#SICK GUITAR RIFF WHERE?!?!??!

[eliounora]

for everyone’s knowledge I’m absolutely insane about jesus christ superstar other musicals may be good too but this biblical rock opera from the 70s is excellent. showstopping. ian gillan as jesus. murray head as judas. other lloyd webber musicals are okay but this easter tale told through sick guitar riffs is just brilliant. my favourite songs are the temple. but also heaven on their minds. but also damned for all time. but also gethsemane. but also everything’s alright. but also simon zealotes. but also

[stuckinapril]

I stay up nights thinking ab how my ex’s biggest flex is he’s a skater stoner who played the guitar

[vilkm]

Valk can have a little HRT. As a treat :3

[mycological-mariner]

God Maná fucks so hard

[whirlybirbs]

— BRUISED EGO ; PART TWO ; TOSHINORI YAGI ; 俊典

summary: he should have waited for you. but no, toshinori felt like he had something to prove. now, roles are reversed and he needs your help. pairing: younger!toshinori yagi / f!reader ; hero name: derecho word count: 5k tags: afab!reader, fingering, oral (male receiving), piv, sex pollen trope but make it canon specific, dirty talk, praise kink, denied feelings, deeply needy fucking, size difference, toshinori being a good old fashioned lover-boy (again), enemies-to-coworkers-to-lovers hits hard a/n: oh wow a part two,,, i'm sick in the head ← previous | the tag

This ain't great.

This is, uh, bad actually.

Like, Toshinori has absolutely no idea what to do, bad. 

For Christ's sake, he's All Might. He should have known better. He should have known to wait for you — but no, he just had to calm his nerves by beginning your usual shared patrol an hour early. 

It's been one week, two days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes since he last saw you. Not that he's counting. It's not like he's suddenly acutely aware of the time he's spent apart from you, or anything. 

Japan is locked in a heatwave. 

(Or, maybe it's just the fever in his bones.)

Large, calloused palms dig into his eyes as he leans back against the rooftop's barrier and groans. Toshinori drops his head against the iron railing in defeat, sending a twang through the hot air. Sweat is running down his back beneath his suit, tracing the curve of his spine.

Oh, and he's hard.

Painfully hard.

Like he said, this ain't great.

The call went out that they spotted the same love quirk user from last week holding some sex workers at gunpoint. He should have waited. The two of you could have handled him easily. 

But, no. Toshi had to go and think he had something to prove. 

He groans again, pounding his knuckles to the gravel.

It's going to be all over the evening news. That clip of him, panicking, and absolutely decking the very-much-not-a-real-violent-threat-of-a-man in the face on reflex after being hit with his quirk. He couldn't help it. It was like... a knee-jerk. It's like suddenly you're being touched everywhere and nowhere. It's strange. Sort of violating. It... I-It was just all he could do, okay? 

And he apologized! Plenty! A-And Officer Tsukauchi said it was fine, that he had it handled, as a bunch of officers began to help the now-unconscious offender out of the storefront's debris.

...Toshinori's phone is ringing.

He has half the mind to ignore it.

But it's the guitar riff from 'Bad to the Bone'. 

It's you.

He barks out a huffed 'shit' before digging his phone from the pocket in his belt. Even your picture glowing alongside the phone call notification is enough to make his cock throb. 

It's not even racy. It's blurry. It's in the All Might Agency's lobby. You're smiling. It's such a rare sight. You're holding up your official hero license and a big thumbs up.

He took the picture a few years ago. It was a big deal, a huge win. Your hair was a little shorter, and your hands weren't as scarred from Pro-Hero work as they are now. And god, that smile. 

...Jesus, you're just happy and he's this horny? 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Toshinori picks up on the last ring.

"Where the hell are you?" comes your voice, cutting through the sound of wind — he can hear the thrum of your bike's engine in the background, "I've been looking all over for you, and I just got a call from Tsukauchi — are you alright?"

The sound of your voice is making his mouth dry.

"I'm fine."

He's not fine.

He's sitting here, aroused out of his mind and in pain, trying to battle through the mind-numbing, knuckle-breaking heat of desire. He can't even come close to the word 'fine'. He's a mess. All he can do is sit here and sweat because he knows no amount of trying to jerk off is going to solve this problem.

He's so not fine.

You can tell.

Tsukauchi gave few details — just that whatever the hell happened sent All Might hightailing it outta there. And, after getting a brief description of the prep, you had a pretty good idea why. 

Your fingers twitch against the throttle.

"Send me your location," you say sternly; the glint of your helmet's visor catches the passing lights of traffic as you talk into the built-in comms system, "I'm coming to get you."

"No," he grits out, tugging on a piece of his blonde fringe, "N-No. I'll be fine. I-I am fine. Just need some time—"

"Toshinori," you bark back as you check for an opening between cars; your whole body is hot and it's not just from the summer heat, "I'm not asking. Let me help." 

...Oh.

Help. Right.

It's ambiguous and sort of ominous but, if he squints, it's the first time either of you has even come close to talking about what happened last week. Y'know. When he kissed you in your entryway, the way he ate you out on your couch, or the way he absolutely fucked your brains out in your bed. All because you had been hit with the same quirk influence he's riding out now.

His location pings up on your visor's HUD. 

"Be there in five."

And you hang up.

Because — I mean, what else is there to say? You are going to do what you have to to help him. Just like he did for you. Then, maybe it will be even! And then, maybe, this feeling that has been eating your heart away for the last week will disappear. Right? And things will go back to normal!

...Right?

Ha! B-Because, yea, that feeling is definitely guilt, right? Like... You... uh. You feel bad. Because... he had to... help. And you haven't helped him. Right. Yes. 

Yep.

Not because you can't stop thinking about his hands on your face, cradling you tenderly as he drove himself deep into you. Not because you can't stop thinking about the way he looked up at you with his tongue flat on your clit. Not because you can't stop thinking about his voice, or his smile, or his laugh, or his—

The telltale roar of a motorcycle sets Toshinori Yagi's stomach ablaze. 

Immediately, the air gets thicker like the feeling before a summer thunderstorm. He knows you're here. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and before he can rub the feeling away, you're there. 

On the roof.

"You look..." you breathe out as your feet touch down with a crackle of lightning crescendoing around you, "Like shit." 

(Truly he looks divine. Rosey cheeks, his chest heaving. His eyes are half-lidded. There's a bead of sweat that runs down his jaw, down down down, down his neck, then disappears beneath the collar of his suit.)

Toshi sighs. It's a ragged sound. He pulls his knees up, trying his best to hide the apparent tenting across the front of his hero costume. He scrapes his rough palm down his face.

"Don't start—"

"Did I look this bad?" you ask, voice hiking an octave as you move towards him. You keep an even distance. Your face is morphed into a look of pity, but there's something in your voice that makes the knot in Toshinori's gut wind tighter, "He got you good, huh, Tosh'?"

He can't do nicknames right now.

"Ha, ha," he grits out, the trademarked All Might boisterousness dying in favor of the lackluster, dry humor he was born with, "You're real funny, zippy."

It's your favorite flavor of him. The man is out of the limelight. Though he may still be bigger than life biceps and thick steel-corded quads, the facade has fallen. 

"And you're a mess," you sigh as you squat down, rummaging in your pack for something. It's a water bottle. You offer it as you watch him. 

The condensation kisses his fingertips as he takes it and pops it open. 

He takes a long drink, caps it off, then presses the cold bottle to the back of his neck. It does little to dissipate the tension in his broad shoulders. The sensation arguably makes it worse. Another bead of sweat runs down his back.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

We're never gonna talk about this again echoes somewhere in the back of his mind. At this rate, they're gonna have to talk about this. Because once is just a fluke. Twice is a problem. A real problem. 

He places the bottle back on the ground after another long sip.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. Despite your desperate attempt to remain levelheaded, you know exactly how he's feeling at this moment. You gotta admit, his self-control dwarfs your own though. You could hardly keep your hands off him the second he walked in your door. 

You wrestle your bike helmet off, and Toshinori has to quell the wave of longing that rises in his chest. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and neck. He suddenly wishes he made you look this way — windswept and sweating. 

The jet-black helmet lands on the rooftop with a thwat. He can see his ragged, flushed reflection in the black visor. 

Your voice is soft. "Hey."

It brings his focus back to you. His mouth is dry. Big blue eyes swivel as they rake across your face — and he hates how his cock jumps at how softly you speak next.

"What do you need right now, Toshinori?"

His chest is rising and falling a little faster. The usual steadfast expression on his face has melted into something doe-eyed and boyish. It makes your heart clench. 

"Are you sure about this?" his voice cracks as he swallows roughly. It's a non-answer. It's a metaphorical boot-kicking-in-the-door, though. Toshinori rakes his hands through his hair, "I-I... I can wait it out—"

You exhale tightly; your rationale is clear. Totally unbiased and very much not rooted in an unabashed obsession with the way he touches you. 

"Tosh', you helped me. I won't sit around and let you suffer when the same hand is dealt your way."

He drops his head back again. Another twang echoes through the night air. 

"Plus," you offer with a slow, crooning smile, "I've always been a sucker for a damsel in distress."

It takes a second.

Then, one blue eye cracks open. Long, dark blonde lashes flutter a bit — and then, he's smirking. 

Ha. 

Right.

"You sure about this?" he asks, his head still dropped back and shoulders slumped. 

"Sure as I'll ever be, big man."

That's the only permission he needs.

Toshinori Yagi is fast. He has to be. He's the Number One Hero in all of Japan. Top of the popularity ranks, fan-favorite, best stats in history. Being fast is part of the gig. 

He's fast to sit up and catch you in a kiss that feels like a bruise — tender and aching and miscalculated. It's teeth and tongue and then a deliciously low noise that rumbles up from his chest and sets your whole body on fire. 

His grip is rough — his fingers fist your hair as he drags you closer, his mouth presses firmly to yours as you scramble against the rough rooftop. It's... 

Needy.

You're crawling towards him.

"That's my line," he breathes out, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth and pressing back in to steal your breath. His grip tightens in your hair. His voice is so low that it feels like someone lights a fire under your skin. It's rough and breathless and so not All Might.  

"It's a good line," you mutter back as your brain stutter-steps. You pull away to crawl closer and straddle his hips. Your knees pin his cape to the gravel. You're kissing him again, letting his feverish need set the pace, "Worked on me."

You can feel him through your hero suit. 

His suit's pants are thick, made of some patented material you can never remember the name of — but his arousal is more than apparent as you settle your weight down against him. The added pressure earns a throaty hum of approval. 

You always forget just how big he is in this form — his hands dwarf your hips as he drags his grip down, allowing himself a little bit of an edge when he unceremoniously bucks up against you. 

"Sorry," he slurs out, his boots scraping against the roof; it's utterly pathetic, "Sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," you breathe out as you follow his lead and continue the movement, grinding your hips down, "I asked what you needed—"

"Anything," Toshinori's words rush out with his blue eyes screwed closed tightly as he grips your hips and slots his mouth back against yours, "Anything you'll give me."

...How is he so romantic? Even in a moment like this? Even when he's blindly seeking friction through his pants, bucking his hips against your own, as he moans into your mouth. 

"Hands? Mouth?" you parrot his line of questioning from your previous encounter; it seems to knock some sense into him.

His breath catches. Blue eyes widen minutely. You feel him twitch beneath you.

"God, mouth, please—"

Who would have ever anticipated you'd be here? 

Who would have ever anticipated you'd be helping him work off his belt, work off his tactical pants? Who knew you'd be watching his taut stomach flex as you push his costume's top higher up his torso, who knew you'd be dragging his stupid All Might-themed boxers down his narrow hips to spring him free? 

Who thought you'd ever see him like this, so desperate and winded and needy? 

Not you, that's for sure. You never thought, in all those years you sat in prison, this would be your life shortly after: giving head — happily — to the man who put you there in the first place. 

And here you are, slipping him a tentative look as you wrap a gloved hand around his hardness and smirk. 

"Is this okay?" you murmur up at him, on your hands and knees. You're teasing him. He knows this. 

Toshinori laughs — an incredulous bark. It's all you need to hear as confirmation. 

The sound splinters into a choked moan when you bend down and take him into your mouth.

He sees stars.

This is going to be a problem.

All he can do is lean back and grip the guard rail over his head for dear life because ho-oly shit. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. His biceps go taut, his knuckles white, and he tries so hard to keep his hips still as you hum around him. His whole body shudders — his thighs tensing under your other hand as you balance above him. 

This is — son of a bitch. Your grip around the base of his cock tightens incrementally, and as you lap at the head of his cock, his thoughts die in a strangled burst of pleasure. 

Then, his hand lands on your cheek.

The touch is reverent. Holy. Tender and adoring.

"Jesus, Der'," he slurs out, his chest heaving up and down as he tries to keep his eyes on you; he can't stare too long. The sight is too much. Too pretty. Mouth full of him, "You're such a good girl." 

There it is. 

The little bit of praise he slipped you before. 

If the iron rail creeks beneath his tightening grip, neither of you pays it any mind. 

You're on your knees, gloved hand around his shaft, watching his face contort into something so wonderfully steeped in bliss. You've got more important things to mind rather than the structural integrity of some stupid rooftop rail. 

Like the way his stomach clenches — the way his abs tighten. Like the way he says your name or the way he chokes out a nervous laugh when you take him just a litttttle deeper. 

"Fucking shit," he hisses; you make a mental note to rib him for his language some other time. Hearing him curse like this is a hell of an indicator for your ego that you're doing a good job, "Der', if you keep that up—"

"What?" you rasp, spit connecting your mouth to his cock, "You'll cum?"

Something snaps. 

It's a flash of red and blue and silver and blonde, his cape tearing through the air. 

Suddenly, you're pinned to the rooftop — gravel scrapes as your boots kick and grapple for purchase. Your elbows scuff against the ground. The wind is swept out of your body and he's kissing you so roughly you swear you taste blood. One of his hands is locked around your jaw. You're effectively trapped. 

