.

then came the next week, when you saw her one-of-a-kind face again. she had looked at you, all of you, from the top of your head down to the tip of your white gym shoes. you wore the same inviting smile but spoke with less cheer. natalie had to ask you what pie was on the menu; it had seemingly slipped your mind.

you served her peach pie that evening. next, blueberry. then apple on saturday. it was an unspoken routine, and no wonder why hanging out with her outside of that lonely diner came so fast.

why you’re sitting in her trailer, curled up on the worn brown couch, painting her nails.

“stop fidgeting, natalie,” you warn with no real threat, leaning in closer to angle the brush better. you just barely miss her skin, the black paint still somehow almost perfect despite the woman growing antsy. “alllmost done.”

“shit takes five years,” nat whispers, though the painting itself isn’t why she can't remain still. she’s done this shit time and time again, though less precisely. she'd leave the dark smudges and would shrug it off. natalie is unsure she’s ever even owned a bottle of nail polish remover. what is making her shift so subtly, she doesn’t even know how you notice—is your hand holding hers.

for the past half hour. so incredibly soft to her calloused. they’re consistently scraped, but natalie liked to joke with you, too much at the serious times. she’d say she fought the new jersey devil or ran into the ninja turtles. fucking stupid, and you’d laugh at it. that noise she’d kill a man to hear on repeat.

“got a date or something?” you tease her, doing the last few strokes on her pinky. there’s a strawberry shortcake band-aid on her knuckle, placed by you the night prior.

the cut wasn’t deep enough to warrant worry, just your undying care. she didn’t even feel like washing the dried-up blood off, eager to get really close to you on the sofa without saying it was cuddling. but you’re you. treating her like porcelain. it makes her sick. nauseous with hot and vile love.

but that, that wasn’t allowed. she swallows those forbidden thoughts, pissed at herself for going there again. down the route that allows her to fall for you—just to embarrass herself when you put on that over-friendly voice you first did at the diner while you reject her.

because you…you weren’t any of this. you might be the beautiful wallpaper, but not the yellowing from the smoke that left her lungs.

maybe even the angel figurine abandoned by her mother, placed on a shelf with the rest of her junk. it got damaged in a moving box, and the wings had fallen off. she’d still catch herself studying it when the sun peered through the blinds at the right time, at the right angle.

the dozens of layers of glass within it would make it reflect a rainbow. she never had time to admire that when she was younger.

you’re not a guy she picks up when she’s so pathetically lonely—while you’re probably with some country club dipshit that’ll try to make you his housewife. someone undeserving of you and everything that you divinely are. natalie could not say the same for herself—that prick she distracts from bothering the bartender isn’t all that better than her.

you are. you must know that. the idea this friendship was based on pity filled her mind constantly, but you really fucking good at making it feel genuine. something you want. she wishes you wanted more, then she thinks shes a moron for hoping for such a thing.

she states blankly, “i might. is that a problem?”

“it is if it’s another jason—or something, again,” you respond, natalie taking notice in the way you remembered his name when she’s pretty damn sure it was uttered once in a regretted mumble. he siphoned her gas the morning after. but, she doesn’t know why you even care about who she sleeps with. it irritates her.

“won’t be…” natalie says, almost bitter. you don’t seem to catch it or acknowledge it. you twist the nail polish shut and place it beside her ashtray on the oval table and continue to talk, “or what was it—michael? that literally stole your cash?”

It’s not meant to come out so ill or make natalie uncomfortable. you wouldn’t hide your disdain towards who she was into because nat had some god awful taste. she never kept the good ones, and you wondered from the little details she’s spared about her past lovers, if she was the one who pulled away.

you lean back on the couch, and natalie straightens up at the very same time. any emotion on your face drains—realizing nat is upset. it happened when you asked too many questions; she despised those.

“you keeping track or something?”

the annoyance in her tone is evident, and you’re immediately shaking your head.

“no, i just—i don’t get why you keep doing that.”

“doing what, exactly?” she asks back like it’s a challenge; it’s nat, so it is. there were few times arguments occurred between you two, they never mattered though. it was over tiny things like you making her bed when she’s ‘super capable of it.’

you were always the calmer one; you had to be.

and now, you still are, even leaning in closer with a gentle approach. your perfume hits her in the motion, a warm sugary vanilla she wants to suffocate in. then, her eyes fall to her lap when you reach over, placing your palm on her knee.

“settle for…i don't know…pieces of shit?” your voice is soft, followed by a short chuckle, an attempt to ease the newfound tension. the truth, delivered in a way that wouldn’t have her even more pissed at you.

if only.

“well,” natalie’s mouth opens before her mind can form a coherent sentence, “maybe that’s what i fucking want and you should mind your damn business.”

she barely even pauses, “not like i tell you what prissy daddy’s boy you can go fuck.”

you blink at her.

a painfully heavy silence hangs in the air, thick like the nasty humidity outside. you don’t know if the heat in your cheeks is due to the summer evening or the carelessness of her sentence, which came out so raw. as if it’s something that crosses her mind, you and another.

she angles her body away from you.

“you should go…” natalie says with a hushed voice, and you’re trying to understand why and how the moment with her had been ruined so abruptly. an innocent night tainted by something so minor. she’s right; it’s not your business. anything nat does isn’t. or who she does.

you should’ve just kept your mouth shut.

“okay.”

you get up, adjusting your skirt with her guilty, watchful pupils. she gulps, following you to the door; she never let you walk out alone.

natalie brings you all the way to your car, her fists in the pockets of her ripped jeans and a cigarette already lit when you’re in the driver’s seat. only two words are exchanged. short byes.

you don’t see her the next day.

she doesn’t even stop by the diner the rest of the week. nat, honestly, feels like an asshole. and it itself is another reminder why she picks people like her—she doesn’t have to carry this unbearable weight of guilt with someone else. only you.

and maybe it’s self-punishment to avoid you.

but you hated it.

it is a cool friday night when you drive over to her place, but your knocks are left unanswered. through the cracks in the blinds, you notice it’s dim. only the orange porch light is left on. you even called out her name, worried this was nat really ignoring you.

that’s when you hear a rattling off of a car. it’s not natalie’s. there’s a headlight out, driving down the path to her trailer, the bass pounding to metallica.

you step down the stairs from her door, hugging your arms, kicking yourself for not throwing a jacket over your dress. it’s one of natalie’s favorites on you, a pale yellow that could nearly appear tea green. it’s short and thin for the heated weather, complementing the traces of your skin she sees in her dreams.

though, when the navy car parks and an unfamiliar face gets out of the driver's seat, you wish you wore something else.

natalie exits the passenger side, speed walking towards you while glancing at the dark haired man taking his time behind her. he’s eyeing you in ways that he doesn’t have the right to.

“what is this?” nat questions when she’s stood in front of you, her poorly chopped band tee lifting slightly when she puts her hands on her hips.

“i wanted to se—”

“could’ve fucking’ called, you know?”

“you wouldn’t have answ—”

“exactly,” she cuts you off for the second time, not releasing her eyes from yours, her tone sharp and mean. you have nothing to say back to her. you wish you did call and saved yourself from her hardened eyes and the wandering ones from the stranger.

a typical bar pickup. you could gag.

“is this…?” his voice is rough when he speaks, and not in the way nat’s is when she just woke up or fighting a nasty cold. it brings you shivers, especially when he points between you and natalie, then himself. he chuckles, “shit, i ain’t complaining.”

“no.”

natalie turns her head to the guy, shutting down the disgusting idea he assumed, and regretting her decision to invite him over. she mistakenly thought maybe your face would slip from her mind for the night. that’s all she fucking saw on the drive home.

if anything, she manifested you on her doorstep. she truly has no right to be so angry.

you scoff. “guess i’ll go.”

“the fun’s just starting, princess,” the man laughs through his nose, inching closer. you’re subconsciously clinging to yourself tighter and averting your gaze to the dirt you stood on. nat notices, of course she does.

her knuckles twitch.

natalie drops her purse from her shoulder, digging in the leather bag and finding her keys, placing them in your hands that just barely open in time. with a head tilt, she motions to the door. you don’t say anything, and neither does she. she’s already telling the man to start walking to his car while you’re letting yourself in the trailer.

you shut the door behind you when the yelling begins. or, the yelling begins the moment you shut the door. perhaps nat waited.

you flip the lights on, even tidying some of the mess she abandoned earlier in the day. you’re unaware that natalie has him pressed against his own car threatening his life—a rusty pocketknife taunting his manhood through his pants. she’s done worse than whatever she’d do for you.

the door opens and shuts again when your back is turned, putting a collected pile of dishes in the sink before facing her. she throws her purse on the couch, scratching the back of her head and figuring out what the hell to say. you’re first.

“really know how to pick them, nat.”

“i didn’t fucking know you were here.”

“and that changes what?” you ask her, an already defeated voice while you cross your arms in defense. you’re irritated, not just by tonight, but the fact she’s been blowing off your calls. pretending like she didn’t care and that your absence hadn’t bothered her at all. not when she can just be with someone else.

why can’t you?

“do you seriously not have somewhere better to be?” natalie takes a step closer, pupils blown and canines showing when she speaks, “get a fuckin’ boyfriend already—i know that shit isn’t hard for you.”

nat takes your breath away.

not the good kind where when her touch lingers too long while the credits roll on the tv. or when you sit next to her in the diner booth after flipping the sign on the door to closed, watching her lips curl around the fork when she’s finishing her dessert.

this is nothing like that.

her words are heavier than she surely pictured them in her chaotic brain, and it’s not as though you haven’t heard it before from nat. it’s been casually said in passing: why you’re you and how on earth you’re single.

the same way she avoided your nosy inquiries, you laughed it off sweetly, the answer lingering in the air.