All you can do is let out a shaky, startled, yet painfully aroused laugh. 

His other hand isn't gentle — it's tearing at the bottom half of your suit, unceremoniously snapping the button of your tactical pants open and shoving his hand down the front of them. You can feel a slight shake in his fingers as they delve past your underwear and slip into your folds.

"I need you," he hisses; his eyes are dark, and you can see the edge of frustration building. You know the feeling. 

Another kiss.

Suddenly, there are two fingers in you. 

You whine against his mouth.

He doesn't waste any time. He can't. Not when all he can think about is splitting you open on his cock. You're right here and you're soft and beautiful and fuck, he can't even think straight when you clamp down on his middle and ring finger. 

"Be nice," you warn between pants and whines and whimpers. It's an empty threat.

"Or what?" he chirps back, working his fingers in and out; his voice hitches along the syllables, trying his best to sound unaffected by the little breathy sound you let out when he kisses your jaw, "You'll cum?"

It's your turn to laugh. Your hands grapple with his cape, trying to anchor yourself in any way possible. You fist it as his fingers continue the task at hand: opening you up enough to take him. His knees nudge your legs open a little bit farther. Toshinori's body feels like it's on fire. 

His heavy, hot cock drags up the inside of your thigh and he shudders. 

His face is pressed to your shoulder in a flash; it's good because he doesn't see the blissful smile working its way across your face as our own arousal builds. 

"You're soaking wet," he strangles out; his pride is overshadowed by the embarrassing need to have you. He feels like if he doesn't, this raging fever will just get worse and worse and worse. 

"Par for the course," your words hitch on a hot wave of arousal as his palm grinds down against your clit. You grip his wrist, trying to ignore the tell-tale shake in your legs. His hand is holding your face.

"At least I'm doin' something right," he whispers, his breath hot against your cheek as he relinquishes his fingers from your heat and drags your mouth across your jaw, "Y'think... Think you can...?"

Take him? Yea.

You're a brave girl. 

Yea, that shouldn't be a problem. 

What is a problem is your riding gear and hero suit — but Toshinori can't be bothered. He's grappling with them for you, hauling you into his arms as he drags them down enough. They get caught on the tops of your boots, but he doesn't give a shit. Not when you're here, spread, and glistening before him. Not when you're in his lap, half-dressed, and trying to maneuver yourself down onto him with some semblance of grace. 

Everything is bigger when it comes to Mr. Double Detriot Smash.

Again, you're a brave girl. You're not going to shy away from the upgraded dicking down you got last week. Hell, that was great. Filled you up perfectly, and hit all the right spots... and now, you're realizing that the already tight fit is going tobe a littttle tighter. 

Your knees are like jello as your fingertips dig into his shoulders. Your hair is wild — and you're sweating. He's no better off; there's a crease of worry in his brow, even amidst the blinding heat of desire that's eating him up inside. 

He knows he's big. He's huge. He's... 

This is the first time he's ever had sex in this empowered form. 

Not like he advertises this as a service.

He'd be lying through his trademarked smile if he said he wasn't nervous — but there you go, giving him just another reason why he should buy a ring tomorrow and give you everything you've ever wanted because fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, you're so tight and hot and wet and the sound you make the second you sink down on him—

"God, yes, Tosh'."

The gasp that wrings itself from his mouth is utterly pathetic. He doesn't care. He truly can't even think straight — all he can do is dig his fingertips into your hips and slam his mouth against yours to muffle the whines crawling up his throat. 

"Stay right there," you whisper; there's an edge to your voice of warning. He's trying to listen. He's trying to be a—

"Good boy."

You're holding his face and he can't seem to catch his breath. His boots scuff in the dirt, his brows knit, and he inhales sharply when you clamp down on him for good measure. Fuck. Shit. God, nonono. He needs to move. He needs — c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, please.

"Der'—"

You're kissing him again — and then you move. Slow at first, a little hiccup of your hips. Then, more assured, more confident. An easy up, then down. Then again, and again, and again. And again. 

"God, yes," he nearly cries; he smothers his desperate moan into a kiss that melts away time. Toshinori's hands are trying to find purchase, trying to help guide you up and down his cock as best he can. He doesn't want you to do all the work — he wants to help, "You're so fucking good, Der'."

"Y-Yea?" you breathe out, your entire body shuddering at the praise. Your hip tightens, and you don't even have the wherewithal to consider the cramp. You're not stopping for anything.

Not when this is, like, the hottest thing you've ever done. 

"You have no idea," he melts into another kiss that's all tongue and adoration, his bare thread composure snapping up like his hips in a testing manner, "Lemme fuck you, please, Der', please, please, I promise I'll be good—"

It certainly felt good.

All you can do is hold onto his shoulders. 

If you've learned one thing in the time you've known Toshinori Yagi, it's that he's a man of his word. He holds promises in the deepest homes of his heart, ensuring that nothing prevents him from honoring them. He's dedicated entirely to those around him and to seeing them prevail. Toshinori, even on his worst days, never makes a promise he can't keep. 

So, promising he'll be good?

I mean — it depends on the definition, doesn't it?

If 'good' is desperate, pathetic, fast drillings of his hips as you cling to him and gasp? If 'good' is filthy, muttered praise into your collarbone as he slams into you again, and again, and again?

If 'good' is scrambling in the gravel, being pressed flat as he takes you from behind?

Then, yea.

He's really good.

He's incredibly good — especially as he presses his chest to your back, and wraps his arm around your front. His fingers are greedily pushing through your folds as he keeps up his thoroughly rough pace. The thick, calloused pads of his ring and middle finger grace your clit and you nearly scream. 

The gravel is biting into your knees and palms but you don't care. Not when his mouth is on your neck and he keeps saying your name over and over and over and over again as he drives you into the ground. Not Derecho. Not some tender version of a nickname.

Your name. 

The hot fire of your arousal is building steadily — the wet, explicit sounds of him pushing his cock into you over and over again as he pins you are doing plenty, but it's the way he says your name that really seals your fate. 

Toshinori isn't here right now. Come back in two business days. He's lost in the bone-deep influence of this quirk, hellbent on filling you up and proving he's a good boy. He can give you everything. A ring, a house, a life — three more motorbikes and whatever you want on top of that. 

Fuck, he loves you.

Your fingers dig into the rooftop. 

"Oh, fuck, Toshi — yes," you cry; there's a crack in your voice, "Right there. K-Keep... Keep doing that—"

"C'mon, I wanna f-feel you cum," he babbles as you bury your face into his elbow bracing his weight, "Come on, Der', you're such a good girl, you're taking me so well, I know you c-can—"

Everything is Toshinori. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, and his voice — so low and honeyed — is right in your ear as he moans.

Even now, he's ever so selfless.

"I need you to cum first," he grits as his fingers work your clit just a little faster, "C'mon, Der', you're doing so good — you deserve it, you deserve to cum so hard—"

Your knees jerk — and the world's best orgasm rushes up to meet you headfirst. A snap of lightning ignites your skin as you lose all control, and so suddenly Toshinori is right behind you, tumbling down the white-hot bliss of the best sex he's ever had in his life. 

He made you snap, he made you lose control, h-he made you cum—

His composure shatters. There's a guttural sound wrenched from deep in his chest and it's delicious. He finishes with a series of frantic thrusts that make you whine. His mouth is on your neck, your cheek, then your mouth. 

You crane yourself back, humming delightfully into the kiss that quells the rolling tide of desire into something softer. 

His whole body shudders as the after-quakes of your orgasm ripple along him. All Toshi can do is smother his sounds into another kiss. This one is slower. It's needy in a different way. 

When the kiss finally slows, it takes a second for him to peel his eyes open.

You look thoroughly wrecked. 

Your expression is that of a woman exhausted. 

Toshinori is suddenly aware of his own bulk, his own weight. Gently, he presses a hand to your cheek as he pushes himself up and off of you. His muscles burn — and pulling out of you makes his entire chest ache. 

The feeling wrings a gasp out of you. 

You exhale slowly, through pursed lips. Then, you brace yourself up on your elbows and hang your head. Toshinori flops gracelessly onto his back, his arms and legs spread with his half-hard cock sloped against his stomach. Your slick is coating him. His pants are half down around his ankles, and his usual up-right bangs have sagged. From heat or exhaustion, you're not sure. 

It sure as hell is cute. 

"You okay?" you ask after a second, taking him in as he begins to catch his breath. 

"Oh, yea, just peachy," he rumbles. The thousand-yard stare into the evening air is a hell of a thing on him. 

It makes you bark out a laugh.

Toshinori lolls his head to the side lazily, taking you in.

Your knees and elbows are bleeding. You're picking out the gravel stuck to your palms. You're in no better of a state — your pants are half on, wrenched down over your riding boots, and your uniform's top is pushed up over your breasts. His orgasm is leaking out of you, and the insides of your thighs are coated with your own arousal. Your hair is a mess. 

You're both messes.

You laugh again — and his own laugh starts shortly thereafter. Before you two know it, you're both locked in a laughing match that only ends when you try to reach to shove his shoulder. Your abs burn. Toshinori tries to muscle the grin off his face but fails.

Fuck. 

Fuck, that feeling hasn't gone away. 

It wasn't guilt.

Mayday, mayday, abort, abort, it wasn't guilt. He's smiling at you in the moonlight, looking so utterly wrecked and handsome and gentle—

His hand moves, a single crux finger gracing the curve of your arm soothingly. It's slow. Tentative. Hesitant. Not too much, not too little. 

Toshinori's voice is rough with sheepishness.

"Are we, uh, are we never gonna talk about this, too?" he asks. 

The touch and the question make your heart kick into a stutter. 

You swallow roughly.

"I..." you drop your head, as you wet your lips; play it cool, "Is it something you... want to talk about?"

"...Do you?"

A non-answer.

Your lashes flutter as your stare widens. You open your mouth, about to say something, but suddenly both of your phones are blaring with a city-wide alert. 

It takes a second for it to register — and as suddenly as the moment came, it went. 

ALERT, ALERT, ALL PROS REPORT TO CITY HALL, MULTIPLE HOSTAGES, ARMED GUNMAN, ALL PROS REPORT TO CITY HALL, ALERT, ALERT!  

You're struggling to haul your pants up as All Might fumbles with his belt. You hop on one foot, cursing as he scrambles for his phone in the gravel.

"You gotta be kidding me," he grits quietly, thumbing through the notification as you struggle in the middle distance behind him, tripping into your pack as you try and button your pants. 

"Time to go?" you ask pathetically as you try to ignore the feel of after-sex between your legs. 

"I guess that conversation is going to have to wait until later," he says apologetically, bending to grab your helmet. He offers it as you shrug on your pack; there's a sudden cocky confidence seeping back into his posture, "So let's make this quick, shall we?"

You swallow down a rush of worship. 

"I guess so," you remark easily, again trying your best to seem cool. That's your whole persona after all. Little miss spiteful, cold, rough-around-the-edges...

Beautiful, perfect, lovely, Toshi muses as you shove your helmet on and jut your chin his way. You flick your eyes toward the edge of the building.

He's already got a running start. 

"After you, All Might."

"Race you there, Derecho." 

[motherlvr]

Hi, can you do a Earth 42!Miles x Earth 42!Spider-Woman!Reader where Reader somehow meets Hobie and they hit it off. Miles sees them one day and gets jealous

tysm for the req!!

wc: 2.8k

pairing: E-42! Miles Morales x Spider-woman! reader

warnings: cursing, argument, friends to lovers, makeout sesh, slightly suggestive

a/n: imagine some comically sized british chap comes in and steals ur girl nahhh

-----------

Your webs were useless against him.

At the moment, you were trying to apprehend a Vulture-like man and prevent him from further harming Brooklyn. As you have been for the past hour. You tried to pin the winged man down using your webs, but he tore right through them like they were made of paper.

What you initially believed going to be light work turned into a much larger problem as you were slammed into the side of a building. The unwelcome guest had an unfair advantage over you. You had to learn that the hard way.

His wing regenerated within only seconds of you ripping it off. It was like you were inside a cartoon.

Your jaw almost dropped to the ground. Hammerspace was real? You had only read about it in comics. "Dude, who even are you?" You shouted in confusion. But whoever he was, he wasn't from your world. That part was evident.

But it seemed like the tides were turning to your benefit.

You heard it before you saw it. You could've sworn guitar riffs rang throughout the air before another unexpected visitor came flying through a portal.

Upon further inspection, you realized it was another Spider-person. How was that possible? You thought you were the only one. But it wasn't the oddest thing you've seen as Spider-woman.

Bashing the winged man on the head with an electric guitar, he temporarily caught the Vulture off guard. Using it to his advantage, he quickly encased the anomaly in a force cage. Dusting off his palms, his lengthy legs strode over to you.

"Hold ya applause." He joked, giving you a small bow and pretending to tip an invisible hat.

His slightly cocky attitude was justified as you almost did applause. He folded the guy you've been fighting for an hour within only a few minutes. With a damn guitar, nonetheless. You almost geeked out, "That was fuckin' sick!" you exclaimed.

"Don't sell yourself short, mate. You did most of the work. My name's Hobie." He introduced himself. And from there, a grand friendship bloomed.

---------

Present-day and a few months have passed since you were practically drafted into the Spider Society. It was like a full-time job, as consumed most of your free time. The spare time that you'd usually spend hanging out with Miles. So needless to say, you were deprived of interactions with anyone that wasn't genetically enhanced by a spider.

Balancing your social life and the fate of the multiverse was much more challenging than Miguel originally let on. But what would he know about social life, anyway?

In the time you've spent at the Spider Society headquarters, you gravitated towards the infamous freedom fighter, Spider-punk. Or as he refers to be called: Hobie Brown.

Ever since he singlehandedly took the Vulture out with a guitar, the two of you just 'clicked'. Better yet, you guys were an unbeatable duo when it came to dealing with anomalies. You were almost inseparable. Just as Miles and you once were. Miguel even assigned Hobie the same missions as you.

One could say Hobie became what Miles once was to you. As you used to confide in Miles, you started to turn to Hobie instead. It wasn't that you were intentionally trying to distance yourself from Miles, but rather due to the convenience that Hobie shared the same issues as you. Rather, in this case, almost the exact same story. Hobie understood you to a Tee.

Miles was aware of your identity as Spider-woman as you were aware of him being the Prowler. But it wasn't always that way. Once upon a time, Miles originally intended to keep his identity as the Prowler a secret from you, but you found out anyway. Call it your spider-sense, if you may.

When someone close to you mysteriously disappears for various periods of time, it starts to hit a little too close to home. Miles trying to keep his identity concealed from you was a routine that wasn’t too different from yours. Him sneaking out at night, returning at ungodly hours with bruises, and lying. It was all too familiar. You eventually figured it out on your own. And when you confronted him about the truth, he confessed it all to you.

When he apologized for keeping such a crucial piece of information a secret, you couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. So you revealed your secret identity to him. The two of you entrusted each other with your greatest secrets. Secrets that could completely ruin one's life if they were spread to the world. It would put massive targets on both of your backs. The two of you had something special: trust. Or at least, used to.

Refocusing back on the present, you were currently out hunting anomalies with Hobie as you have been for the past months.

Today's anomaly was a particularly pesky villain. He had Hobie and you running in circles all around New York. Inevitably, the two of you caught him anyway.

Wiping the sweat off your forehead, you realized how fatigued you were. You were sure Hobie felt the same.

Your life revolved around the Spider Society and what missions needed to be completed. You worked all day and all night to ensure the protection of the multiverse. You didn’t have much time to yourself nor time for anyone outside of the Spider Society.

So, after completing the mission Miguel had assigned the both of you, you convinced Hobie to take a short interlude with you before going off to catch another dimension-destroying villain. Thankfully, he agreed.

Opening a portal to your selected safe space in New York, you guided Hobie outside the Clocktower. You frequented it when you needed a quick retreat from all the responsibilities being Spider-woman came with. But unbeknownst to you, Miles did the same. He was leaning his back against the other side of the Clocktower, unsuspecting of your presence.

Safe to presume, both of you were alike in more ways than just having secret identities as vigilantes.

Miles has been visiting this Clocktower ever since he took up his Uncle's mantle as the Prowler. He came up to this tower to wind down, away from his vigilante duties. His life was turned upside down, but the one thing that remained constant in his life was you. Now was a different story, however. You were slowly fading away from him, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

Angling his head up towards the sky, he pondered about your disappearance. What could possibly have you so occupied? Another guy? Just the thought irked him.

You stopped returning his calls, messaging him, and didn't seem to have any free time. He knew being Spider-woman must come with great responsibility, but the excuses you made were piling up. The mutual trust the two of you once shared was slowly becoming a distant memory.

As Hobie and you pulled your masks down, you let out a long exhale of air. Sitting on the ledge of the clocktower with your legs swinging, Hobie made himself at home next to you. He said, "I am absolutely knackered." his English accent becoming more prominent. You cracked a slight smile and teased, "You tired, innit?" He only rolled his eyes at you and said, "You ain't even use innit right, you pillock."

Your uncontrolled laughter could be heard from miles away. It felt good to be able to relax for once. Even if it was only for a few minutes. Dramatically wiping tears from your eyes, you asked in between laughs, "What the hell is a pillock?" Hobie didn't find it nearly as amusing but gave a small chuckle at how comedic you found it.

As your laugh rang throughout the air, Miles' ears almost perked, despite not hearing your voice in months. Suddenly rising from his position, he wondered whether his ears were deceiving him. But as your laughter got louder, he was positive it was you.

Following the familiar sound of your voice, he spotted you sitting on the ledge of the Clocktower, looking as carefree as ever. Your back was facing toward him, and he was dying to just catch a single glimpse of you.

He called out your name with only a hint of hesitation. And when you whipped your head around, it was like a wave of affection hit him all over again. He was seeing you for the first time in months. Even after all that time away, you still made his heartbeat pause.

A silent moment passed as the sun's gleaming rays framed your figure in all the right ways. He only snapped out of his trance when he realized you weren't alone. You were accompanied by a rather conspicuous individual. Another guy.

Narrowing his eyes at the sight of the unknown male, he asked you, "What're you doin' up here, ma?

He wanted to hold a grudge against you for barely speaking to him within the past few months, but that was a less-pressing matter that he'd bring up later.

You disappeared for months. But out of the blue one evening, you return with some unknown guy. Staring at Miles, you looked like a deer caught in headlights. He felt as if he wasn't supposed to be seeing this.

Perhaps Miles was being selfish. But he couldn't bare to see you with another guy. So when he saw you with Hobie, he only assumed the worst.

Not to mention, Miles believed you looked a bit too cozy with the enigma of a male next to you. If he hadn't interrupted the two of you, it seemed to him like you would've snuggled right into the other man's side. Who was he? And why would you choose to spend your time with him rather than Miles? What did he have that Miles lacked? His jealousy was bound to make him snap the longer he saw you in the comforts of a guy that wasn't him.

But what he felt ran deeper than just jealousy. He was envious. He was envious of a man whom he didn't know anything about. Because he was who you chose to spend time with, not Miles. That was how Miles perceived it, anyway.

Your response made him snap back to reality. "Miles? What are you doing here?" Emphasizing the word 'you', you tried to reverse the question onto him. The Clocktower wasn't exactly a designated hang-out area for civilians. Hobie stood up and stretched as he was going to introduce himself to Miles. He held his hand out to help you up and you mindlessly accepted it. Miles' eye twitched seeing your hand in another man's hold.

Hobie and you walked over to Miles, and Miles' envy only grew. He soon realized Hobie was a Spider-person as well. Just as you were. Since when did a Spider-man exist? Miles thought.

Hobie exuded nonchalance as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his spiked jacket. He seemed unbothered by Miles' presence.

Questions plagued Miles' mind as he analyzed Hobie: Were you into guys like him? Is he why you haven't been around lately? How was he so tall?

Miles stared daggers into Hobie's eyes. But Hobie brushed off his glare and said, "What's up, man? Name's Hobie." Miles only nodded his head once at him and said, "I'm Miles." "Yeah, I know." Hobie responded. Miles paused for a second but shook it off as he turned to you. Replying to your previous question of why he was here, he told you, "I come here sometimes. You too, huh?"

Nodding your head, you agreed, "Yeah. To clear my mind, y'know?" With some other guy? Miles almost snipped. Instead, he hummed in response. Enunciating, he asked the question that's been lingering in the back of his mind for months. "Where've you been for the past months, ma? You went ghost." He tried to seem as collected as he could.

Rubbing the back of your head, you tried to come up with some lame response. "Sorry, Miles. I've just been busy lately." Miles couldn't stop his next words from coming out once they started to form.

"Busy doin' what exactly? Him?" He remarked, nodding his head in Hobie's direction. His outburst made your eyes widen in shock. You were aware you didn't look entirely presentable, with maybe a few stray strands of hair, but could you catch a break for once? You had just saved another dimension from deteriorating.

Hobie and you blurted out a response at the same time, "Nah, that's mad." "Absolutely not." But Miles wasn't convinced. The way both Hobie and you appeared utterly exhausted wasn't exactly helping your case.

Sensing the obvious tension in the air and the way you gaped at Miles, Hobie glanced down at you and pointed out, "Hol'up, you fancy the Prowler?" as a slight chuckle escaped his lips. His face was laced with an amused smirk rather than judgment.

"Hobie!" You shot him an agitated look, silently telling him to shut up.

Miles was only wondering how Hobie instantly knew he was the Prowler. He was convinced for a second that Hobie could read minds.

Hobie began to understand Miles' initial hostility and tried to assure him. "Apologies, apologies. I ain't know you lot were together." Hobie said, raising his palms in his defense.

Miles had no intention to correct Hobie, but you hesitated as you said to him, "We're not..." The words faltered on your tongue. Noticing your hesitation, Hobie leaned down to you and whispered in your ear, "Yeah? Does he know that?"

Reading the room, Hobie could tell you needed to speak to Miles in private. It seemed Miles was in the dark about a few key things. So as always, once Hobie is satisfied with the mayhem he has instigated, he leaves the scene. Giving you a two-fingered salute, Hobie tells you, "Alright, I'm off. See you in a bit." throwing you a wink. You mentally cursed him as he strolled away. Once he was out of Miles' sight, he disappeared into a portal back home.

For a brief moment, Miles wondered whether Hobie was his replacement.

Sighing, you pinched the bridge of your nose and turned to Miles. "I'm sorry, Miles. I've just been preoccupied with Spider-woman stuff." You said, not going into further details.

His jealousy almost boiled over. "Cut the shit, ma. If you're busy jeepin' with some guy, just say that." Miles was exasperated as he threw his arms in the air.

In pure disbelief, you tried to tell him. "Miles, you got it twisted. I swear. I didn't mean to shut you out, I've been out on missions. You know how it is." You were no fool. You knew how it must've looked to Miles when he caught you with Hobie after disappearing for months. But you didn't want him thinking you had ditched him just to go fool around with some other guy.

You didn't want your friendship with him to end like this, nor did you want it to end at all. "Hobie's just my partner. We go on missions together. That's all we are." You continued to explain to Miles. While you could understand Miles' viewpoint, the guy you wanted was standing right in front of you.

Miles furrowed his brows at you and inquired, "So you aren't messin' with him?" You immediately replied, "For the last time, absolutely not!"

Miles nodded in approval, "Good. Does that mean you ain't gonna be mad at me if I do this?" He ominously questioned you. Raising an eyebrow, you asked, "Do what?"

His gaze flickered to your lips as he lifted your chin with his hand, swiftly connecting your lips. Your lips slowly move together as ocean waves do. Removing his hold on your face, one hand traveled down to your waist to pull you in. You lifted your arms to wrap them around his neck.

Ever since he saw you again, his urge to press his lips to yours was undying. Those silent months caused plenty of built-up frustrations that he had wholeheartedly planned on taking out on your lips. He missed you. The way you felt against him, your voice, and the sweet aftertaste you left on his lips.

As the moments passed by, the heat you both felt was only getting more intense. He backed you against a wall of the tower, and you wrapped a leg around his waist to pull him in even further. One of his hands supported the leg that you encased around him, tracing circles into your thigh with his thumb.

Parting to catch a breath, you left kisses down Miles' neck. In between each one, you whispered an apology. "I'm really sorry. Promise I'll make it up to you, Miles." After you were done speaking, he only glanced down at you. Whispering back, he told you, "Talk less, ma." as he stole your breath yet again, pressing his lips to yours.

You supposed he was right. The two of you would have plenty of time to talk later, as it was apparent he wasn't letting you go anytime soon.

--------

tysm for reading!

taglist: @l5byrinth @11erinome11 @ulovejayy @laylasbunbunny @whatamidoing89 @kanvis @sophiaj650 @edgyficuselastica @spideys2cute @whatamidoing89 @beabadobee @sxributr @justhereforfunidk

lmk if u want to be added! honestly have no clue why the last few tags aren't working i am so sorry lmao

[xanticore]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘

Part two

Genre: angst

Setting: early 2000s ,, L.A.

Warnings: mentions of alcohol and drug addiction. Sex addiction. lots and lots of cursing. he cheats. (the horror) slight mentions of suicide. slight grammar errors im writing this at 3 am.

Summary: Jungkook was always one to have his anger get the best of him...that was only because of the amount of drugs and alcohol he abuses in his daily life. When you first met him, you knew he had personal problems but he never discussed those things with you. One night after a show, you wanted to talk about his habits and something snapped in him. You don't know if you're able to even look at him again.

Rockstar!Jungkook - he sings and plays guitar.

Jungkook had some problems...mentally. And you knew it, and so did his band mates. You were the type to try and ignore it and see the good in him for the most part. Certain times, Jungkook was definitely a good boyfriend to you. He would buy you expensive bouquets, new clothes, and even jewlery; but that was all during a time where he was sober. You don't know what happened to make him relapsed and you honestly tried to retrace your steps.

It gotten so hard on you, to the point Jaehyun, his bandmate that plays drums, had to remind you countless times that none of this wasn't your fault. You couldn't help but still have it on your mind though.

Kook distanced himself from you and he rarely ever calls you. You tried to call him but you would always hear that he was either unavailable or worse, just a dead line- no one would even pick up. Overthinking with such a guy like him was inevitable. You didn't know what he was doing because you couldn't even get a hold of him. You tried your best to let him be an adult and let him just comeback on his own; but that never worked out in the end.

So you decided to take matters into your own hands. Jaehyun contacted you that they would be during their last show of their tour in downtown L.A. at the metal club. You we're excited but very disappointed in how Jungkook didn't tell you but someone else did. You shrugged it off and made your way towards the club.

The show went on as planned and they performed- in a sense good. The other members were flawless with their instruments but you noticed that Kook wasn't doing so well. It was unusual for him to even slip up a riff. You sighed already could tell he had some alcohol in his system. It was even obvious in his singing. You looked over at the bassist and the other guitar player-Yugyeom and Eunwoo. The two seemed to take notice of Jungkooks performance and how it can affect the rest of the members and song all together.

Luckily, the show went on and managed to have the crowd cheering and screaming. You went backstage and waited for them to come out. Each member greeted you with a warm smile and Jaehyun stopped for a moment.

"You noticed?"

"Yeah...he's drunk. He was already in a shit mood ever since this morning. When he sees you, hopefully that sour attitude changes."

Jaehyun said before shaking his head. "If he does anything to you..let me know. Ok?" You nodded at his request and that nearly had your hair on your arms sticking up. At last Jungkook came off stage already having a beer bottle in his hand. He saw you and just rolled his eyes which you was taken aback by that action of his. "What are you doing here (name)?" He said nonchalantly, as if he didn't wanted you there in the first place.