“maybe i will.”

it’s spoken quietly; you almost allowed it to die on your tongue.

“good.”

her nostrils flare and her teeth grind, then the quietness of the trailer starts to swallow you both. you’re unsure if this is the part where you walk out. you fear if you do, you won't be back for a long, long time.

that was the last thing you wanted.

this is all so fucking stupid because what you want is standing a few feet away from you—with hurricane eyes that you’re drowning in the longer you hold this unspoken staring contest.

natalie chews the inside of her cheek. you fold in your bottom lip then gnaw at it, your heart picking up speed and thumping loudly in your ear. you’re both waiting for something from the other.

she’s expecting you to exit with the slam of the door behind you. nat often pictured the worst outcome first, and she's searching for the strength to prevent that. she’s so pathetically desperate for you to stay here. even if that means this awkward as fuck standoff you're having.

at least you’re looking at her through your long lashes. and she can still smell the heavenly perfume you showered in. it’s all over that pretty little dress you’re wearing. probably wore it just for her.

she mutters a ‘fuck’ to herself, squeezing her eyes tightly and running her fingers through her unbrushed hair, before looking at you again.

she says a lot without saying anything at all. the light brunching of her brown brows and her mouth parted slightly, glancing at the soft skin of your lips. you do the same to her—and she takes a timid step closer. giving you time to say something, do anything.

you don't.

then, nat is closing the space between you.

fast and at once.

her hands find your waist first, gripping the material of your dress and slightly clawing the skin beneath it. she could break the fabric, and you wouldn’t care. natalie could tear it off of you, to unrecognizable shreds, and you’d watch her with admiration.

with zero patience, she pulls you into her. one palm on the back of your head while her rough lips crash against your smooth ones. you taste like a strawberry shake, topped with your cherry chapstick that's now coating her tongue.

it's messy, but unrushed. she's simply greedy, satisfying the constant craving she’s had for you. a lazy yet precise tango with your tongue, taking you all the way in.

nat isn't the only one hungry.

you’re pushing yourself into her, taking the hand she had on your waist and traveling it down to the lower side of your back. natalie does the rest without your guidance, resting it on your ass, listening to the beautiful noise of you moaning into her mouth. you feel on fire. unable to tug away and put yourself out, her lips burn so fucking good against yours.

you've never been with someone like her. a woman you loved so intensely in your head—that she was almost the only soul you thought about. yet, you couldn't show her how you felt in all the ways you possibly imagined. and that hurt more than any heartbreak you’ve ever experienced.

to hold her hand fondly. trace love letters on the bare skin of her back. you want to give her a lovely bouquet on a random thursday morning solely because you could. you didn't need a special reason. loving her and her letting you, was enough. she'll let them die and still keep them.

little do you know, natalie had the idea first.

it’s the next saturday night when you're closing up the dead diner, a wet rag in your hand as you drag it across the counter. kate bush plays throughout the restaurant; you're humming along when the bell above the door rings. you don't pay attention, not until you hear her dramatically clearing her throat.

“i believe these are for you?”

you look up to natalie, your wrist stilling and pupils widening on the yellow lilies and pink roses wrapped neatly with brown paper at the base.

the ribbon keeping it together is pale and twisted into a pretty bow; you almost forget to speak amid the trance of admiration. she reaches out to give them to you over the counter, her own cheeks flushing red as she does so.

you take them, bringing them to the tip of your nose, breathing them in. like a thriving meadow on the world's most perfect day. when you peek at her over the flowers, you could almost giggle at the contrast from the pastel colors to her leather jacket and midnight eyeliner. that grin she's unable to hold back reminds you just how gentle nat is despite it all.

she slides onto an empty stool, and you tilt your head at her sweetly, “apple pie, on the house?”

“s' long as you're the one serving it,” natalie says lowly, elbow on the counter and holding her chin up with her fist. you roll your eyes at her, turning around and disappearing into the back. with a sway of your hips that she does not fail to notice.

when you come back out, you place a plate in front of her, humming again in harmony to the upbeat song over the radio. nat watches you walk around the counter, swiftly pulling the stool beside her closer with her foot. you don’t realize, sitting on it and allowing your knees to touch, her dark and worn denim against your sheer tights.

nat takes a bite, nodding her head in bliss.

she manages with a mouthful, “wouldn't taste this good if someone else served it.”

“you're stupid,” you playfully mumble, a fidgety hand finding her thigh, fingers fiddling with one of the many rips, twirling one of the stray threads. you wait for her, and when you look up again, she's licking the fork.

there's filling on the corner of her mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb instead of pointing it out.

embarrassed, she licks her lips, gawking at you when you slip your finger into your mouth. your teeth scrape against your skin while you suck away the delightful cinnamon. her throat dries, and she blinks dumbly—you had done it so casually. innocently.

even holding to her thigh again, tenderly, with your irises twinkling beneath the fluorescent lights.

natalie gulps. she's only had you, all of you, for a few days. and she swears you're already the death of her. a death as sweet as candy.

[wonderlandwalker]

Off the Record (and on his knees)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐏𝐭. 𝐈𝐈 ?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rockstar!eddie munson x famous!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A rockstar who claims to thrive on indifference, a secret that's about to make headlines, and the kind of bad decision that tastes like more. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: just a lot of cliches probably, smut, mdni, honestly idk i need sleep

𝐚/𝐧: was supposed to be taking exams but ended up in the hospital so i had some downtime, hopefully this will bring some positive energy my way for resits (also a massive shout-out to @littlexdeaths for helping me edit this!!)

There are two fundamental truths that make Eddie Munson into the glorious, unrepentant disaster he is to this day.

One: He couldn’t give less of a shit what the world thinks of him.

Take seventh grade, for example—back when his voice still cracked mid-sentence and his hair was an unholy tangle of DIY bleach jobs, a walking middle finger to both genetics and good taste. He’d been a scrawny thing back then, all sharp elbows and a sharper tongue, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in sheer audacity. Tommy H., in his puffed-up, wannabe bravado, had cornered him in the locker room after gym class, sweat still gleaming on his forehead like he’d just run a marathon instead of dodging dodgeballs for forty minutes. He’d squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest like a rooster preening for a fight, and sneered, “You’re a waste of space, Munson,” like he’d just invented the insult. Eddie’s response? A slow, shit-eating grin, a lazy glance up through the mess of his bangs: “Takes one to know one.” And then he’d just… walked away. No fists, no shouting, just five words and a smirk. The other kids had gasped, like he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. (He’d found out later that Tommy had punched a locker hard enough to bruise his knuckles. Eddie had worn that knowledge like a badge of honour.)

Or fast-forward to last year, when Gareth somehow—through a combination of dumb luck and family ties that shouldn’t have counted as networking—scored them an appointment with his aunt’s ex-husband’s nephew, who just so happened to be a mid-level A&R guy at Universal Music Group.

The band had collectively lost their shit; Jeff had stress-bought a button-up shirt from some overpriced boutique, then spent twenty minutes in the van trying to figure out how to tuck it in just right so he didn’t look like he was attending his own funeral. Gareth had rehearsed his "professional musician" voice in the mirror until he sounded like a Wikipedia article narrated by a malfunctioning robot. Even Don, who usually had the emotional range of a brick wall, had gone suspiciously quiet, staring out the window with the vaguely nauseous expression of a man mentally preparing to sell his soul. Eddie had simply rolled out of bed that morning, pulled on the same ripped jeans he’d worn the day before, finger-combed his curls into something that defied both gravity and basic hygiene, and strolled into that glass-and-chrome office building smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, cheap diner coffee, and zero fucks given.

The exec—some slick-haired suit with a watch that probably cost more than Eddie’s entire van—had barely looked up from his phone when they walked in. His office was all sharp edges and sterile lighting, the kind of place that made Eddie’s skin itch just by existing.

So Eddie did what Eddie does best.

He cracked his knuckles, dropped into the chair across from the guy like he owned it, and said, "Wanna hear some real shit or what?"

No pretending. No apologies. No watered-down pitch about marketability or brand synergy. Just him—raw, unfiltered, a little too loud, a little too much.

For a long, excruciating moment, the guy just stared at him, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. Then, he smirked. Leaned back in his stupid ergonomic chair. Muttered something under his breath about "angst sells, I guess" and "decent fucking tunes" before reaching into his briefcase and sliding a contract across the desk. Gareth had nearly choked on his own tongue. Jeff’s carefully tucked-in shirt had come untucked from sheer shock. And Don? Don had actually smiled—an event so rare it should have been documented by National Geographic.

Two: Eddie Munson doesn't get nervous. Never has, never will. It's practically part of his DNA at this point, woven into the fabric of his being as tightly as the faded tattoos on his knuckles and the ever-present smell of leather and Marlboros that clings to his clothes. 

Not when Corroded Coffin played their first sold-out stadium show, amps screaming loud enough to shake the teeth in his skull and the foundation beneath their feet. He'd stood at the edge of that stage, sweat dripping down his temples, staring out at a sea of faceless bodies that stretched so far back even the stage lights couldn’t reach them—and instead of freezing up like some wide-eyed rookie, he'd just grinned like the devil himself, cranked the volume higher and played the opening riff of "Blackened Skies". 