"Jaehyun was nice enough to tell me you were doing your last tour stop here. Ughh Kook, you fucking reek of alcohol-"

Jungkook just chuckled and took a swig of his beer. "And this? can we talk about how you just relapsed out of nowhere and how you never return my calls? You've been so distant with me lately." You snapped at him as you watched him, carelessly drink his drink. "I've been busy-"

"Drinking and doing coke isn't being 'busy' you need serious help Jungkook and your band mates is slowly getting sick and tired of your behavior and so am I!"

"I don't fucking care what they think. I'm living my best fucking life as much as possible trying to keep myself fucking happy in this world!"

"So doing this is your solution?!"

"Yeah. Drugs, beer, a good fuck with a girl who isn't bugging me 24/7 trying to get in contact with me"

That was it. You froze for a moment and all the color on your face has drained as your heart sunk. Jungkook still didn't realize what he said. You watched him throw away the bottle, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with his lighter afterwards. You didn't have the energy to even comment on it but you were more worried about his wellbeing.

"Why? just....just why are you trying to kill yourself like this?" You said trying to not choke up on your words.

"Im tired. I kinda do wanna sleep." Kook replied, exhaling the nicotine. "also I wanna get away from you. i'm sick of you..."

im sick of you

im sick of you

You couldn't help but repeat those harsh words over and over. You couldn't tell if the alcohol or drugs were talking or Jungkook himself. He still had no reaction to what he said but you was already too weak to even argue with him. You felt tears roll down your cheeks and heard a sigh coming from him. "Look, I gotta go. I can't be here while you're crying like this-"

He walked passed you so carefree. He didn't even bother to look back as he walked down the hallway. After that, you knew it'll be the last time you talked with him. You felt like he didn't need you so why should you continue to care.

You left the club alone without your boyfriend that you once cherished and cared about.

Extra: 6 months later. Jungkook was in rehab in a therapy session. Told in Kooks pov.

I was in my therapy session and I told my therapist about my problems I had with the things I do. I've been told things that I regret saying to my girlfriend. I was just too upset with everyone and high off my fucking mind to the point she stopped all contact.

I wanted to go back to my habits again but that would only cause me more unwanted trauma. I was still in denial after what Jaehyun told me. I seriously don't remember anything from that night...and it pisses me off.

After receiving the news I've gotten from my brother, my whole world crashed and I wanted a way to get out of here. I couldn't bare just being here I was mentally and physically exhausted with my life. Nothing was making me happy and touring definitely didn't help. I grew an unhealthy addiction with sex. I had sex with many woman not caring in the slightest I was taken. Not caring I had someone worried about me back at home.

I really loved (name)...I really did. In the beginning; I tried my absolute hardest to stay away from the dark. She was my light.

"It seems you wasn't ready..."

"I wasn't. I wish I could go back in time and changed everything."

a/n : Yay or nah? Lowkey was in my feelings but i wanted to write angst.

dividers: cr to owners

[redr0sewrites]

Hi! I absolutely loved your lucifer x punk reader and was wondering if you could do a gn punk reader but with Velvette please?

nonnie i hope u know that u absolutely made my year with this request i NEED more velvette reqs she is my guilty pleasure

🥀 Cw: fluff, slightly suggestive at the end

Velvette is absolutely the type of person to LOVE having an alternative s/o

she def finds anyone with a unique style intriguing, and once she actually met you she fell hard

def inspired a clothing line or two after you before you both even became official

she would also ask you to model and would ask for your opinion on designs!!!!! ur def her muse in a way, and she LOVES dressing you up in spunky outfits and designing new outfits just for you

velvette just loves dressing you up, and loves going out together when you're both dressed to the MAX in full aesthetic outfits

shes so good at doing hair and makeup too, URGRHRH imagine her sitting on your lap and doing your eyeliner for you or putting liberty spikes in your hair...

if your super into DIY or patch vests, pants, etc Velvette LOVEESSSS helping you make clothes

she will make patches and pins for you to wear!

velvette def has you show her some of the DIY tricks you know, and she shows you some in return

YALL ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY POSITIVELY HAVE MATCHING OUTFITS

all of hell starts to see even more alternative and punk influence in fashion once you both become OFFICIAL official

velvette also announces it on practically every social media platform possible that you both are together, she loves showing you off and she is NEVER the type to be ashamed of her partner

you both def make those alt couples goals videos, and if anyone ever hits on you velvette will conveniently post blurry photos of you both making out the next day on her sinstagram

she shows up to important meetings and work events with you both in your spunky matching fits

you both heavily believe in being fashionably late and def help eachother get ready (but it ends up taking longer bc she just can't help but kiss you over and over while you're trying to do eyeliner, and you are definitely no help when she's struggling to choose which accessory to wear)

she's already a huge advocate for change in the way hell is run, and you both bond over your anti-authoritarian ideals

velvette does what she wants and nobody can tell her otherwise, and teh same goes for you. she genuinely admires that you really don't care what others think about you and you're style, and was def attracted to that aspect of your personality before you both even dated

LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME SHE WOULDNT ADORE FEMINIST ROCK LIKE SHE WOULD EAT THAT SHIT UP

you both love bikini kill, hole, x ray spex, destroy boys, JOAN JETT, all of that genre

she probably knew about punk music before she met you, but you def introduced her to it more

velvette loves long car rides where you're BLASTING music and screaming it at the top of your lungs while chains and hair is flying everywhere as you tear down the road speed limit where

if you wear lots of chains she def tugs on them to pull you into kisses and pulls you in by the belt too... (i want to make a drabble about this soooo bad)

all in all, yall r a POWER COUPLE lmao

"babe, what about this?" Velvette twirled you around, adjusting some of the pins on your vest before turning you towards the large, illuminated mirror that covered one side of the messy dressing room. music played in the background, filling the room with guitar riffs and breathy solos. discarded fabrics and chains covered the floor, all remnants of Velvette's past designs.

"damn, this looks sick as fuck!" you exclaim, giving a little twirl to show off the distressed patterns and chunky shoes. Velvette nodded approvingly, stepping towards you with a smirk. she reached out, hooking her finger through your belt and pulling you into a kiss. her tongue slipped past your lips, exploring the cavern of your mouth as the kiss grew more steamy. "fuck you're so hot," she murmured against your lips, her lip stick was smearing across your skin as she pressed hasty kisses and nipped at your hawline. "i adore dressing you up," she whispered, pulling you in closer, "but i love undressing you even more..."

SHES SOOOOOOO RAHAWHAHGWGGGGGG i need more velvette contentttttttttt

[headcanonsandmore]

Can you do the "all the Doctors" thing, but what would they do if they started a band?

I certainly can!

One: Gets gently pushed into it by Vicki. Can actually play the piano rather well, and starts chuckling to themselves when he starts getting into it. Ian and Barbara got a little sick of the solos after over half an hour, though.

Two: You'd think that a recorder wouldn't be a good instrument to play in a band, but you would be as pleasantly surprised as Two was. Gets on surprisingly well with the hippie crowd, although Jamie has to keep them from getting pulled into smoking illicit substances which may or may not be legal. With time lords, who knows what the effects could be?

Three: Can practically play any instrument given to them because "my dear fellow, it would be vain to explain why". Jo loves it when they play Beatles songs. Has an unfortunate habit of playing in venues that later get attacked or blown up by the Masters scheme of the week.

Four: Pulls the weirdest looking string instument you've ever seen out of their enormous coat, plays some weird jazz-fusion stuff that sounds like a cat making love to a washing machine, grins unnervingly and walks off stage. The stage is a random cafe that hadn't even asked them to play. No-one ever speaks of it again, just in case they come back.

Five: Likes to play ABBA on the rhythym guitar, much to the amusement of their kids young friends. Insists on explaining the themes of each song before starting. Has an unfortunate habit of falling over halfway through their set and knocking themselves unconscious. Given the time period, they often get requests to play "That's Entertainment"; doesn't mind playing it but wishes Tegan and Nyssa would stop sneaking away halfway through to snog in a cupboard somewhere.

Six: Loves playing the drums. Their main inspiration is Keith Moon. Mel says it's good exercise for them. Peri is just glad that they don't wear their coat whilst trashing about with the drumsticks, because that would be a chasm too far.

Seven: Spoons. Ace rolls her eyes but knows that they enjoy it. Is surprisingly popular amongst latter-day beatniks and jazz fans. Often gives some lecture after each song. The difference is that, unlike with Five, people actually listen instead of groaning.

Eight: Just has to sing. You would not be able to stop them. They are surprisngly good at it, although sometimes you wonder whether the words have a hidden meaning.

War: Doesn't play anything, for obvious reasons.

Nine: Bass guitar, and in a very no-nonsence sort of way. Can get down and be funky with it. Rose loves it, and enjoys dancing along, which makes Nine very happy.

Ten: Maraccas, weirdly enough, and often with Donna. Both of them are laughing. The rest of the band doesn't really understand why but it seems to work so who cares?

Eleven: Glockenspiel. No, seriously. Amy and Rory don't know where it came from, and it's actually starting to get a little worrying. Especially when Eleven insists on practicing at 3am with no warning.

Twelve: Lead guitar, obviously. Nothing but shredding solos and awesome punk-style riffs. The fact that they don't have a top-selling album is mindboggling.

Thirteen: Fiddle in a folk-punk-fusion band. Very good at it and is having the time of their life. Loves to dance whilst playing. The happy love songs are their favourite, but has a habit of tripping over their feet on stage if they catch Yaz smiling at them.

Fugitive: Doesn't play anything; again, for obvious reasons.

TenThree/David Doctor/ sorry-mr-tennant-i-cannot-call-you-fourteen: Traded in the maraccas for a trumpet. Donna has a trumpet now too. Things seem to be going well for them.

Fifteen: Sampler. Creates tons of exciting sounds based on all of their previous lives, blending them together in a hopeful, joyeous mix. Well, so far anyway. We'll have to wait and see...

Thanks for the ask!

[eddiesghxst]

ALL I WANTED

part one | part two | part three

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader

summary: your band, Daughters of Vampira, and Corroded Coffin hate each other and are struggling to keep a clean image in the media; so, in an attempt to solve the issue, your managers try to come up with a solution.

contains: enemies to lovers trope, alcohol consumption, smoking, cheating (reader is cheated on by her fiancé), themes of misogyny/sexism, and eddie being a dick <3

word count: 12.9k

| Daughters of Vampira setlist | Corroded Coffin setlist |

-story masterlist- | -main masterlist-

You were a musician. A rockstar. On your way to being one of the greats. Your band, Daughters of Vampira, was a small, feminist rock band out of Hawkins, Indiana. You created this band with your friends, Robin, Nancy, and Max, an outlet the four of you used to sing and write your little hearts out. You hit it big when you all moved to Los Angeles, playing at some lame bar when a producer walked up to you after the show, saying she wanted to see more, handing you a business card. 

Then boom. 

Everything was up from there. You got signed onto a record deal– played shows, signed autographs, walked carpets, and did interviews. Your wallet was a bottomless pit. En route to being wed, you got engaged to your production assistant turned bassist, and all was well— until about five minutes ago.

You came home from a day at the studio with your band, crafting a new song, playing with guitar riffs, and imagining lyrics. This track was going to be big; a song about your love for your fiance, a tale of how magnetic and beautiful every second was and will be.

You unlocked the door to your shared apartment, kicking off your sneakers, when you noticed a pair of red heels, which is weird because you hate heels. Maybe they were your friend Angie’s shoes; she knows where you hide your spare key and sometimes sneaks in when you’re not home. Furrowing a brow, you cautiously set your bag and keys down, looking around you for any more clues— her bag or her keys, anything. Your socked feet softly pad across your cold, wooden floors as you walk into the apartment's threshold, glancing into the kitchen. Nothing. You turned to the living room, unknowingly holding your breath—still nothing. Suspicion itches in your mind as you take in the space around you. You turn the corner to your bedroom and see the door left ajar. 

You almost think nothing of it; you wouldn’t be mad at Angie taking a nap in your room; she’s your childhood best friend, but then you hear it— the two voices. The first voice is your fiance, Scott, and the second is an unknown woman.

They’re laughing. They’re whispering about something you can’t hear either because they’re either speaking too quietly or your sudden rage is filling out the space in your ears; you’re not sure which it is. You quickly glance back towards the door, eyeing the heels for the second time— your heart drops.

It was Angie. Those were her heels; you helped her pick them out, for fucks sake. You storm up to the door and swing it open without a second thought, and your eyes widen at the sight before you. You had so badly wished your mind was playing some sick trick on you, and you were just hearing things. You were wrong.

Your fiance and childhood best friend, Angie, are sprawled out in your white-sheeted bed, heads laid on your pillows tousled, under your roof— and both incredibly naked. 

Despite the anger, your eyes quickly fill with tears, salty pools of resentment and betrayal threatening to spill over. Scott sees you in the doorway and scrambles out of bed, hastily grabbing a pair of boxers to pull over his bare hips. You can hear him sputtering out excuses, apologies, and reasons through the fog— so many words that sound like nothing but white noise to you. 

He stumbles his way over to you, hands reaching out to grasp you and raising in surrender when you yank away from him. You can hardly think; a cloudy moment where you feel as if the floor has been wiped from below you and you’re free-falling in some shitty excuse of a dream. 

“Sweetheart, please just listen–” He didn’t get to finish his sentence; the palm of your hand cracked down against his cheek to stop whatever bullshit excuse was coming. Angie shrieked, jumping out of bed, still with no clothes on, as she hurried to his side, an obvious two-against-one— that’s clarified when she shoots you a pointed look, fire building up in her eyes— and you can’t believe the audacity. 

Scott looks back at you, cheek red with the sting of your rage as he points a finger at you, “Don’t you dare fucking touch her,” he scolds as if you were a child, warning you to leave the cookie jar alone. You scoff, your mouth falling agape as you laugh humorlessly. “Me? Touch her?” You point to the naked girl. Your neck heats in fury as you shake your head, “That is rich, Scott.” 