Not when they were nominated for their first Grammy—or the second or the goddamn third. Each time, he'd strutted up to that mic like he owned the place (and in his mind, he did), tossing off irreverent quips that had the crowd howling. "Guess hell really did freeze over," he'd drawled the first time, dangling the golden gramophone from two fingers like it was a beer he'd just been handed. The camera had caught the exact moment some blue-haired socialite in the front row had choked on her champagne.

Nerves? Nerves are for people who give a shit what others think. For choir boys and politicians and anyone with something to lose. Eddie thrives on the chaos, feeding off it like some kind of beautifully messed-up symbiotic organism. The louder the crowd, the brighter the spotlight, the higher the stakes—that's when he comes alive, electricity crackling under his skin like a live wire just waiting to set the whole damn world on fire.

So why the hell is he suddenly hyperaware of every rumour that clings to him like cheap cologne? America's favourite Casanova. The man who could sweet-talk the habit off a nun with nothing but a crooked grin and a well-timed power chord. Sure, maybe there's some truth to it—he's got charm coiled in his veins like nicotine, confidence that borders on pathological, and absolutely zero shame. Flirting is his native language; he thrives on the electric back-and-forth, the dangerous tilt of a smile, and the way pupils dilate when he crowds just inside someone's personal space like he's got every right to be there.

Five minutes ago, he'd been holding court across the room, spinning that ridiculous story about smuggling a live chicken into the Bellagio as part of a bet with Ozzy's bassist. His hands had painted the scene in the air—the squawking, the feathers in the minibar, the security guard's face when they found the damn thing wearing Eddie's sunglasses. The crowd had eaten it up with fucking spoons because Eddie Munson could make reading the phone book sound like a rock opera if he felt like it. He'd been radiant, incandescent, the human equivalent of a lit match in a fireworks factory.

Now Eddie’s tongue feels like it’s been swapped out for wet cardboard, useless, sticking to the roof of his mouth as if his body’s forgotten how to function. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, aching for the familiar weight of a guitar pick between them, the grounding burn of a cigarette, anything to steady himself as the world tilts violently beneath his feet.

And then there’s you.

Leaning against the bar like some fever dream made flesh—all sinuous curves and effortless grace, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. It screams louder than any of his stage antics ever could, louder than the roar of a sold-out crowd. The dim lighting catches the edge of your signature ring—that ring, the one from the Gucci campaign that had been plastered across every billboard last summer. It glints as you tap it absently against your glass, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that matches the erratic thud of his pulse.

He should look away… 

He can’t.

Because you’re not just beautiful—you’re impossible. The kind of impossible that makes his chest ache, the kind that shouldn’t exist outside of late-night fantasies and the pages of his most dog-eared poetry books. And yet here you are, real and radiant and right there, close enough to touch.

And Christ, he knows you. Not in the way of shared cigarettes backstage or whispered confessions after last call, but in that primal, bone-deep way sailors know a storm rolling in—through the electric charge in the air, the ominous stillness before the first crack of thunder splits the sky. The kind of knowing that prickles the back of his neck even as it pulls him helplessly closer to the cliff's edge.

The headlines from the Met Gala flash behind his eyelids like a vintage film reel stuck on repeat: you in that scandalous embroidered silk dress that clung to every curve like liquid gold, the neckline plunging with the same reckless abandon as a dive into midnight waters. The world had collectively lost its goddamn mind—fashion critics penning breathless odes to your "rebirth of modern glamour", Twitter wars erupting over whether you'd "saved or slaughtered" haute couture. Half the internet had clutched their pearls raw over the "death of modesty". The other half had been reduced to a single, guttural scream for you—your name trending with fire emojis, your walk immortalised in grainy cellphone footage that still played on a loop in Eddie's darkest, most private moments.

And now here you stand, all that barely contained lightning in human form, close enough that he can see where your perfume clings to the hollow of your throat. The realisation hits like a cymbal crash: he's spent months watching you through screens and tabloids, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the reality of your presence, for how the oxygen seems to thin when your gaze drags over to him.

Your head turns.

Your eyes meet his.

And just like that, his entire fucking operating system crashes.

The clever greeting he'd been mentally workshopping? Deleted.

His usual arsenal of one-liners? Corrupted file.

Every ounce of that legendary Munson charm—the same silver tongue that had talked his band out of a back-alley brawl in Berlin, flirted his way past VIP bouncers in LA, and charmed a room full of jaded music critics into giving his album a standing ovation—has short-circuited into white noise. What emerges instead is a strangled "Hey" that cracks halfway through, the single syllable tilting upward like a question, like a prayer, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re not some whisky-fuelled hallucination conjured by his traitorous subconscious.

His pulse thrums erratically at his throat, a wild staccato beat visible beneath the edge of his collar. For one horrifying second, he’s just a man reduced to bare wiring and exposed nerves, utterly certain that if you asked him his name right now, he’d stare at you like a dial-up connection trying to process the request.

What's worse? You know who he is. Or at least, you've absorbed the stories—those wild, larger-than-life legends of Eddie "The Freak in the Sheets" Munson that circulate through VIP lounges and gossip columns like holy scripture. The stories about him talking his way out of actual police handcuffs in Munich. The whispered accounts of how he once seduced a Rolling Stone journalist mid-interview, resulting in a profile so scandalous the magazine's servers crashed from traffic. The kind of reputation that usually has strangers crawling into his lap before he's even finished his first drink.

And yet…

The way you're looking at him now—head tilted at that precise angle of clinical fascination, like a virologist observing a particularly intriguing strain under glass. Your lips quirk in faint amusement, not the starstruck grin he's accustomed to, but the expression of someone who's just discovered the magician's trapdoor. There's no awe in your gaze, just patient analysis, like you were promised a category-five hurricane and got a stiff breeze that barely ruffled your hair.

Your lips twitch, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous—the smirk of a chess grandmaster who's already played this match twelve moves ahead.

"Hey," you echo, your voice smoother than the whisky in his abandoned glass and twice as intoxicating. Eddie catches the glint in your eyes first—mischievous, daring, the same glint he's seen in mirrors right before doing something stupid—and feels his pulse kick up a notch. Then your fingers skate up his arm, nails dragging just barely hard enough to raise goosebumps under the sleeve of his blouse. His breath stutters like a dying engine when your lips brush the shell of his ear, warm and teasing. 

"Are you going to stare all night, Munson, or are you actually going to say something?"

The slow arch of your eyebrow is the most devastating thing Eddie's ever witnessed—a silent challenge that hits him like a well-placed chord vibrating straight through his ribs. That deliberate lift, paired with the smug curl of your lips, sparks something primal in his chest. You look like the cat that got the cream, the guitarist who nailed the solo, like you've just won some private bet he didn't even know you were playing. 

And that—that smug little quirk of your mouth—is what finally kickstarts his brain. Because Eddie Munson doesn't lose. Not at banter, not at bets, and definitely not at whatever this sudden, unspoken game is that you've started between heartbeats and heated glances.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a growl as he straightens to his full height. When he finally speaks, his voice is all rough edges and smoke, the kind of tone that precedes either a killer riff or someone getting thoroughly wrecked against a backstage wall. 

"Funny thing about staring, sweetheart…" his fingers dart out, catching your wandering hand just as it begins its ascent up his chest. He twines his fingers through yours, pinning your palm against the rapid-fire beat of his heart. "—it takes a hell of a view to make a man forget his words." 

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes—because the joke's on him, really. You haven't just stolen his words; you've taken the air from his lungs, the rhythm from his pulse, left him feeling like an overstrung guitar about to snap from the tension.

Just as Eddie begins to find his rhythm in this dangerous little dance—just as he starts to anticipate your steps, to recognise the subtle hitch in your breath when he leans in too close—the music screeches to a halt.

Someone materialises from the crowd like a poorly timed jump scare, designer cufflinks glinting under the club lights as his arm slides around the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. The touch is possessive, practiced, the kind of casual intimacy that makes Eddie’s molars grind hard enough to spark.

And you—

You don’t even flinch.

The realisation hits Eddie like a kick to the ribs. He watches, jaw clenched, as the guy leans in—close enough that Eddie catches the cloying scent of his expensive cologne, the glint of veneers too perfect to be anything but bought. The way he kisses you is all performative passion, a showy press of lips that lingers just a beat too long, complete with a theatrical tilt of the head, like he’s mentally checking his angles.

Christ. It’s like watching a bad rom-com.

The guy pulls back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s never been told no, his thumb brushing your hip in one last obnoxious display of ownership before he turns to Eddie. He extends a hand, his Rolex glinting under the strobe lights.

“It’s Edgar, right?”

Eddie’s eye twitches.

“Theodore”, the guy continues, flashing a smile so white it’s practically radioactive. “I take it you’ve met my girlfriend?”

Checkmate.

Fuck.

How could he have forgotten?

He’d been too busy writing sonnets in his head about the cadence of your voice when you whispered in his ear and too busy memorising the way your nails felt dragging up his sleeve to even fucking remember you have a boyfriend.

And not just any boyfriend.

No, it’s Theodore fucking Langley. Actor. Heartthrob. The guy whose face is currently plastered on every teen magazine from here to Tokyo, the same guy who got voted “Most Likely to Make You Swoon” by Seventeen or some shit. The kind of guy who probably has a skincare routine longer than the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a publicist who writes his posts for him.

Eddie forces a grin, sharp enough to draw blood, and shakes the guy’s hand just a little too hard. 

“It’s Eddie. And yeah, she was just warning me to steer clear of the right-hand stage.” He nods toward the VIP section, packed to the brim with Hollywood’s most gossip-hungry vultures. “Unless I want to end up as tomorrow’s TMZ headline.”