You step back, eyeing both of them and ignoring the lump in your throat as you speak, “So, how long has this been going on?” They stare at you like they’re fucking clueless, and it ticks you off to no end, “In my own fucking bed? With my best friend?” Your tears are hot as they begin streaming down your cheeks, and the harsh swipe of your wrist to wipe them away stings, but you refuse to let them see you cry. Your mind is cluttered with questions, but they come out like bullets, firing round after round. 

Angie takes to answering you, saying your name to halt your questions, “We– we’re in love, and… and he doesn’t..” She looks to Scott for guidance, her eyes pleading for him to help her. Your fingers shake in anger.

“I want to call the wedding off,” Scott says, looking you in the eyes while he and your best friend link fingers. They look fucking stupid, standing there naked and feigning unity– you almost want to laugh. You scoff again, folding your arms over your chest like that would hide your pain from them, despite the evident ghost of tears still clinging to your skin. 

You glance around the room, around at the life you had planned for yourself, for him. Pictures of your engagement day, the closet you two shared, the fucking bed you shared, the life the two of you shared. More tears fall, and you don’t bother brushing them away this time. You nod, defeated.  “Yeah, that’s– yeah, we can… we can do that.” You wipe at your tears, fingers shaking with agony as you swallow the words. 

Your ex-fiance reaches out for your arm, and you back away, like he’s contagious– like his touch carries the heat of the sun. “Don’t touch me,” you snarled, watery gaze boring into his brown eyes. 

“The wedding’s off, so… Take your shit and,” you look at your childhood best friend— your ex-childhood best friend, and your heart aches. This fucking hurts. Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you dismissively wave your hand towards the clothes strewn across the floor, “And take her shit and get the fuck out.” You turn to leave but stop when Scott speaks, “I can’t just do that; I–” He stutters at the stab of your glare, “I need to call a truck so I can carry everything.” 

You laugh, tilting your head, “Nah, don’t worry, I can help you with that.”

You pace to your apartment window, swinging it open and ignoring the confused voices behind you when you start picking up various items. Scott’s eyes widen as he watches you storm over to the window, a heap of his things in your arms. He scrambles to you, yelling as you toss his stuff out the window. He’s looking out the window, watching them fall, “Get. The. Fuck. Out.” You shriek after every item you throw: his computer, acoustic guitar, books on Logistics, and How To Save Money Like A Businessman. 

You flutter about the room, shaking Angie off when she tries to grab you, ignoring her when she falls to the floor in a heap of naked limbs. You pick up a pricey statue that was Scott’s, ignoring his protests, courteously tossing it out the window to join his items. 

You storm out of the room, glancing around for any of Scott’s stuff. Yes, this was your apartment, but you were working on sharing it— sharing it with him. Your fiance. Ex-fiance. You skirt out to the living room, the two lovebirds hot on your tail and begging you to stop. You walk over to the balcony doors, pushing them open and ignoring the sound of the doors cracking against the wall, some picture frames falling to the floor. 

Pictures of you and him. 

You pick them up and toss them over the balcony, looking around for any other fallen pieces. You thoroughly sweep your apartment— as thoroughly as you can through your tears of rage, gathering jackets, shirts, and shoes and carelessly tossing them over the balcony. You ignore them as they hastily put on their clothes, brushing past them to pace to the door.

Your gaze is hot and heavy on Angie’s heels. Those shiny, blood-red, smooth pumps. They oozed sex appeal and smirked at you, asking, daring, challenging you. Angie scrambles to you, yelling for you to put them down, yelling that they were Jimmy Choos, that they were expensive— like you would care. 

You shrug her off as you walk back to the balcony, hanging them over the ledge and turning to gaze at her as she watches with tears brimming. Pathetic. You look into her eyes and drop them— one by one, “Fetch,” you whisper hoarsely.

Angie begins to cry, turning and running to Scott, who points an accusatory finger at you, “You’re a fucking crazy bitch. You couldn’t just end things like a civilized human fucking being?” He exclaims, “You are fucking insane!” He grits out, holding Angie by the waist. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and you better have my shit,” he says scathingly.

When they both have an appropriate amount of clothes on— Angie settling for one of his oversized shirts and panties, him with sweats— Scott hastily searches for his keys. You watch them both, numb and unmoving, and it feels like your body is vibrating in a storm of emotions. Scott finds his keys and wallet, yanking Angie by the hand and hauling her out the door, but not before he shoots you a glare— a look that tells you it’s over. Completely done with no room for redemption— you don’t care either way.

The door slams shut, and silence fills the space. You stand there for what seems like eons, basking in the fizzling heat of your emotions before shuffling towards your bag near the door and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. You search for your lighter, growing irritated when it seems to be missing. You toss your bag to the floor with a curse and walk to the gas stove, turning the knob until a rim of flames arises. You slip the cigarette between your snot-slick lips, ducking your head towards the stove top and watching the cancerous stick catch fire. 

You stand upright, inhaling and puffing out the smoke. You grab your flip phone, shuffling towards the balcony for fresh air while you make a call, but to your dismay, a crowd is gathered below your building, watching and taking pictures. At closer glance, you realize these people are none other than paparazzi— the very bane of your existence. They’re already recording; you can hear them chattering about what they suspect is happening, making up stories for the cameras and soon-to-come tabloids. 

Then, to make matters worse, Scott and Angie skirt out from the building entrance and start picking some items up, the paparazzi asking various intruding questions. Scott has enough grace and respect for you to deny a comment, opting for catching a taxi with Angie instead. With a roll of your eyes, you walk back into your apartment and busy yourself doing a shitty job clearing the mess you’d made. However, like clockwork, your phone rings.

You know it’s Miss Sinclair; well, Erica, as she always corrects you. Your music manager, a firecracker, that one, but overall a good friend on your side. 

You answer, taking a drag from the cigarette as you step onto your terrace again, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “What?” You ask snappily into the phone, glancing down at the crowd of people taking pictures of you. Assholes.

”What? What do you mean, what?” Erica hisses through the speaker. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tiger?” A nickname she has for you that originated from God knows where. “Yeah, like… what’s up?” You play dumb, smiling sarcastically and waving innocently to the cameras below you.

“Why the hell do I have people blowing my line asking me why you’re tossing shit onto the streets of Los Angeles like it’s a goddamn Goodwill?” She impatiently asks.

You shrug, even though she can’t see you, “Dunno. See you tomorrow at the studio.” You pull the phone away from your ear, hearing her shriek and yell at you, commanding you not to hang up. You slap the flip phone closed, ending the call; her words cut off. You take another drag of the cigarette before flicking the bud off the balcony at the intruders, watching them back away to glare at you, yelling a few curses. You flip them two middle fingers in response before turning to walk back into your apartment, closing the doors behind you. 

You’re going to write a song. A kickass song.

“And then I threw all his shit out the fucking window,” you chuckle, retelling the story to your drinking companion, Robin Buckley, the drummer of your band. She smirks and downs another shot of vodka, “Yeah.. you uh,” she grimaces and smacks her lips at the bitter drink, “you created quite the stir earlier today,” She points at you and winks, picking up her forgotten glass of whiskey beside her and holding it out to you, in cheers. 

You sigh and smile, and inevitably you clink your whiskey-filled glass against hers as she says, “To shitty men and new beginnings— preferably with women,” she winks again, laughing along with you as you lighten up from her joke. You down the rest of your drink and put your glass down, sucking your teeth before rolling your lips inward as you stare thoughtlessly, the whiskey leaving burning kisses in your throat. 

The loud, underground celebrity-only bar drowns out behind you. What were you going to do? You had so much planned with Scott, an entire fucking wedding, a home, maybe even kids. And as if that’s not enough, you wrote an entire song about him. You were almost finished with it, so close to recording it and putting it out, maybe with tour dates to match. 

Now it's gone. Dead and buried. 

A whole song, written in 4 weeks, about your love, the love of your life, your supposed forever person, and he threw it all away. You knew love wasn’t easy. It never was, especially not after your rise to fame. It was hard to find time for date nights, for sex, for just seeing each other and talking. But you would’ve never imagined this to be how it ended.

You can’t help but feel as though this might have been your fault. Some small, pessimistic, mean part of you nagging that you could’ve prevented this if you had just changed. You tried to make time for Scott, you really did, but you got caught up in the music— the music for him. You worked tirelessly at it. For Scott to hear this song and immediately know it’s about him. You wanted it to be a wedding gift, maybe, to play it at your wedding for everyone to hear your love. You had never been so soft in a song, so open and disgustingly lovesick, and you wasted it all on him. Maybe it was your fault; perhaps it was for the better—

“Hey, you okay?” Robin cuts through your thoughts, “You went a little quiet there,” she smiles softly, playfully nudging her shoulder against yours. “Yeah,” you nod, “I-I’m good. Great.” You nod along with your words, trying fiercely to believe them.

You were not good, nor were you great. You were, to put it nicely, fucking wrecked. You were humiliated. How could anyone be okay after something like this? It was bad enough he cheated in the first place but with your best friend? You lost two of your closest people within the blink of an eye. It hurts more that they got each other while you got nothing but ghosts and memories. Scott was there for everything, your first real concert, the after-parties, the carpets. He was there for all of it. And he won’t be there anymore, and that hurts.

You shrug, laughing nervously and rubbing the bridge of your nose in distress, “I just can’t help but think that— that maybe this–” You motion your hands uselessly. Robin quickly interrupts you before you can finish your thought, “No. Do not go there. Are you insane? This,” she motions lazily over your figure, copying you, “was not your fault.” She shakes her head, sincerity laced within her voice and gaze. “Believe me when I say that— I would tell you if you were a crazy bitch, trust.” She smiles and nudges you again with her shoulder, pulling a laugh from you. 

You sigh, rotating your neck to stretch it out, rolling your shoulders, “So, like, what’s up with you?” You ask to lighten the mood, leaning on the bar counter with your elbows. It works because she laughs and nods, looking down at the glasses of whiskey as the bartender wordlessly fills them back up. She traces her finger around the rim of it, still nodding, “I-I’ve been good, you know,” she glances at you and shyly looks away when you begin to smirk, “Just sorta.. Hangin’ out, I guess. Shootin’ the shit,” she shrugs, and you laugh. “Yeah, so when did you guys hook up?” You say over your glass rim innocently, laughing even harder when the girl turns red in the face and sputters over her drink. 

“We did not hook up!” She exclaims, wiping the drink from her lips. “Me and Nance,” she shakes her head, “we just… We, like, hung out, you know?” She shrugged. You mockingly raise an eyebrow as she keeps talking, “And like smoked a bit and maybe drank and then like, there was a movie involved, and then she kissed me and—” You interrupt her rambling with a wave of your hand, “Alright, no more details. You totally hooked up,” you laugh, and she blushes harder, laughing and shaking her head, “Definitely did not.” she scoffs.

“You definitely did.” You challenge.

“Did not.” She shoots back.

“Did.”

She groans and shakes you, “If I pay for your tab, will you shut up?” she offers. You pretend to think dramatically for a moment before giving in and nodding, laughing when she slams a one hundred dollar bill on the counter and gets up, picking her leather jacket from behind her chair. “God, you are so annoying,” she complains, shucking her coat over her Daughters of Vampira band t-shirt. 

You get up, shrugging your leather jacket on and snickering, “Nah, you love me,” you teasingly say, shoving at her shoulder. She smirks and shakes her head, heading for the exit, “Yeah, you wish,” She pushes the door open and steps outside into the chilly Los Angeles night, immediately shoving her hands into her pockets. 

You opt for taking the damaged, smashed pack of cigarettes out of your pocket and pulling a matching lighter out. The lighter has a siren with long, blonde locks and a green, shimmery mermaid tail. You pull out a cigarette and stick it between your lips, igniting the flame and holding it up to the end of the cigarette. You bask in the warmth emanating from the flame, a soft heat kissing your nose. You pull the lighter away and puff, blowing the tobacco back out.

“Man, all I wanted was a peaceful drink, and I got verbally berated instead,” Robin jokes.  You laugh, blowing smoke in her face before stopping, looking ahead. You freeze, and not because of the air; the cogs in your brain start moving, fired up with the fuel of alcohol and the lightheaded buzz of nicotine. You still your movements, looking at your friend, “What did you say?” you ask slowly, pulling your gaze from the busy car-filled street. 

Her face heats up, eyes widening and hands flying from her pockets to raise in defense, “No, I mean, like— I was kidding. I wasn’t being serious—” you interrupt her by waving your hand hastily that was holding a cigarette, before looking at it and tossing it carelessly to the side. You aimlessly shake your hands at her, “No, what did you just say?” You stare into her eyes, watching as she tries to connect the dots. 

She raises her eyebrows in confusion, shrugging before saying slowly, “All I wanted—” You stop her, snapping and pointing, walking away and walking back, obviously pacing. “Yes! Yes— that. It’s perfect.” You stop pacing for a second, standing with your hands on your hips. Robin laughs nervously, fiddling with her zipper jacket, “Uh, what is happening right now? Am I in trouble?” she jokes anxiously, but you ignore her. 

You were thinking. Thinking hard. 

All I wanted. All you wanted? All I wanted. 

You repeat it to her, mumbling the words, gaze still focused on the ground, “All I wanted.” You say, pulling your eyes back up to hers. “Uh.. yeah– All I wanted…was a drink,” she parrots back, nodding dumbly, placating you like a small child doing a math equation. 

You smile mischievously, “Robin, you’re a fucking genius!” You all but shriek, earning some glances from the sidewalk. You pay no attention to them, but Robin does, grabbing your shoulder and pushing you into a walk, looking around her to not draw attention to the both of you, but it’s difficult when you’re wildly smiling and humming out a guitar tempo. 