The excuse rolls off his tongue smooth as honey, but inside, his thoughts are a fucking hurricane. 

Because, honestly?

He doesn’t get it.

Not just because he’s got the hots for you (which, yeah, okay, he definitely does), but because the whole thing is so goddamn ridiculous. From what you even see in this guy to what the two of you could possibly talk about—Eddie knows the type⁠ in the way you know a bad sequel—overproduced, underwhelming, all flash and no substance. He’s met a hundred variations of Theodore at industry parties. ⁠Does he even know you? The real you? Or just the version that looks good on his arm during red carpets?

The tabloids are eating it up, of course. “Hollywood’s New It Couple!” bleeds across magazine covers in obnoxious neon fonts, while gossip sites run breathless slideshows of you and Theodore at every red carpet event, gala, and painfully staged coffee run. The cameras love the way his Armani-clad arm possessively anchors you to his side, how your designer dresses complement his tailored suits like you were manufactured as a set.

But they're not looking closely enough.

If they did, they'd notice how Theodore's fingers indent the fabric at your waist just a fraction too deep—the kind of grip that leaves bruises blooming like ink stains beneath fabric. They'd catch the microsecond delay in your smile when his lips graze your cheek, the way your eyes flicker toward the exits like a caged animal calculating escape routes. They'd see what Eddie sees with devastating clarity:

A mismatch.

A performance so polished it's rotting at the core.

The greatest fucking waste he's ever seen.

And then—the moment Theodore releases you to go charm some studio director who could "really take his career to the next level, darling," your hand snaps out with viper precision, your fingers curl around his wrist with deliberate precision—not tight enough to leave marks, but firm enough to make the veins in his forearm jump under your touch.

"Meet me backstage."

The words lick against his ear, molten and venomous—a command wrapped in velvet. Your teeth graze his earlobe just hard enough to remind him this isn't surrender. It's an ambush.

It's not a request.

Eddie's no stranger to the value in playing along, but Christ, the sixty seconds he forces himself to wait feel like slow torture. He counts each heartbeat against the sticky bar top, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm that betrays the calm facade. The ice in his whisky melts unnoticed as his pulse hammers in his throat, torn between walking away and breaking into a run toward whatever fresh hell you're offering.

The hallway to the dressing rooms is a study in controlled chaos, narrow enough that Eddie's shoulders nearly brush both walls as he stalks forward, the buzz of faulty fluorescents casting strobe-like shadows that make the space feel both claustrophobic and thrillingly illicit.

And there you are—a vision of calculated nonchalance leaning against chipped paint that flakes under your fingertips. One foot props against the wall behind you like you've been waiting lifetimes rather than minutes. When your eyes lock onto his, they're dark with knowing amusement, your lips curling into a smirk that says you've already scripted this encounter and he's just now catching up to page three. 

"Took you long enough," you tease, your voice a velvet-wrapped blade that cuts through the bass thumping from the main room. The words dance across the scant inches between you, each syllable weighted with unspoken challenges.

The dressing room door clicks shut with finality behind you, the sound louder than it should be in the sudden quiet. Eddie's body thrums with restrained energy—you can see it in the way his carotid pulses against the collar of his shirt, in the white-knuckle grip he maintains on his own belt loops to keep from reaching for you. The air between you crackles with the kind of tension that precedes summer storms, heavy with the promise of lightning.

You'd expected him to pounce—to back you against the nearest flat surface and finally give in. But instead…

He hesitates.

The space between his eyebrows furrows into a crease—the one that appears when he's tuning a stubborn guitar string or trying to decipher some cryptic lyric. But now it's deeper, more vulnerable, as his dark eyes roam your face like he's searching for answers in the slant of your cheekbones, the part of your lips. When he finally speaks, his voice is wrecked—rough as sandpaper and twice as raw, like he's been screaming himself hoarse backstage. "Is this what you want?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with something that makes your ribs ache. There's an unfamiliar tremor beneath the words. "Really?"

You blink up at him, and for one terrifying heartbeat, your carefully constructed mask slips—the one you wear at press junkets, the one you've perfected for Theodore's arm. Your breath catches audibly before you can school your features back into indifference. "What, don't you want me?"

The words slice through the charged air, sharper than you intended, laced with a surprise that has nothing to do with the game you've been playing. Eddie drags a hand through his hair, sending those riotous curls into glorious disarray. The movement makes his biceps flex, the tattoos peeking out from his sleeves suddenly vivid in the low light. "I don't give a fuck about my reputation, sweetheart." His usual smirk is nowhere to be found—just raw honesty that terrifies you more than any of his staged bad-boy antics ever could.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost pained, like the next words are being ripped from somewhere deep and rarely visited. "But yours?" A muscle jumps in his jaw as he gestures between you, his rings glinting. "You really wanna risk it all for this?" His usual swagger is fraying at the edges, revealing something far more dangerous beneath: a man who cares too much.

You tilt your head, lips quirking in a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Since when do you care what people think, Munson?”

“I don’t,” he snaps, stepping closer—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the leather-and-cigarettes scent of his jacket. “But you should. That boyfriend of yours? He’s got the media eating out of his palm. You really think they won’t tear you apart if—”

“If what?” You step into him, chest brushing his, and watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “If they find out I’d rather be with you?”

Your fingers twist in the front of his shirt with deliberate purpose, the fabric straining under your grip as you yank him down into a kiss that's more collision than connection—all clashing teeth and shared breath and the kind of desperation that borders on violence. Eddie makes a raw, punched-out noise against your mouth, something between a groan and a curse, before his hands find purchase on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises as he walks you backward until the sharp edge of the dresser cabinet bites into your thighs.

The moment your legs hit solid wood, his tongue swipes against yours with devastating precision—hot and demanding and tasting faintly of whisky and the cigarette he sneaked between sets. And fuck, he kisses like he plays guitar: all calloused fingertips and effortless skill, bending you to his rhythm until you're gasping against his mouth. There's that same reckless passion he channels into every riff, that same single-minded focus he reserves for chasing the perfect note—except now, he's chasing you, chasing this, like he's reaching for something sacred in the space between your bodies.

Your back arches instinctively, pressing every inch of yourself against him, and the sound Eddie makes—a broken, shuddering groan muffled against your jaw—sends a thrill of power straight down your spine. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head just before it would've connected painfully with the mirror behind you, his touch unexpectedly tender even as his hips grind forward with unmistakable intent. The contrast makes you lightheaded—this is Eddie Munson at his most dangerous, equal parts rough edges and brutal softness.

But then—

He tears himself away, breathing raggedly. “Wait. Wait. What about—?”

“Theo?” You nip at his lower lip, relishing the way his fingers dig into your waist. “What about him?”

Eddie’s brow furrows, that crease between his eyebrows deepening like a fault line splitting open. “I don’t want people thinking you’re—”

“A slut?” you murmur, dragging your nails down his chest in one slow, deliberate scrape, revelling in the way his breath hitches, the way his muscles jump under your touch. “A cheater?”

He flinches like you’ve struck him. “No.” His voice is rough, almost angry—not at you, but at the idea, at the world that would dare reduce this to something cheap. “I just—fuck—” His hands flex at your hips, like he’s holding himself back from something far more dangerous. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

And that—that just drives you crazier. Because Eddie Munson, the man who’s built his entire life on not giving a single fuck about consequences, is suddenly terrified—not for himself, but for you. For what this might cost you.

It’s the most reckless thing he’s ever done—caring.

Your hands slide under his shirt, tracing the taut lines of his abdomen, fingertips mapping the heat of his skin, the ridges of scars and ink you’ll ask about later. You grin against his mouth, all teeth and no mercy. “Stop telling me what I’m supposed to do.” Then, softer, a whisper against his lips—“And just fuck me like you mean it.”

Eddie’s restraint crumbles.

One of his fists twists in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth crashes into yours again, harder this time, hungrier, like he’s trying to rewrite every kiss that came before this one. His other hand skims up your thigh, hiking your dress higher, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like he’s been starving for it.

Then he’s hoisting you up onto the dresser with effortless strength, the cold surface biting into your bare thighs as he drops to his knees like a man preparing for ascension. 

And he tries to be patient—he really does. 

He presses open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, savouring the way your muscles jump under his lips, the way your breath hitches when his stubble drags against your skin. But Christ, he can already smell you—that heady, intoxicating mix of your desperation and his own name lingering on your tongue. It hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the liquor he’s been nursing all night.

Vertigo. 

A full-body shudder. 

The kind of high no drug could ever replicate.

And it’s not like he has a reputation to uphold—so he doesn’t bother hiding how fucking gone he is. He nudges at your clit with his nose, just to hear the way your breath fractures, just to feel your fingers twist in his hair like a silent please. Every flick of his tongue makes your hips jerk, every low, filthy noise you make going straight to his dick, and he’s already praying for a way to freeze time, to get to stay here between your legs forever. ⁠His tongue drags a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, and the sound you make—fuck—it’s enough to send a bolt of heat straight down his spine. Higher pitched, broken at the edges, like you’re already halfway to ruin.

Heaven shouldn’t even bother trying. There’s no way it could top this.

Eddie dives in like a starving man, hands splayed over your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. And God, he’s insatiable once he starts. Eager. Determined. Like he wants to memorise every twitch, every gasp, every time your legs tighten around his ears like there’s a part of you that’s worried he’ll change his mind. He licks into you like he’s trying to devour you, like he’d happily suffocate right here if it meant getting one more taste. Your fingers tug at his hair, and Eddie groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat.