“Dude, what are you talking about?” She stresses, “Please tell me what’s happening; I have no idea what is socially acceptable to say right now,” she explains nervously, hand moving to grasp at your elbow, keeping you in motion. “Robin, we have to go to the studio right now,” you beg, looking her in her eyes, your gaze shining in inspiration. “What? No, what? Why?” She steps in front of you and halts your walking, “What is happening?” she pleads, leaning forward and pressing her palms together in a praying motion— silently asking you to please elaborate. You move past her, still walking, still thinking. 

Robin jogs to catch up to you, “Tell me what you’re thinking, please,” she begs. You look at her and smirk, “I have an idea for a song,” you conclude. Upon hearing this, Robin smiles like the fucking Cheshire cat.

“Hit me, Tiger.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh when his friend tells him what happened. He pauses for a moment, staring at Scott and waiting for him to say it was just a joke, but he never does, and Eddie nearly dies of laughter, the rest of the band along with him.

“Holy shit,” Eddie gasps between laughter. Gareth snorts, raising his eyebrow in shock as he speaks, “She threw your shit out the window?” 

Scott rolls his eyes, flipping the brown-haired boy off, sipping his beer, and leaning back into the red leather couch. Eddie shakes his head as he swivels around in his chair to mess with the studio soundboard, “That’s what you get when you fuck crazy bitches, man,” Eddie laughs, glancing up to watch Jeff mess around with chords in the sound booth. He listens as he speaks, “I mean, sure, she was hot,” He shrugs, reaching over for his box of cigarettes, “Insane tits or whatever, but at what cost?” He snorts. 

Scott shrugs, downing the rest of his beer and tossing the bottle into the small trash bin near the soundboard. 

“I mean, the sex was definitely good, but she just— I dunno, man,” he shakes his head and dismissively waves his hand, “She’s too much of a firecracker. Angie is way more docile,” he concludes. He snickers as he thinks it over, “Easier to deal with,” he smirks, reaching down to the floor to pick up another beer. Gareth snickers and Eddie grimaces with a shake of his head; he then smirks as he slides a cigarette between his lips, “Nah, the firecrackers are the fun ones, man.” he speaks around the paper as he lights the cancerous stick, sucking and blowing out the smoke. “So, what now?” Gareth asks, taking a swig of his drink as he looks at Scott. 

Scott shrugs, opening the glass bottle of beer and sipping it, “Yeah, y’know… no wedding, I’m with Angie, whatever,” he says, and Eddie chuckles, glancing over his shoulder for a moment, “Yeah, I get it,” he nods, taking another drag off his cigarette, lost in his thoughts. You’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good… A lightbulb goes off in his head. 

“Wait, guys,” he swivels around in his chair to face Gareth and Scott. The two boys look up at him as Eddie speaks, “We’ve all had crazy girlfriends, right?” His gaze bounces between the boys as he puffs on the cigarette before standing up and pushing the bud of it into Gareth’s bottle, much to his dismay. He ignores Gareth’s complaints, ignoring the boys laughing at him, pacing the room, mind swirling to the sound of Jeff’s guitar. 

Through the fog of chords and lyrics, Eddie continues speaking, “All of our ex-girlfriends— and ex-fiances,” he blindly points to Scott as he paces, ignoring when Scott scoffs, “are crazy bitches,” he points out, looking back at the group. “I mean, I can’t remember the last time I had a normal fucking girlfriend,” he snickers. The boys look at Eddie as if they’re concerned, confusion written across their faces that Eddie could care less to ease, “This is fucking inspiration, boys! Let’s write this shit down,” He leans on the soundboard, “Let’s expose this chick,” He snickers.

He walks into the sound booth and grabs his guitar from the stand, pulling the strap over his neck as he nods toward Jeff, “Keep playing that,” he orders. Despite his masked confusion, Jeff continues to play the riff he’d been tweaking. Eddie steps up to the mic in the middle of the sound booth, reaching for the headphones to slip them over his head, leaving one ear uncovered. He gestures to Gareth through the glass, motioning for him to tag along.

Gareth puts his beer down and walks in, glancing at Eddie in confusion, “You gonna tell us what we’re playing or?” He sits behind his drums as Eddie tweaks the strings on his guitar. “Just follow along, man.” Eddie distractedly mumbles. Gareth and Jeff glance at one another— Eddie often has moments like this, and they have yet to get used to it. Gareth shrugs, picking up his deeply mangled drumsticks and tapping a beat to Jeff’s strings.

Eddie mumbles to himself, fingers ghosting chords over the frets as he nods his head to the beat. He picks up with Gareth and Jeff’s sound, shredding along to create a fuller sound, the images of the music he’d composed in his mind coming to life just below his fingertips. Scott watches from outside the sound booth, standing up to lean over the soundboard. He watches, intrigued, as they play together, wordlessly tweaking until they all compliment each other. Scott reaches over with a smirk and hits the record button just in time for Eddie to chime in on the mic, finally spitting out the lyrics they’d all be waiting to hear.

And it’s fucking good. 

“Alllriiight!”

It’s raunchy, unhinged, and all things dirty. On top of that, it’s a massive fuck you to Scott’s ex, and Scott can’t keep the grin off his face as he adds the bass to the track, snickering at the words Eddie sings. They work on the song all day, throwing in new verses and tweaks until they feel satisfied for the time being. They sit outside the sound booth and nurse a round of beers as they play the song, listening to what they have so far, grinning and nodding along to the beat, laughing at the absurdity of the lyrics.

“Hey, you’re a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good, I’m on top of it.”

“It’s good… as much as I hate to say it, it’s good.” Scott laughs, rolling his eyes when the boys cheer. Sitting on the swivel chair in front of the soundboard, Eddie reaches out and nudges Scott's foot with his own, “You might get a few slashed tires when she hears this, you know.” He snickers over the rim of his beer bottle.

Scott laughs and shrugs, “Can’t be any worse than what she’s already done.” He jokes. The boys all laugh, watching Jeff as he raises his beer in the gesture of a toast, “To crazy bitches.” The boys all raise their beers in unity, parroting back, “To crazy bitches!” They clink their drinks and laugh, taking sips.

“You’re crazy, but I like the way you fuck me.”

“Think of me when you’re out, when you’re out there,

I’ll beg you nice from my knees.

And when the world treats you way too fairly,

Well, it’s a shame, I’m a dream,”

Your voice filters through the speakers, thick studio headphones skewed on your head as you fiddle with the soundboard knobs and buttons. You sigh and push the headphones to rest around your neck, rubbing your hands tiredly over your face. You take a glance at the clock— 4:34 AM. Goddamn. You had truly been here all night. After your night out with Robin, drinking your feelings away, and your quick epiphany moment, you guys caught a taxi straight here and got to business. That was at 10:46 PM. 

Poor Robin, you put the girl through the wringer. Making her drum out new beats, forcing her to pluck out a bass riff to the best of her abilities. The rest of your band was, without a doubt, asleep, and you didn’t want to bother them with your antics. And, of course, you all were close, but it was just different with you and Robin. You guys could be together for hours and never tire of one another. You just clicked. 

Maybe it was also the fact that you didn’t want to face whatever awkward encounter was bound to happen between Robin and Nancy, opting to wait until the morning to see them face one another. Robin was fully asleep underneath the sound booth, using both of your jackets as a pillow. Her fingers are wrapped around the beer she’d been drinking; hand cuddled up to her face. You pull out your cigarettes from your pocket, pulling one stick out and sliding it between your lips. You light it up and puff on the cigarette, glancing at Robin beneath the table before reaching down and carefully snagging her beer. You take a quick swig, quietly listening to the song. 

“All I wanted was you,

All I wanted was you.”

The guitar that comes in right after is powerful. It’s beautiful; it showcases your anger, your betrayal, your heart that still aches. This was supposed to be a love song for Scott, but after tweaking a few lyrics, it quickly became a song laced with hatred and resentment— a piece of heartbreak and anguish you’re still clearly sorting through. But that’s all that love is, right? Just two people fighting and slashing at each other until one inevitably gives in and waves a white flag? 

You down the rest of your stolen beer, still taking drags of the cigarette and blowing it back out. It wasn’t unusual for you to be the only one here at ungodly hours of the night, but it was one of the first times you were here with your friend and bandmate. Knowing she was here for you after such a chaotic, hectic day, supporting you even at unreasonable hours, was nice.

You replay the lyrics repeatedly, playing with the weak bass Robin was barely able to play. You should go home; you know you should, given how late it is and the dryness that begins to seep through your eyes, but you hate the feeling that runs through your bones when you think about what used to be your and Scott’s home. You don’t want to go home. Home is where everything ended. Home is no longer home— not after what happened. Home is where you’ll go to relieve the day over and over again until you get tired enough to pass out. 

And then it hits you; lyrics, more heartache hits you. The song was initially titled The Only Exception, but the words changed after playing around for several hours. You stuff the cigarette bud in the beer bottle, letting it fizzle out as you get up from your swivel chair to try and find a notebook— a notepad, napkins, or something, but you only find a pen. Frustrated with your lack of writing materials, you look at your surroundings hungrily before your eyes land on Robin’s bare arm. 

You pace back to the soundboard and reach underneath to yank on Robin’s arm, waking her up for a split second. You ignore Robin’s grumbly and slurred “What the fuck?” and proceed with your task as she inevitably falls back asleep. You yank the pen cap off with your teeth and begin jotting down lyrics on Robin’s pale, freckled, tattooed arm. 

“I think I’ll pace my apartment a few times,

And fall asleep on the couch. 

Wake up early to black-and-white reruns,

That escape from my mouth.”

Scott and your favorite thing to do was watch old 1950s classic films. You guys watched them so much, watched so many of them, over and over again, that you could quote them to one another. Tears begin to well up in your eyes as you write these lyrics down, some falling on Robin’s arm and smudging the ink. You curse and press your palm to the running ink to dry whatever can be salvaged from your sloppy work. You drop her arm to the ground and hear her briefly groan as you pace back into the sound booth, picking up your black guitar from the stand and pulling the strap over your upper body. 

You move your headphones around your neck to sit over your ears, waiting for your next move. You start strumming out a guitar riff, basking in the glory of the echoing sounds and its full, tough ring. You push your lips to the microphone and begin mumbling, playing with more lyrics in your head before you sing.

“I could follow you to the beginning,

Just to relive the start.

And maybe then, we’d remember to slow down.

At all of our favorite parts.”

The tears are freefalling now; the dark eyeliner you’d spent the past hours smudging leaves roads of sorrow against your skin. You and Scott were together for seven magical months. Yeah, it was quick— pathetic in a different light, but you’d been mindlessly in love. And fuck, would it have been a mistake if you did end up marrying him. He was a production assistant and a bassist with no new lines of work coming, opting to freeload off his friend’s band, Corroded Coffin, playing with them at shows whenever they needed him. 

And it’s working for him so far— until it doesn’t. As much as you hate to admit, Scott is talented. He’s good with his instrument and has a good ear for sound, but despite his talent, he has no real drive— no actual want to succeed and be at the top of the music pyramid with you. As you continue to play with the guitar, you stop for a second to wipe your eyes, thoroughly smudging your makeup now and probably making you look insane. 

Scott had good moments, though. When it was good, it was good— spontaneous nights out, making out in alleyways like lovesick teenagers, and every second feeling like a movie until the credits rolled— but when it was bad, it was really fucking bad. Fights, stupid arguments, bickering, breaking expensive items, and threatening to leave each other until he makes it up to you with mediocre sex and breakfast in bed the next day. You loved him, you did, and you believe he loved you too, but you just can’t pinpoint where it all went wrong. 

You stop strumming the guitar and huff waterily, setting the guitar back on the stand and ripping your headphones off your head before tossing them to the ground. You sit on a metal, foldable chair beside you and lean forward to push your head into your hands. 

You really blew the fuck up on him. Did you overreact? Did you honestly act like a crazy bitch? Fuck, maybe you should apologize. 

You can hear Robin in the back of your head, nagging and begging you to stop thinking self-destructive thoughts like this, telling you you’re insane for even thinking of apologizing, but you just can’t help it. You venture down the deep, dark, but welcoming rabbit hole of psycho-analyzing every romantic relationship you’ve ever had. None of your relationships have lasted— the ones in high school, obviously, but you’ve been out of that shit hole for years now, yet you’re still playing the never-ending game of kiss and tell.

Life in Hawkins was a weird, dull one. All the boys you brought home never shared the same interests as you and certainly did not like that you had a mind of your own. They didn’t like the clothes you wore, or the makeup you did, or the music you listened to. They thought you and the rest of the band were stupid and wasting your lives trying to be something big with the weird sound you carried. Nothing about you or the people you hung out with fit the cookie-cutter shape of Hawkins, and you learned that the hard way. 

You were more of a dirty secret for boys in your school. Nobody wanted to express their love or attraction to you openly, but they sure as hell did so behind closed doors. Your first boyfriend, Brady, was a star on the wrestling team; he didn’t mind showing you off much because nobody had the guts to talk shit about him— too scared to get sucker punched. Brady lasted a few months before you eventually cut ties with each other. 

There were a few others after Brady, all meeting the same dead end you’re so familiar with. Although there was one guy— Eddie Munson— people believed you would be perfect for each other. You liked the same music, dressed relatively the same, and had shitty high school bands nobody wanted to listen to. Logistically, it was a perfect match; the only problem was Eddie Munson is an asshole. 

Scum of the earth, piece of shit, grade-A asshole.

Scott was friends with him, and on occasion, you would sometimes cross paths at parties or hangouts with mutual friends; and every single run-in you’ve had with the man left you with a splitting migraine and an itching impulse to smash his head through a window. He’s awful; he doesn’t respect you or any woman for that matter, he acts like he’s a living god, and he and his shitty band won (stole) that fucking music contest in Hawkins back in ‘87, and you’ll never forget it. That’s how you met him, and your guys’ race to the top hasn’t let up since.

And now that you think of it, it’s not surprising that Eddie and Scott get along so well— they’re both sexist assholes. 

You’re milling in your thoughts for what seems like hours, tears dried and itching against your skin. You’re not sure how long you sit in the sound booth, but before you know it, Robin’s hoarse voice is cracking through the speakers of the sound booth, “As much as I think you’re a musical genius and love the way you work in mysterious ways, it’s extremely late, and we both need to catch some sleep before tomorrow.”

Your face twists in confusion, “Tomorrow? What’s special about tomorrow?” You ask, your voice cracking. Robin shifts on her feet, brows furrowing at your confusion, “We’re meeting with the record label. Remember we’re playing them our new album?”

Fuck. You completely forgot about that, and all of those songs, except for maybe three, are based around your stupid ex-fiance that just dumped you for your best friend. You sigh, dropping your head in your hands and running your palms over your face. You let out a long groan into your hands, not even hearing Robin opening the door to the sound booth and walking up to you. Her chilled fingers wrap around your wrists to pull your hands away from your face. Her blue eyes are tired and full of love and warmth as she squats before you to gaze at you, “Talk to me.”

Tears brim your eyes at her soft voice, and you wince— you really wish you could stop fucking crying. You rub at your teary eyes and shake your head, “It’s just—” you sigh and blearily blink down at Robin, “they’re all about him, Rob.” You frown.

Robin patiently waits for you to find the words, comfortingly squeezing your tear-dampened fingers. “Every song on the album is about him and I… I really don’t wanna spend an entire tour singing about him.” You softly speak, avoiding her gaze.

The brown-haired girl shuffles closer to you, ducking into your gaze and shrugging, “That’s okay,” she shakes her head, “We can scrap it. I mean, the label might be a little pissed, but just… play them what we did tonight, and I guarantee you they’ll extend our time.”

You furrow your brows and shake your head, “What? No. Robin, the song’s not finished—” “We don’t get another chance with this, Tiger. We either play them what we did tonight or give them the album.”

And you know Robin is right; she does not want to give you an ultimatum, but it’s the inevitable truth. You can either play the song and hope it’s the best thing the label has ever heard, or you suck it up and play them the album full of bittersweet words that leave a sticky residue clogging your throat.

You look at Robin, her patient and tired gaze locked on your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek, thinking it over for a moment— and it could work. The new song you’d just recorded is insane— nothing you’ve ever done before and, without a doubt, has a groundbreaking sound. It could work.

Max and Nancy are going to kill you tomorrow.

You nod your head, “Okay,” you breathe. Robin’s lips slowly stretch into a smile, “I’m gonna play it for them.” You nod. Robin shoots up to her feet with a cheer.

“Perfect! Now wipe those tears, and let's get the fuck out of here.”

You and Robin look like hell. You’re sporting heavy undereye bags with dark circles, while Robin opted to cover her evident lack of sleep with a pair of dark shades. Nancy and Max look concerned when they see you both sitting in the lobby of your label’s building. Nancy, of course, chastised you for your lateness while Max just snickered in the corner. Max suddenly makes a face as she speaks, “Why do you guys look like you’ve been hit by a bus?”

Robin tiredly groans, shifting in her seat with a yawn, “Stayed at the studio late.” She mumbles. Nancy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Why? I thought we had everything ready for today.” She points out, obviously concerned. Nothing would ever get done if you didn’t have Nancy in the band. Now that you look at her, she has a manila folder in her hands, most likely stuffed with questions, comments, concerns, budgets, and more. She was more like Erica’s assistant than your bass player. But fuck, could her skilled fingers pluck out a riff.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, glancing over at Robin, who seems to be now passed out behind her glasses, offering you no help. You scoff. Of course. You mentally punch Robin in the face. You fidget with the rings on your fingers as you begin to explain. “So, basically,” you start, “I came home yesterday and found Scott and Angie fucking in my bed, so I threw their shit out the window and then called Robin,” you barely pay attention to Nancy and Max’s widening eyes as you spew out the events of yesterday. You knew they already knew, probably from Erica or the fucking tabloids. Hell, the whole fucking world knew, but they acted like this was their first time hearing about it. 

You ramble on about the events, telling them about you finding inspiration and dragging Robin to the studio, drunk, only to decide to scrap the album you’d all been working on for the past few months. 

That last bit of information didn’t go so well, however. 

“You what?”

You wince at Max’s sneering tone, glancing at Nancy to try and get a read on her expressionless face. “Please tell me you’re joking,” Max says, voice teetering on the precipice of panic. You wish Robin would wake the fuck up. “I… I know I’m really taking a leap of faith here, but I need you guys to trust me on this,” you plead, gaze hopefully bouncing between the two women, “Please.”

Max folds her arms across her chest, tongue rolling against the inside of her cheek before she shakes her head, “I swear if this fucks us over, you’ll never hear the end of it from me.” She breaks, and you’re just thankful she agrees to follow your and Robin’s plan. She turns around and walks over to plop into the seat on the other side of the lobby, glancing at you before speaking, “Sorry about Scott, by the way…” she mumbles. “Maybe it’s a good thing; I never liked all those love songs anyways…” She smiles apologetically, and you huff out a chuckle.

Nancy nudges her foot against your leather boot, “You were out of his league anyway. He was dumber than a rock.” She adds to Max’s apology. You snicker and thank them for their condolences. Nancy sits on the chair next to Max and sighs heavily, “Did you tell Erica about the change?” she asks, already flipping through her folder. You pretended you didn’t hear the question, which was not a good idea. 

The two girls begin to panic at your eerie silence. Nancy’s face falls, and Robin fucking snores, “You did tell Erica, right?” She presses. Your silence says enough.

Max groans, leaning forward to sink her head into the palm of her hands, “We’re so fucked.”

And when the time comes, you’re not exactly sure what the label is thinking. All the board members wear the same unwavering expression as they listen to All I Wanted. You glance at Nancy and Max, who are both visibly shaken with nerves; Max’s leg bouncing at an ungodly rate beneath the table, and Nancy’s poor fingers picked to shreds. Robin, who’s now awake, is busying herself with doodling random sketches on the napkin in front of her, and you’re— well, you’re hardly breathing. 

Erica looks thoroughly pissed; you don’t doubt she’d thought about strangling you the second you announced you were scraping the album. You could tell she was itching to make some phone calls as her stone-hard gaze stayed on you throughout the whole listening session. You pretended you didn’t notice her.

When the demo ends, a thick silence settles over the room, and you lean forward, pressing pause on the track to prevent the CD from repeating. You awkwardly scratch the side of your neck, “I-It’s not done; I’m still working on it, but um—” You glance at the table of faces and gulp. You haven’t been this nervous in longer than you can remember. “I know it can be something. Something big.”

James, the CEO of the record label, clears his throat and leans forward, pressing his elbows onto the thick wooden table. A burning cigarette hangs between his fingers as he points to the middle of the table where the CD player sits, “This is about Scott, yes?”

All eyes are on you, and you have no choice but to nod yes. James takes a drag of his cigarette, eyebrows furrowing as he silently thinks. You glance at your friends, a wave of nerves washing through your body at the anticipation. “What happened yesterday can never happen again. You almost ruined your image. Almost.” He finally speaks, his stern gaze locked in on you. You almost want to shrink in your seat, feeling like a child being scolded in the principal's office as he continues to speak. “You're a good talent, but if you don't know how to act like a grown woman, you won’t have a place here.” 

You scoff and open your mouth, a smart response on the tip of your tongue, until Robin harshly kicks the heel of her leather boot into your ankle. You hiss in pain, sucking on your teeth to poorly conceal it. You relent and nod your head, “I understand.”

James nods and flicks the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray beside him, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh, “Now,” his lips split into a smug grin, a grin that tells you that you won, “Get this track finished by the end of the week. I want it on air by Monday morning.”

Monday morning, Eddie is hauling ass down I-405, without a doubt breaking many traffic laws he could care less about, given he’s late to his studio session with the band. When is he not late? He’s got a cigarette hanging from his lips and the smell of last night's alcohol on his clothes. As he meticulously swerves and weaves in and out of LA traffic, he jams his finger to turn his radio on, flipping through static, noise, ads, shitty pop music, and landing on a seemingly decent Rock station. 

He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and puffs the rest before tossing it out of the open window. His hair tousles from the wind, and he bats the curly strands away whenever they fly into his view. His ringed fingers grip the steering wheel, swerving out of the way of a truck before honking and throwing up a middle finger. What he misses during that exchange is the introduction of the song.

“Next up is a new hit single named All I Wanted by Daughters of Vampira! Daughters of Vampira will be going on tour soon; stay tuned for details!”

Then, the music starts when he finally starts to slow down after narrowly missing the truck.

“Think of me when you’re out, when you’re out there,

I’ll beg you nice from my knees.

And when the world treats you way too fairly,

Well, it’s a shame, I’m a dream.”

Your voice filters through his car stereo, unbeknownst to Eddie, and he glances down at his music console. He slowly turns the volume dial up, intrigued by the sound and wanting to know where it’s leading. When the ferocious guitar shred comes in, his face twists in approval, turning the volume even louder as he bobs his head to the tune. Whoever’s band this was, is fucking good. It’s not every day you hear a good Rock song sung by a woman, he thinks.

“All I wanted was you, oh,

All I wanted was you, oh!”

Eddie’s not sure why it takes him so long to realize the voice playing through his speakers is none other than the lead singer of that stupid fucking feminazi band Daughters of Vampira. He nearly chokes when he realizes it’s your voice, turning the volume up to max and listening to the words.

It’s… sad. The lyrics are like the gut-wrenching heartbreak you see in movies, aching and drenched with the grief of a love that was supposed to be great. And your voice is so fucking raw, so angry, and filled with pain that it brings Eddie to a stand-still, the skin on his arms raising in tiny bumps at the sheer emotion. Eddie almost forgets he’s in his car until he hears the car behind him honking, the man behind the wheel yelling at him to go now that the traffic light has turned green. He doesn’t move an inch, afraid he’ll miss a beat of this slice of heartache.

The song ends, and Eddie turns off his radio, choosing to spend the rest of his ride in silence as the gnawing feeling of guilt settles in his gut. By the sound of it, Scott really did a fucking number on you— tore your heart out, chewed it up, spit it out, and stepped on it like a spider on a sidewalk— and Eddie knows what that feels like; he’s had his heart broken before so he knows what it feels like to be so angry at the love you had for a person. It’s a shitty feeling.

So, Eddie’s not sure why he decides to be an asshole and tell the boys about your new song, but he does. The second he enters the studio, he tells Gareth to turn on the radio.

“...Why?” Gareth questions with a tone of suspicion. Eddie brushes his question off and walks to lean over the desk, turning the radio on and beginning to switch through the stations. “Uh, Eddie… we’ve got some work to do, man, we don’t have time for—” “Shh, just give me a second,” Eddie snaps. 

“It’s gotta be playing somewhere.” Eddie mumbles, eyebrows furrowed, ringed finger going overtime on the dial, abruptly stopping when he finally hears it. “This is it! This is it; just listen.” Eddie turns the volume up and stands up to his full height, hands on his hips, and chews on his lip as they silently listen to the song.

Jeff is the first to speak through the sound of drums and intense chords, “Why are we listening to this?” Eddie waves him off, telling him just to wait— just wait until the verse.

“I think I’ll pace my apartment a few times,

And fall asleep on the couch. 

Wake up early to black-and-white reruns,

That escape from my mouth.”

Scott’s eyes widen, striding over to Eddie’s side and gazing at the boombox in shock, “No fuckin’ way.” He breathes. Eddie looks at Scott as he reaches over to increase the volume. Gareth twirls his drumstick between his knuckles and deeply sighs as he leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the soundboard, “Dude, no offense, but why are we listening to this shit?” He asks. Scott turns to the boys and points back to the radio, “That’s my fucking bitch ex singing about me.”

Jeff and Gareth’s eyes widen, both boys leaning forward in their seats to listen to the lyrics. Scott curses and reaches over to shut the radio off, letting a thick silence fall over the room. Jeff is the first to break and nervously laugh, and Eddie grins, Gareth falling into a fit of laughter behind Jeff’s. “Why the fuck are you guys laughing?” Scott sneers.

Eddie chuckles, reaching out to rest his hands on Scott’s shoulders and turn him to face each other, “You don’t get it, man,” Eddie begins. Scott’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Eddie smiles mischievously, “This is the perfect time to drop Crazy Bitch.”

You nearly blow a gasket when you first hear Corroded Coffin’s new song. Nancy did quite a good job of bringing you down to somewhat of a levelheaded state and getting you to understand that killing Scott or slashing his tires wouldn’t be the wisest of decisions to make. You still aren’t convinced.

You try your best to ignore the song, switching the radio to a different station whenever it plays, but it seems like that fucking track follows you wherever you go. A week after the song's release, you’re walking down the street with Robin, browsing the stores that catch your eye and chatting about whatever comes to mind.

You hardly notice the crowd gathered outside the store you are in until Robin points it out, nudging your side and nodding towards the window, “Looks like we’ve got company today.” she mumbles. You curse, shelving the shirt you’d been looking at as you grumble to Robin, “Seriously, how the fuck did they find us?”

You suppose the rest of your day out won’t last much longer, so you and Robin decide to make your way home, stepping out into the crowd and shoving through a sea of flashing bulbs. 

Over time, you’ve mustered up the strength to ignore the questions paparazzi throw at you; questions about who you’re dating, your sexuality, your political beliefs— questions of generally no substance or anything to do with your music. You’ve become numb to the reality of your life being plastered on tabloids and riddled with lies; it doesn’t really hurt you anymore. 

However, you’re still a human being, and you have moments where you crack, and today seems to be one of those moments when a man yells out, “You were seen dumping your ex-fiance Scott's items into the street! So is the song true? Did you and Eddie Munson have an affair? Is that why you and Scott broke up?” 

Robin tenses, glancing at you and silently pleading for you to just keep walking. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

You glare but smile at the man, flashing your white, shark-like teeth, “If you wanna know so bad, why don’t you ask Scott and Angie yourself?” You sneer. 