This isn’t a sprint. It’s not even a damn marathon—it’s a relay race, and Eddie is eagerly playing each part, trading one touch for another, one filthy whisper for a bruising kiss, until you’re gasping, wrung out, and still begging for more.

His hands are everywhere—skimming up your ribs, gripping the back of your thighs—each touch deliberate, each movement calculated to drag another broken sound from your lips. His mouth is relentless, trailing fire in its wake, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your back arch off the wall. He eats you out like he’s got something to prove, like he’s mapping every gasp, every shudder, filing them away for later.

And when you think you can’t take any more, he drags you right back to the edge, his lips finding that spot that makes your breath hitch. Your head falls back against the mirror with a thud, his name spilling from your lips in a moan that’s half plea, half prayer. The glass is cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the feverish press of his body against yours.

Eddie’s teeth scrape over your pulse point—claiming, punishing, worshipping—before his tongue soothes the sting, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s memorising the shape of them, like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones.

And when you kiss him, when your hands are fisted in his hair as you drag him towards you, as your tongue swipes against his, you can taste yourself on him, sweet and sharp, and it makes you whimper, arching into him⁠. Eddie groans, low and rough, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He kisses you back just as hungrily, like he’s been starving for this, for you, and suddenly, there’s a certainty in his chest, bright and terrifying, that he doesn’t know how he ever lived without this. 

His usual moves—the ones that earned him that damn Freak in the Sheets nickname—are nowhere to be found. There’s something ruined in the way he touches you, like he’s not just trying to wreck you but worship you, like every sigh you let out is a prayer he wants to memorise. When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes search yours, thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so soft it makes your chest ache.

“You okay?” He murmurs, voice wrecked.

It’s such a stupid question—of course you’re okay; you’re better than okay—but the way he asks it, like he genuinely needs to know, like your answer matters more than his next breath, it lights something inside of you as well. Because you feel it too—the way the air between you crackles even when you’re not touching, the way his hands linger even after he’s pulled away, like he can’t stand to let you go.

You swallow, suddenly too exposed. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect you to be so…”

“So what?” He grins, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk—it’s lopsided, almost nervous.

“Attentive,” you admit, and his grin softens into something real.

Eddie huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well. You’re… special.”

Eddie exhales, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your waist—slow, possessive circles that leave fire in their wake. His voice drops, rough with something that isn’t just want but need.

“Let me take you out.”

His eyes meet yours again, dark and pleading, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a touch so tender it makes your breath stutter. His gaze is unbearably fond, like he’s already memorised every freckle, every hitch in your breathing, like he’s been waiting for you forever and just didn’t know it until now.

“Somewhere that’s not a dressing room,” he murmurs, lips quirking in that half-smile that’s equal parts mischief and vulnerability. “Somewhere with… chairs. And menus and shit.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky, because, fuck, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a distraction, a one-night rebellion against the perfectly curated life you’re supposed to want—the one where you’re Theodore Langley’s golden girl, where your smiles are scripted and your hands are meant to linger on his arm, not tangled in Eddie Munson’s hair.

But Eddie?

Eddie’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And that’s terrifying.

Because you feel it too—the way your chest tightens when he smiles, the way your skin still hums where he touched you, like his hands left permanent fingerprints.

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. His thumb stills against your lip, his voice raw. “Because I don’t think once is going to be enough.”

And God, the way he says it—like it’s already a lost cause, like he’s doomed, like he’s been ruined for anything else and he doesn’t even care.

You swallow. “What if I say no?”

Eddie’s grin is all teeth, but his eyes? Soft. “Then I’ll wait for you till you say yes.”

“For how long?”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “However long it takes.”

And fuck, he's in trouble.

Because maybe there's a third thing that makes Eddie who he is right now—not just the leather-jacketed rebel who flips off convention, not just the raw-nerved artist who bleeds his truth into every chord. 

But Eddie Munson, the man who never begged for anything in his life, who would get on his knees for you.

Eddie Munson, who built his career on not giving a single fuck, would burn down every bridge if it meant keeping you warm.

Eddie Munson, the self-proclaimed freak, has never felt more terrifyingly human than when you look at him like he's something precious instead of dangerous.

[burningcomputerpersona]

Knuckle Puck's 10 year anniversary tour for Copacetic next January

AND WE GOT THE PRESALE QR CODE

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

OK Guys. I get the skepticism esp after the Knuckles disaster, but we also need to keep in mind "this is a trailer that won't spoil literally everything about the movie." ESPECIALLY in regards to GUN. They're not gonna put in the trailer "the military shot a little girl and that's why Shadow is mad so Sonic is going to never work with them ever." That's a great way to get parents to bring their kids to the theater, especially in America. (/s)

It's WAY more effective as a plot twist halfway through, where Sonic thinks that he's finally being accepted onto Earth via working with the government only to find out that they're exploiting him and Shadow the same. I can't guarantee this is gonna happen obviously but it's like a 90% chance just knowing how, like. writing works.

Esp considering the government has not had a good track record in the last two movies, I dunno if they'd do a heel-face turn into "actually they were always right" in the movie where a little girl needs to get shot by the government.

And I'm not gonna say "trust and form a parasocial relationship with a film director" but we should keep in mind that Jeff Fowler got his start working on Shadow's title game and has stated in interviews that he understands how important Shadow's backstory is to his character. Not to mention how the internet has been exploding the last two years with enthusiasm over this story actually getting shown onscreen, enough that a studio would fucking notice at the very least that this is what the people want. I can't guarantee they'll actually listen, but saying that they're absolutely not because "Sonic was in a GUN helicopter in the trailer" is insane. Especially with the fact that GUN is not with Sonic when he goes to Eggman. We just see Team Sonic alone meeting with Stone, and I will bet you it's because there's no way in hell GUN would let them near him, what with the Robotnik connections to the ARK.

Also the Gerald thing is rather worrying, esp with the lack of shit they gave Pachacamac in the miniseries, but honestly I think that was just a marketing push of "Jim Carrey will be playing TWO characters!!!" Considering he's only seen in one trailer scene AT the ARK (where all of Gerald's technology was and, more importantly, where the Eclipse cannon he needs someone to set off is) AND we know from movie 2's credits scene that there was a fifty-year timeskip, I severely doubt that's the real Gerald who's just completely unaffected by his granddaughter being murdered.

And ofc there's things to be concerned about in the trailer. The lack of Rouge for instance– I obviously keep posting my theory that Krysten Ritter's character will be her undercover but the fact we don't know how much time she'd actually have with Shadow, if at ALL, is worrying. The fact that Rouge might not be here period. The weird pacing of the Knuckles show and the fear that could bleed over into the movie. But there's also stuff to get excited about– the epic fight scene choreography, the brief glimpse we got of Maria and Shadow's bond. Reeves's voice actually fits Shadow and at least from what the trailer showed us it looks like the Green Hills storyline is taking a backseat to the action and mystery of Project Shadow.

tl;dr guys calm down for like five minutes. if the movie sucks in december we can riot then. right now let's just band together against mufasa

[captainquake42]

> ♡ °. INKED UP

♡ part one

☆ kwon jae sung x fem!reader

> summery:

you go to robby and dimitri’s room hoping to have your twin brother robby come with you to get a tattoo unaware that they lost their room to kwon.

OR kwon struggles with his normally good english in front of a pretty girl

> notes:

never get a tat if you are going to sweat a lot in the next two ish weeks, like at a karate tournament, you don't want it to get infected.

also, this is my first x reader, so if ya'll would let me know how I did :)

if you feel a part two // part three

also posted on my ao3

> 1.4k written by:

S A R A H

You adjusted your high ponytail, your fingers tugging at the elastic band to secure it in place. The hallway of the hotel was quiet, save for the soft hum of the vending machines around the corner. Your sneakers barely made a sound as you bounced lightly on the balls of your feet, excitement buzzing under your skin.

This would be perfect. Robby had been moody since he saw that Tory had joined up with Cobra Kai again.

You opened up your notes app to make sure you had the right room. You already had it memorized but double no triple checking never hurt anyone. You looked up from your phone and yep, the numbers matched up.

You knocked your knuckles against the door and immediately heard a muffled voice and shuffling noises. It was probably Dimitri stumbling around to get decent. Your lips ticked up thinking about it.

You had Robby go with you to get your first tat, mostly because of where you were getting it but also because you didn't wanna go alone. It became tradition after that, every time you went to get a new one he would go with. He didn't get to skip out just because it was a little impromptu tat in barcelona, or because he was pouty

The Sekai Taikai Tournament had been interesting so far and it was only night one. Eli already got in a little pissing match with the cute male cobra kai captain who's name you didn't know.

Speaking of, the door opened and your brother nor teammates were on the other side, instead the cobra captain stood there in a black compression shirt and gray sweats.

If your weaknesses was an outfit it would be that. The shirt made his arms and shoulders look nice. His hair was styled in a way that reminded you of a character from a volleyball anime you watched, which might be a little racist to think since the guy was asian but whatever that's not the point.

“ Um,” You said eloquently, showcasing your intelligence. “ I don't suppose that you became friends with my teammates, did you?”

He made a face. “ No. You lost?” His korean accent was thick and hardy.

You look down at your phone again. “ Nope, this is my brother's room unless he was fucking with me by giving me a random one.”

He looked thoughtful, his head tilted while he stared at you. Then “ was.”

“ What do you mean?”

He looked at me. “ Your brother, miyagi do's captain?” He asked.

“ Yeah that's him! Robby.”

“ Then was. Made bet. He lose. I win. I got room.”

That son of a-. “ He lost his room in a bet?”

Now he looked a little smug, his mouth quirked up.“ Yes.”

“ I can't believe him, fucking dumbass.”

The hallway seemed to stretch longer as you processed that. You couldn’t believe Robby. The sheer stupidity of losing his room in a bet? You huffed pressing your lips together and crossing your arms. You were never gonna let him live this down.

The Cobra Kai captain leaned casually against the doorframe, his smirk firmly in place, he was enjoying this far too much. His arms crossed in a way that made his already broad shoulders seem even more imposing. His compression t clung to his torso like a second skin, and his sweats hung low on his hips, leaving a bit of skin revealed completing a look that made your traitorous brain short-circuit for a split second. But only for a second.

The guy’s smirk grew, and his gaze flicked to your face with something like amusement. “ You mad?”

“ Mad?” Your brows raised wondering where he got that from.

“ Your cheeks are pink.” He offered. “ Mad, no?”

You couldn't help it, you laughed. “No. It wasn't my room, I just think he's stupid.”

“ You say it.” He shrugs. “ Not a good bet taker.”

“ You think he sucks at betting.” You grinned.

He nodded proudly. “ Yes, sucks.”

You watched as his ears turned pink when you laughed. “ I agree.”

“ Here for room or just brother?”

“ I was gonna make him come with me to get a tattoo but since he's not here it looks like i'm going alone.” Something you weren't very fond of, but it was already getting dark and you didn't have time to go hunting for your twin. “ I'll see you later.”

You turned to leave but stopped when his voice reached your ears. “ Wait.”

You looked over your shoulder. “ Yeah?”

His expression shifted, his confident smirk slipping, his brow furrowed like he didn’t like the idea, and his next words came out haltingly. “ You… no go alone.”

You blinked, startled by the sudden concern in his tone. “ What?”

“ Not good. Alone, not safe.” He stumbled slightly over the words, his composure cracking. “ I go.”

“ Don't think I can handle it?” You asked curiously.

“ I don't doubt you, but you small, men are not.”

“ So you want to, what? Protect me?”

“ Yes.”

“ You?” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “ Why would you do that? Aren’t you, like, Cobra Kai’s big bad captain? Shouldn’t you hate me or something?”

His eyes rolled, his earlier confidence returning. “ Not hate. I bored.” His smirk reappeared, though his ears stayed pink. “ Plus, beats sitting in here.”

He pulled on his hoodie, shrugging. “ You want to go alone? Get lost in city? Not smart.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “I think I can manage to find a tattoo parlor without getting lost.” You shook your phone at him. “ Directions on my phone and all.”

He raised a brow, clearly unimpressed with you. “You sure? Phone say this your brother’s room. Was wrong.”

Your jaw dropped, cheeky little-. “ No fair.”

He shugged and his hands slipping into the pockets of his sweats while he leaned closer. “ Nervous?”

“ Nervous?” you echoed, narrowing your eyes at him. “ About what?”

He shrugged, the movement casual but the teasing shine in his eyes was anything but. “ Pretty girl, late night, strange city. Many reasons.”

“ Pretty girl?” you repeated feeling your cheeks pull up in a slow smile before you could stop yourself. “ You think I'm pretty?”

His cheeks turned pink, but his grin didn’t falter. “ I say what I say.”

Your chest felt warm and the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself. “ You’re something, you know that?”

“ I know.” His confidence was borderline infuriating, but there was something endearing about the way he wouldn't look you in the eye when he said it. Like your words had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

“ Alright, Captain,” you said with a mock sigh of defeat, “ if you’re so worried about me getting lost, maybe you should just come with me after all.”

“ Good idea,” he said immediately, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the hallway.

You blinked. “ Wait really, you actually want to come?”

“ You invite,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“ I was joking!”

“I wasn't,” he replied, slipping on a pair of sneakers that were sitting next to the door. “ What tattoo, you getting?”

“ I'll tell you what. I'll tell you what I want, if you tell me your name.”

“ My name?” He looked at you like you should know it. “ It's Kwon Jae Sung. Call me Kwon. And you?”

Like the song? “ You don't know my name?” You teased, sticking your hand out.

He looked at confused.

“ Oh duh.” You said to yourself resisting the urge to palm your forehead. “ In america we shake hands to greet each other.”

Kwon smiled and made a noise of understanding and let you take his hand. Immediately you could feel his calluses.

You shook his hand sharply, your dad always told you that having a strong grip was important. “ I could just call you, so-yeon.” Kwon said.

“ What's that mean?”

“ No fun if I tell you.”

You made a face and scoffed. “ That could mean bitch in korean for all I know.”

He shook his head, smiling and put his hand over his heart. His eyes wide and innocent. “ I would never.”

You told him your name, “ The tattoo I'm getting is gonna be really small, I'm putting it on my wrist it's a little panda.” You opened up pinterest, to show him a picture of it.

“ Cute,” he hummed. “ Like you.”

The line was cheesy but had you blushing anyway.

[isakvaltersnake]

things from the 2001 television programme band of brothers that haunt me to this day:

- we’re paratroopers lieutenant, we’re supposed to be surrounded. not to be your 60 year old military obsessed uncle about it but that line goes hard

- nix’s little giggle he does sometimes

- I’ll never forgive them for leaving gene’s medic training out of their training montage. in fact you know what? go back in time, film a parallel sequel of the other 9 eps from gene’s pov

- popeye’s “they called you guys too?” and the way his accent specifically scratches my brain

- they gave me moose heyliger and his massachusetts accent for like 20 minutes then the narrative snatched him away from me and i still miss him

- the way meehan looks at winters after he tells him to close the flap, in fact let’s talk about how every single one of winters’ commanders are obsessed with him in one way or another he truly is the it girl

- the chaos and fear that precedes gene and the calm and comfort that follows him

- I know everyone thinks “we’ll go to chicago, I’ll take you there” is the insane line but the one that actually makes me lose sleep is “what, and give up all this?” THAT MAN SAID I WOULD RATHER LIVE THROUGH THE HORRORS OF WAR THAN HAVE LIVED MY LIFE WITHOUT YOU

- alley is So Beautiful and I don’t think we collectively talk about it enough

- babe being some rando replacement in episode three and whilst his other replacement friends are being absolutely roasted he is immediately adopted by bill and then gets gene fucking roe of all people to connect to him?? he’s too powerful I need to study him

- speirs being this ghoulish terrifying boogeyman until lip is anywhere near him then he’s suddenly dimples and kicking his feet and giggling

- speaking of lip and speirs their little sarcastic in jokes, lip finishing speirs’ sentences fml it’s giving married

- you been working out? IN FRONT OF EVERYONE?? LIEB YOU SLUT?? THEN YOURE GONNA LAY IN HIS BED WAITING FOR HIM??? insane behaviour

- the unexplored but high potential friendships and the way I wanted like 16 more episodes for shifty and lip, nix and luz, nix and web, sisk and perconte, winters and gene, grant and tab, lieb and alley, speirs and harry, etc

- the more haggard and bitchy nix gets the hotter he gets. he also must be studied.

- “you should pack up those ears and go home” ok sobel kinda ate with that one ngl

- speaking of sobel the little confused/bewildered/piss-pants faces he makes david schwimmer the actor you are

- the silly little wide stance pennywise ass run hall does before he gets murked RIP king

- klepto speirs ilysm

- joe toye and his brass knuckles are v sexy

- sink letting nix give winters his oak leaves was very shipper girl of him

- lip harry nix speirs winters in the eagle’s nest dream blunt rotation

- the unsustainable amount of cunt served by nix, frank, babe, and luz at all times is truly a marvel

- tab really checked lip’s dick and balls mid battle and honestly that’s friendship

- bit parts for simon pegg, tom hardy, andrew scott, james mcavoy, michael fassbender, jimmy fallon ?? bob casting director you will always be famous

- peacock is so fine if he was even a little good at his job I’d be obsessed with him (special shout out to the scene of him getting sent home on furlough)

- I could list out every one of their meaningful little moments together but really it’s babe and gene just tethering and grounding each other and how they seem to gravitate to each other out of blind instinct? that’s some Brontë whatever our souls are made of bullshit I’m afraid

- ok I know I said I wasn’t talking about little meaningful moments but gene staring across the convent at where babe is sitting, lost in the peace

-bull in replacements getting imprinted on by a bunch of baby ducks and being SO PLEASED ABOUT IT he’s not the stepfather, he’s the father that stepped up

- speaking of, the underutilization of bull in the back half is such an out of character bad call

- you are officers, you are grown ups, you oughta know. HE’S RIGHT AND HE SHOULD SAY IT AND THAT’S ON GENE BEING THE ONLY ONE ALLOWED TO TELL OFF WINTERS

- I know nix and winters are married and whatever but the real married couple behaviour is luz constantly pissing off joe and joe immediately letting it go

- lip and speirs and their mutual competency kink

- I’M REAL SORRY FRANK skinny ilysm

[melanchoire]

Recent Yujin got me thinkng of rockstar!yujin with a girlfriend who's a ballerina and usually visits yujin while she's practicing. Imagine reader coming after a tiring day of ballet practice and is just so needy, but yujin was busy practicing. So when yujin gets fed up, she just pulls reader down on her lap and fingers her while still practicing🥴

rockstar ahn yujin 🚬 i haven’t heard that since 2023 when she had THAT look during baddie promotions (yujin with an eyebrow piercing will always have a place in my heart.)

cw: fingering.

rockstar yujin having the cutest girlfriend in the world 🥺 she definitely feels proud to have a princess as her babe and shows it by having a big smile planted on her face every time she sees you, getting out of that cool rockstar facade and being the silly yujinnie you love so much <3

but how bad is it when your two practices make seeing each other complicated :( your dance practices at the academy making you tired to the bone and many times not being able to see her due to the pain in your body caused by the endless rehearsals or sometimes you have to stay late at dance school due to practices for upcoming competitions or presentations 😮‍💨 yujin complements you on this because she too often has to get stuck in her own torturous schedules, spending hours and hours in the recording studio practicing with instruments and her band or something more relaxed like thinking of ideas and composing songs for upcoming albums — whatever the option, it’s frustrating how much it sometimes costs to be able to spend quality time!

one day, finishing a dance practice where your teacher seemed to be a bitch annoying you because she was bothering you all afternoon and your dance classmates seemed to be even more idiotic than usual just to piss you off ñ, you just wanted to get to the studio where your girlfriend was as quickly as possible and relax for a while, but that didn’t seem to be the case today! because yujin was busier than ever 🥺

she doesn’t even flinch when you lean forward behind the chair where she was sitting and you begin to leave a trail of kisses along the curve of her neck??? a simple “hi baby.” comes out of her lips but that is not enough of an answer for you! not when you’ve been longing for quality time with your girlfriend all day and she only seems interested in her stupid guitar...

the moment yujin gets tired of you being so annoyingly clingy and not letting her concentrate that is when she decides to take matters into her own hands! or rather, teach you a lesson so you stop being so fucking annoying 😊 she would pretend to be willing to leave her work for the rest of the night, sweetly calling you to sit on her lap, kissing you and talking to you about your day... until the moment where the action arrives and that is when she finally decides to act! making you ride her fingers and refusing to give you attention 🥰 ugh yujin is an idiot because she pays all her attention to her guitar and adjusting the strings instead of paying attention to the cute girl who is riding the fingers of her other hand! she doesn’t even seem to mind the amount of slick that drips from your pussy and runs down her fingers to her knuckles and little by little they seem to begin to run slowly down her wrist 😵‍💫 she also doesn’t seem to mind when you have to move her hand yourself to guide her thumb to your clit and get her to start rubbing it! yujin seems to just want to focus on her guitar and it’s going to last for a long time...

[ambiguous-avery]

Blind Date

Dean Winchester x Castiel | WC: 3360

Summary: Sam sets Dean up on a blind date, but nothing is quite what it seems. 

Tags/Warnings: Destiel, modern AU(? IDK what to call it), fluff, mechanic!Dean, accountant!Castiel, no beta we die like men

A/N: Alright, writing something a little out of my SPN wheelhouse but back into territory I used to always write! Saw this post by @colorlessjay and inspiration just hit. Whatever’s in your coffee, keep it up (and share with me, please!). Hopefully I did your idea justice! Thanks for sharing it 💜 (Also, please forgive me if Castiel is mischaracterized. I’m still in the early seasons of Cas)

It was a stupid bet. 

Not because he was opposed to a blind date. But because Sam was throwing away money, and Dean was all too happy to abuse the hell out of a free meal. And some post-date sex too, if he was lucky.

The restaurant he pulled up to was far too swanky for Dean’s liking, and the two cars he parked his Impala between were worth more than yearly rent. He tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel and tugged at his collar, wishing Sam would’ve given him a bit more of a warning about the restaurant he had picked for Dean. 

This was upscale. Like, way upscale. The kind of fancy where they probably had fifteen different forks and expected you to know which one to use first. The valet had given him a once-over when Dean had insisted on parking Baby himself, their eyes raised in silent judgement at Dean’s apparel. His second-best flannel and jeans with only a single tear at the knee were hardly the appropriate attire for this place. But it was too late to back out now.

“Fuck it,” Dean muttered, checking his watch – 6:55. Five minutes to spare. He was early, which never happened. Sam would’ve had a field day with that information. But knowing Dean’s luck, the person Sam had set him up with was probably already there, wondering if they had been stood up. Dean cracked his knuckles and gave his reflection a quick once-over in the rearview mirror before climbing out of the car, his usual bravado and swagger in place. It was a good thing Dean was used to faking like he belonged.

The interior of the restaurant was all polished wood and low lighting with a live jazz band playing in the corner.

“Reservation?” the hostess asked, her smile professional and polite even as she looked him over.

“Yeah, should be under Cas.” Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortable. Sam hadn’t even told him his date’s full name, just that they had “similar tastes” and “would get along.” Knowing Sam, she was going to be some bookworm who’d spend the whole night talking about nerd stuff.

The hostess lead him into the restaurant, weaving between tables of laughing couples and groups of friends. Dean tugged at his flannel again and silently cursed Sam.

“Your party is already seated,” she said, stopping at a corner table.

Dean paused mid-step.

A man was seated there.

Not a woman.

A man.

This had to be a mistake. Or more likely, this was Sam’s idea of a joke. Set Dean up with a dude, take photos from the outside, and laugh about it for months. Classic Sam. The hostess cleared her throat. “Sir?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Dean mumbled, approaching the table. He was going to kill his brother. Slowly and painfully. Possibly with one of those fancy forks. Okay, kill was a little extreme. Maybe some Nair in Sam’s shampoo again would be enough. Or supergluing his laptop shut.

The man looked up, startled by Dean’s arrival, and holy shit – those were some blue eyes. Like, unnaturally blue. The kind of blue that put the sky to shame. They were striking, even in the dim restaurant lighting. The man tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing in confusion. His dark hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times and somehow managed to make it look intentionally messy. He wore a crisp, button-down with a tie that matched his eyes, a stark contrast to the rumpled trench coat that pooled in his seat. Despite that, he was still better dressed than Dean.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly deep and gravelly. Dean sank into his chair across from the stranger and swallowed hard.

“Look, man, I know what’s going on. Sammy put you up to this? I gotta say, it’s a good one. He really went all out.”

The man’s confused expression only deepened.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any ‘Sammy.’” He glanced around as though he were looking for the parent of a lost child. “I believe you may have the wrong table.” Dean’s eyes narrowed at him. The man was certainly committed to the bit, he’d give him that.

“Right. So you just happen to have a reservation under the same name as my blind date? Come on, man. You’ve gotta do better than that.” 

The stranger’s shoulders tensed.

“I wasn’t aware I was occupying someone else’s reservation. The hostess seated me here ten minutes ago.”

“Look, you can drop the act. I know Sam set this whole thing up to mess with me.” Dean scowled and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “What’d he promise you? Free drinks? Dinner?” The other man’s expression shifted from confusion to annoyance, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Listen,” the man began, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “I don’t know who you are or who this ‘Sammy’ is, but I have had too long of a week to be dealing with this. I simply want a quiet dinner. I’m not part of whatever game you think you’re playing.”

Dean’s certainly wavered. The guy seemed genuinely irritated, and as Dean studied his face, there was no hint of recognition there. No smug little smile that would give away the joke. Either this guy was an Oscar-worthy actor, or Dean had just made a complete ass of himself.

“Wait, so you’re not… Cas?”

“I am Castiel. Or Cas, as some call me,” he confirmed. “But I am certainly not your blind date.”

Dean ran a hand down his face, suddenly feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

“So you’re not here because my brother set us up?”

“No,” Castiel replied firmly, his annoyance clear in the way his mouth formed a tight line. “I’m here because I wanted to treat myself to a nice dinner after a particularly rough week.” Then, as if the universe were laughing at him, the waitress appeared at their table, her friendly smile faltering slightly as she immediately picked up on the tension.

“Are you gentlemen ready to order, or should I give you a few more minutes?”

“Actually,” Dean began, already pushing his chair back, “there’s been a misunderstanding–”

“Wait,” Castiel said, and he seemed as though he were a little surprised at himself. Something about the embarrassed flush creeping up the stranger’s neck made Dean pause. The waitress slipped away. “I... believe we both may be the victims of circumstance. You were expecting someone named Cas for a blind date, and I happened to be a Cas who was seated at your table. Since you’re already here, you might as well sit back down. No sense in both of us eating alone.”

Dean hesitated, hand still gripping the back of the chair. This wasn’t how this blind date was supposed to go. Then again... Sam would laugh his ass off if Dean came crawling back home with his tail between his legs. The thought of his brother’s smug expression was enough to make Dean sink back into his seat.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak,” the man replied, holding his hand out over the table. Dean took it, surprised at the firm grip and rough feeling of calluses on Castiel’s palm. He had expected soft hands from someone who dined alone at a place like this.

The waitress returned with a smile that seemed to touch her eyes this time when she noticed that the awkwardness had dissipated.

“Have you decided what you’d like to order?” she asked, pen and paper at the ready.

“I’ll have the bourbon-glazed steak, medium rare,” Castiel said, closing his menu. Dean cracked open his own menu, eyes going wide at the prices. Oh, he was definitely making Sam pay for this.

“Uh, I’ll have the same.” He doubted this place had any burgers. “And a whiskey would be great.”

When she walked off, Dean drummed his fingers on the table, suddenly struck by a distinct lack of words. Blind dates were usually never awkward for Dean. All he had to do was lay the charm on the gal across from him, and things just went from there. But this? This was uncharted territory. 

“So...” Dean started, “bad week, huh?”

Castiel sighed, and Dean could see the way the weight of the week pushed on Castiel’s shoulders.

“You could say that. I’m a tax accountant, and April 15th is three days away.” Dean grimaced, suddenly remembering that he needed to bother Sam about his taxes for the year.

“Tax day. That’s rough.”

“Especially when people who have known about the filing deadline for years still act surprised when it arrives,” Castiel said dryly. Dean tried not to look guilty at that. “How about you? What do you do when you’re not crashing a stranger’s dinner?”

Dean chuckled, feeling himself relax slightly. Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as he thought.

“I’m a mechanic. I co-own a garage with my uncle. Not as fancy as number-crunching, but I’m good with my hands.” Dean immediately regretted his choice of words, feeling heat creep up his neck. “With cars, I mean. I’m good with cars.” Castiel’s lips quirked up slightly, the first hint of a smile Dean had seen from him.

“I imagine both skills come in handy.”

Their drinks arrived. A whiskey – neat – for Dean and a red wine for Castiel. He must’ve ordered it before Dean sat down. Dean took a healthy swig of his drink, the familiar burn putting him back into safer territory.

“So this... Sammy,” Castiel said, taking a careful sip of his wine. “Your brother, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Little brother that’s not so little. Guy’s a sasquatch. Stanford law and everything.”

“And he often sets you up on blind dates?”

“No,” Dean snorted. “This was a first. I usually do just fine on my own.” He paused, realizing how that sounded, then added, “I mean... not that I’m... well, you know.”

“I don’t actually,” Castiel said, his head tilting slightly. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

There was something disarming about Castiel’s direct gaze. It wasn’t judgemental or mocking, just... interested. Dean wasn’t used to being studied so intently. To someone who seemed to actually hear every word he said. If he was being honest, he wasn’t used to people not swooning. Not that he wanted Cas to swoon. Not that he would mind. That thought dredged up a weird feeling that Dean didn’t feel like grappling in the moment. In fact, he’d be happy if he never had to confront that at all.

Their steaks arrived, perfectly seared and glistening with the bourbon glaze. Dean cut into his, letting out an appreciative sigh at the first bite.

“Damn, that’s good,” he said, momentarily forgetting his manners. “Sam may be a pain in my ass, but at least he picked a decent restaurant.” Castiel nodded in agreement, savoring his own bite with closed eyes.

“I’ve been coming here on particularly difficult days for years. They have a honey cake that I find... comforting.”

“You come to a place like this for comfort food?” Dean asked, making a vague motion to the crystal glasses and linen tablecloths.

“Everyone’s definition of comfort is different,” Castiel replied. “What’s yours?”

Dean’s knife paused mid-cut, and he actually had to stop and think about it for longer than a moment.

“I guess my mom’s apple pie. Nothing fancy, just... home.” Dean hadn’t meant to reveal something so personal to a stranger, but something about Castiel made him easy to talk to. The two of them fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence as they ate. Dean found himself stealing glances at Castiel between bites. The guy was good-looking in an unconventional way. Perpetually rumbled but somehow still put together with that intense stare that seemed to see right through Dean’s usual bravado. It was unnerving. But not in a bad way?

“So, no date tonight for you either?” Dean asked, pushing his empty plate away. Castiel dabbed at his mouth with the cloth napkin.

“No. My social calendar is rather sparse these days. Work takes up most of my time.”

“All work and no play makes Cas a dull boy,” Dean quipped. He mentally facepalmed. “Sorry, that was–”

“Accurate,” Castiel cut in, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “My brother Gabriel tells me the same thing. Though he uses considerably more colorful language.”

“Younger?”

“Older, actually. Though you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise considering his behavior.” Castiel shook his head. “He once filled my office with live ducks because he thought I was ‘quacking’ under pressure.”

Dean just about choked on his drink. Maybe it was Castiel’s dry delivery of the line. Or maybe it was the mental image of Castiel sitting at his desk with ducks waddling around the office. Either way, Dean laughed, deep and genuine.

“No way. Like actual ducks?”

“Twelve of them,” Castiel confirmed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “It took maintenance three days to repair the damage, and I’m still finding feathers in my filing cabinets.”

“Sounds like our brothers would get along. Sam once filled my car with packing peanuts while I was sleeping. Took me a week to get them all out.”

“And yet you still love him.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean shrugged, trying to come off as unbothered as possible. “Family, right?”

The waitress came by again.

“Can I interest either of you in dessert?” Dean glanced at Castiel expectantly.

“You said something about a honey cake?”

“Yes.” Castiel nodded, his expression brightening.

“Two honey cakes, please,” Dean said, the words surprising himself. He typically didn’t care for cake, but the way that Castiel’s face lit up had Dean curious. Must’ve been pretty good to get a tax guy excited.

When she left, a blanket of awkwardness settled over the table again. The impromptu blind-date-turned-friendly-dinner was coming to a close, and Dean found himself oddly reluctant to let it end. Dean cleared his throat.

“So, your original date. What happened there?” Castiel blinked and tilted his head again.

“I didn’t have one. As I said before, I merely wanted to treat myself to dinner.”

“Right,” Dean nodded, mentally kicking himself. “Sorry, I just assumed. Because it’s Friday night, and this place is...”

“Romantic?” Castiel offered, glancing around at the couples holding hands and the soft lighting designed to flatter features. 

“Yeah.”

“I suppose it is. I never really noticed. What about your date? The real Cas?”

“I dunno,” Dean said with a shrug. “Sam’s the one who was in contact with her.” Dean grimaced, realizing that he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings during his meal. Poor gal probably showed up, couldn’t find him, assumed he stood her up, then blown up Sam’s phone. Oops. He actually felt a little bad about that.

The honey cake arrived, and as Castiel’s eyes lit up as he took his first bite, Dean found himself more interested in Castiel’s reaction than trying his own dessert.

“You weren’t kidding about this cake,” Dean said when he finally dug into his own. It was surprisingly good. Not too sweet, and the sliced almonds on top added just the right texture. “This might be the best dessert I’ve ever had. And I’m more of a pie guy, usually.”

“Don’t let Gabriel hear you say that,” Castiel replied with a small smile. “He owns a bakery that specializes in pies. He insists they’re superior to all other desserts.”

“Smart man.” Dean took another bite. “Though I guess I’ll have to make an exception for this cake.”

And just like that, the two of them fell back into a comfortable conversation as they finished their desserts, sharing stories about their brothers and work. Dean found himself laughing more than he had in months, surprised by Castiel’s dry humor that showed up once he relaxed. When the check arrived, Dean instinctively reached for it.

“I’ve got it,” Castiel said, his hand brushing against Dean’s as he also reached for the leather folder.

“No way, man,” Dean insisted, tugging the check closer to him. “This was supposed to be my treat. Well, technically Sam’s treat since he got me into this mess.” Castiel hesitated.

“You’re going to pay for dinner with a stranger who wasn’t even your intended date?”

“Hey, this turned out better than whatever Sam probably had planned.” Dean shot Castiel a grin. “Consider it my apology for crashing your solo dinner.” A beat passed between them before Castiel’s grip on the check loosened, and he relented.

“Very well. But next time, it’s my treat.”

Next time.

The two of them paused as the implication of next time hung between them, heavy but not entirely unwelcomed. Dean tucked Sam’s card into the folder and passed it off to the waitress, doing his best to ignore the strange flutter of something in his chest.

“So,” Dean leaned back in his chair, leg bouncing anxiously. “I’m supposed to report back to Sam about how this all went.” Castiel raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you planning on telling him about our... misunderstanding?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Dean laughed. “This is too good not to. But I can’t help but wonder what the person I was supposed to meet would’ve been like.”

Castiel’s expression shifted slightly, something unnamable passing across his features before he neatly tucked it away.

“Well, I hope she would’ve been worth your time.”

“Honestly?” Dean shrugged. “I doubt she could’ve made tonight any better.” A hint of color touched Castiel’s cheeks as he glanced down at his empty dessert plate. The waitress returned with the receipt, and Dean signed it with a flourish, making sure to leave a generous tip.

“Thank you for dinner, Dean,” Castiel said, rising from his chair. “It was unexpected. But pleasant.”

“Yeah, same here,” Dean replied, standing as well. The two of them walked toward the exit together, shoulders occasionally brushing in the narrow path between tables. Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a welcome change from the warmth of the restaurant. The sky was clear, but with all the light pollution from the city, the stars were barely visible. Dean hesitated at the bottom of the restaurant steps.

“Hey, you, uh... got a card?” he asked. “In case I need a tax guy?” he added quickly. Castiel’s expression softened, and he reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat before producing a business card.

“My work number is on here. But you can find my personal cell on the back.” He handed it to Dean, their fingers briefly brushing past each other. Dean took the card and flipped it over to see the neat handwriting. Castiel Novak, CPA. He smiled and tucked it into his own pocket.

“CPA,” Dean repeated. “Sounds official.”

“It is,” Castiel replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “I even have a special calculator and everything.” Dean laughed. Another awkward silence.

“So,” Dean finally began, rocking back on his heels. “Guess I should let you get home. Long day and all that.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Castiel looked up at the night sky then back at Dean, a soft, genuine smile gracing his features. He took a half-step back. “Give me a call if you need help with taxes.” A pause. “Or a next time.” And with that, the two parted ways.

Dean slid into Baby’s front seat, still reeling over the evening. What the hell was that? He typed a message to Sam, his leg bouncing as his fingers tapped against the screen.

Sam’s phone pinged. Two notifications.

The first was from his bank, notifying him that his card had been used.

The second, a message from Dean.

Jokes on you. I ain’t paying you shit.

Sam typed a response back, frowning. He had been so confident about this gal.

Damn, and here I thought Cassie’s love for Led Zeppelin would’ve gotten you.

Three dots appeared, signifying that Dean was typing. Then they disappeared. Then they popped up again. Then, a text.

WHO?!

---

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