A few of the men snicker, one whistling and commenting about you being feisty, but you ignore it and continue as you and Robin finally reach your car, “And for the record, I wouldn’t touch that asshole with a ten-inch pole. His dick is small.” You grin sarcastically, opening your car door and getting in without another word. You hear the crowd erupt in more questions outside your car, some scribbling stuff down on their notepads and some laughing.

You groan in annoyance, buckling yourself in and starting the car as Robin settles in the passenger seat. You don’t miss the chance to flip the mob of men off when you drive off, leaving them behind with screeching tires. It’s silent until Robin chuckles, and you glance at her, “What’s so funny?”

Robin shrugs and shakes her head, “Nothing,” she says, “Just that Erica’s gonna murder you.” You roll your eyes and slide a pair of shades on. “When is she not wanting to murder me?” 

The media erupted after your comment about womanizer and rockstar Eddie Munson. Many fans came to your aid, voicing the truth of the breakup and defending you and your band. In contrast, many other fans— Corroded Coffin’s cult of assholes— came to Eddie’s defense, stating that he was only doing charity work to get your name in the papers. That you were fucking your way to the top of the music industry and much, much more deeply misogynistic statements. 

You didn’t care for any of it. You, your friends, your family, and your band knew what actually happened. The best part is that Scott knew the truth, and he was a shit fucking liar. He couldn’t cover up what happened if his life depended on it. It made you think of how he could lie about the affair for as long as he did. You don’t dwell on that thought for too long, growing tired of digging deeper into the pit of despair Scott had so happily tossed you into.

At the end of the day, your image is in shambles, and if your image is fucked, then so is the bands. Daughters of Vampira wasn’t booking anything; shows, meet-and-greets, autograph signings— nothing. Even though All I Wanted was an enormous hit and ended up in the charts, people couldn’t get over the fact that you, the lead singer, tend to be explosive. You would’ve felt bad about this if Eddie’s image hadn’t suffered the same fate. 

Eddie and his band immediately stopped booking shows after their song Crazy Bitch. Of course, it was a big success, but only because the drama fueled it. Young women stopped throwing themselves at the band and instead opted for screaming, “Woman haters!” and “Sexist pigs!” at them whenever they were out. It had been fucking rough, and it only got worse after Eddie commented to the paparazzi while he was out on a coffee run in the streets of Los Angeles.

“How the fuck do they always find me?” Eddie grumbles to himself, putting on a fake smile for the group.

Eddie was rocking a pair of shades, thinking of ways to quickly escape the mob, when a young boy approached him from the crowd. He had a Corroded Coffin shirt on with a photograph of Eddie clenched to his chest as he kindly asked for an autograph. 

“Sure, kid,” Eddie crouches down to the boy’s height and gently takes the photograph and Sharpie, "who am I signing it for?” He smiles softly at the boy, “For Thomas, sir!” The boy politely says, his eyes shining in excitement. “Thomas, sick name, man.” Eddie compliments, yanking the cap off with his teeth. He signs his name with a Let’s fuckin’ ROCK! in the corner, putting the lid back and handing the photo back to the boy. 

He smiles when the boy squeals in excitement and offers him a fist bump before standing up to his full height. “Thank you, Mr. Munson!” Eddie snickers and nods, “‘Course, but hey, don’t call me Munson; call me Ed,” He smirks, and the kid laughs. “Mr. Muns– Ed, I have a question for you,” the kid shyly asks. 

Eddie’s heart implodes at the cuteness of this little shithead and chuckles as he responds, “Shoot, kid, I’m all ears,” Eddie ignores the flashes from the cameras, taking photos of this pure and innocent moment. He ignores the coos from the women, from the kid’s parents, all of it, just zoned in on this small child meeting his hero. Him.

“Ed, is it true that you hate girls?”

And just like that, the moment is over.

Eddie turns red in the face and forces a harsh but nervous laugh. The crowd closes in upon hearing the exchange and begins asking a multitude of questions. The parents snag their son away and start expressing profuse apologies that Eddie waves off. “Nah, nah, the kid’s fine. But uh, to answer your question, no, that isn’t true, Tommy boy,” he says, looking at the child standing beside his mother’s legs. He takes out a pack of smokes and opens it, sliding a cigarette between his lips as he adds, “I am a really big fan of girls,” he flashes a dazzling smile around the stick and does finger guns at the small kid before he turns and begins to walk away. 

He’s forgotten all about his coffee, and now all he wants is to get the fuck outta there. 

He lights the cigarette up and ignores the crowd of paparazzi following him, cameras still in motion. He rolls his eyes, body buzzing in annoyance from the kid's question and the crowd. He continues walking the street as more questions and fans approach him. As Eddie signs a woman’s photograph, a cigarette hanging from his lips, an interviewer comments with a camera already zoned in and recording Eddie’s face. No doubt this will be on MTV tonight. No doubt he won’t hear the end of it from Dustin and Steve.

“Eddie, did you hear what the frontwoman of Daughters of Vampira has said about you? Can we get a response?” He shoves the mic into Eddie’s face.

Eddie’s lips break into a grin, but he doesn’t look up from the autograph he’s signing. “Yeah… yeah, I heard, and y’know what? She can come find out herself if it’s small or not,” He looks up and smirks right at the camera, “Have a nice day.” He smiles tightly at the interviewer and hastily flags down a taxi, hopping in and yelling at the driver to step on it. He watches as the crowd grows smaller and smaller with distance, his heart thundering in his chest. He takes deep breaths to slow his pulse down, to stop thinking of you. 

It never seems to slow as his mind can’t move on from you or that damn song.

Both the managers of Corroded Coffin and Daughters of Vampira are pushed to the limit with you and Eddie. Dustin Henderson and Steve Harrington are co-managers of Corroded Coffin, mainly because Steve has the money and Dustin has the brains to man the operation. All Steve really does is cut the checks and warn the team when to cut back on the extracurriculars. 

Erica, Steve, and Dustin are all from Hawkins and are quite familiar with each other due to living in a small town where everyone knows everybody. They, along with all members of Corroded Coffin and Daughters of Vampira, all sort of grew up with one another in the 80s and have always been on this whimsical journey together. As the years went by, you all drifted, more so because of the competition, but aside from the band, the managers stayed relatively civil with one another. Erica, Steve, and Dustin stayed in touch because sometimes they couldn’t handle the two bands, which is why Erica summoned the two boys to a bar in downtown LA.

Erica Sinclair is seemingly always tested by you and has no idea where to go or what her next move should be. She has times when she feels like a single mother dealing with an angsty teen, and when those moments teeter on disastrous, she makes calls— the call.

“I mean, I have just had it up to here,” Erica moves her hand up in the air to emphasize her annoyance, “with these girls, I mean, my god!” She shakes her head as she sips her red wine, the two boys nodding from across from her. “Trust me,” Steve scoffs, “we get it.” 

Dustin nods, taking a sip of his Shirley Temple and smacking his lips before adding, “We’re in the same boat too— with Eddie,” Dustin starts, drinking his Shirley Temple out of a bendy straw. 

“Yeah, he’s always been a pain in the ass, ever since high school,” Steve continues, sharing a look with Dustin, who tiredly nods, “But it has never been this bad. Normally we can get a hold on him running his mouth, but it’s just been…” Steve falters and trails off, struggling to grasp the words to explain Eddie’s childlike behavior. Erica nods, “I know what you mean,” She makes a face and holds her wine glass out to cheer with them. Dustin clinks his Shirley Temple, and Steve clinks his beer, them all taking a sip.

“Both band’s images are terrible. It won’t be long till we’re losing more money,” Steve grumbles, taking another swig of his beer. “I think we should just lock them all in a room together till they get along,” Erica jokes, earning a chortle from Steve and a cackle from Dustin. They all sigh in unison, a comfortable silence falling over them. 

Suddenly, Dustin sits up straight, aggressively snapping his fingers before pointing to Erica.

Steve jumps and makes a face at Dustin, grumbling about how annoying Dustin’s theatrics are. Erica rolls her eyes, already used to the boy’s antics. “Well? Are you gonna tell us about your nerdy little lightbulb moment or keep making a scene?” She sneers over her wine glass rim, taking a sip. Dustin looks back from Steve’s annoyed face to Erica’s tired one, basking in the dramatics.

“Why don’t we do just that?” He finally says.

Steve and Erica share a look. Typically, Dustin has these moments, and Steve and Erica have to entertain them, but Erica thinks Henderson might be onto something. Steve scoffs and leans back in his chair, “I doubt they’d last a week locked in a house before one kills the other.” Steve mumbles, clearly missing Dustin’s case in point.

Erica, however, knows just where Dustin’s mind has gone— to the motherland of brilliant-fucking-idea. Erica puts her glass down and leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin on the backs of her folded hands. “When you say just that, you mean…?” She looks at the boy quizzically, praying he means what she thinks he means. Steve puts his hand on the back of Dustin’s chair and leans forward, “I’m not really picking up on this guys,” He uses his other hand to lazily gesture. Dustin ignores Steve and nods slowly, “Oh hell yeah, I mean that.” He says, smirking mischievously. Erica and Dustin share a grin, a playful gleam in their eyes. Steve groans on the side in annoyance.

“Let’s book a fuckin’ tour bus, boys,” Erica concludes, and Dustin erupts in cheers, the two of them clinking their drinks. Steve finally understands, and his eyes widen, “Oh! Holy shit, that’s fucking genius.”

Erica laughs and finishes off the last of her wine. “Tiger is gonna kill me.” She smirks and shakes her head, sighing. Dustin and Steve share a look and chuckle a little bit, “Her reaction won’t be as bad as Munson’s. He’s gonna fuckin’ lose it.” Dustin says, slurping on his straw.

A few weeks pass before Erica, Steve, and Dustin manage to rally both bands in a conference room. The tension in the room is almost unbearable. For the most part, the band members seem more interested in knowing why they’ve been summoned together— the real tension is at the end of the table, where you and Eddie sit across from each other. Eddie wears a snickering grin to go along with his darkened shades, and you— well, if looks could kill, everybody in this room would be six feet under and crossing into the afterlife. 

You’re pissed. Annoyed that you’re being forced to breathe the same air as that fuckface Eddie Munson, and Eddie could not be more pleased with himself. Eddie gazes at each of the girls across from him; Max, who’s glaring at your managers and bouncing her knee in evident impatience, Nancy, who couldn’t look more uninterested if she tried; and Robin, who seems more intrigued with the wood paneling of the wall to look at anything else. He makes the mistake of looking at you, earning him a nicely silver-wrapped middle finger which he winks at.

“If you two are done acting like children down there, we’d like to get this meeting started,” Erica announces from her seat at the head of the table. All eyes turn to her, and she sarcastically smiles, opening her mouth to begin speaking until you cut her off, “Whatever fucking bullshit you three have planned, I won’t be a part of it. Not with this asshole.” You gesture to the curly-haired boy across from you.

Gareth and Jeff snicker, and you glare at them, ignoring Robin’s elbow jabbing into your side. “It’s funny that you think you have a choice, Tiger,” Erica says, tilting her head with a grin. You begin to bounce your leg impatiently, jaw clenching as the ticking time bomb in your mind begins to speed up. 

Dustin clears his throat and stands up, gathering everyone's attention as he clasps his hands. “Let’s cut straight to the chase,” he begins, “Your music careers are fucked.”

Jeff breathily laughs to the side, and Erica glares at him, quickly diminishing his obvious amusement. “Somehow, the seven of you have managed to obliterate your band's image in less than a month,” Dustin points out, picking up a stack of magazines before him and walking calmly about the room. He tosses a magazine out into the middle of the table, “Misogynists,” another magazine, “Anti-feminist,” another magazine, “Chauvinists,” another magazine— the final one, “Woman-haters.”

You all look at the magazines silently until you mumble, “Sounds about right,” causing Eddie to scoff and roll his eyes beneath his shades. “What? You’re mad the media is finally realizing how full of shit you all are?” You prod with a tilt of your head. “At least nobody’s saying I should be sent to a fucking ward.”

Your eyes narrow, and you begin to form a response, but Erica rises from her seat loudly, startling the room as her loud voice booms through the space, “The media is tearing both of you to shreds,” she leans forward to press her palms against the cool wooden table, heated gaze darting between you and Eddie.

“Both of your bands aren’t booking gigs, and you're losing money faster than you earn it,” she points out, watching as you all cower from the truth. She waves a manicured finger between both sides of the table, “This stupid little fucking back and forth you’ve created either ends here or on the road.”

Robin’s face twists in confusion, a raspy voice speaking up for the first time, “On the road?”

Steve turns to her and grins, “Yes. On the road. Together.”

Gareth leans forward in his chair, confused as he speaks, “What, like a retreat type deal?” He questions. Dustin slaps a paper down in front of him, “No. Tour. Nine months, ninety-two shows.”

Gareth doesn’t get much time to take in the information on the paper before Eddie snatches it out of his hands, shades pushed up into his hair as he leans in to gape at it. A list of tour dates, an ongoing and never-ending fucking list.

“You’re not serious.” He says. Steve chuckles at the end of the table, nodding his head, “As serious as a heart attack.”

You’re next to snatch the paper away for a gander, ignoring the rest of the room as everyone erupts in a fit of protest. You stand with your back to the table as you gaze through each date, your neck heating up with anger as your fingers crease the paper. You turn around, face twisted in rage, wrinkling the paper in your shaking fist as you storm up to where Erica stands, waiting for you to say your piece with an unwavering impression.

You hold the crinkled paper up as you stand before her, “You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I’m doing shows with these pieces of shits.” You sneer, tossing the paper onto the table. Erica raises an eyebrow, looking at you as if you’ve gone off the deep end. The room enters a thick silence at your outburst, all eyes on the standoff between you and Erica. “Call the tour off, or I’m out.”

“What?” Robin leans forward to gaze at you, eyes widened in shock at your words, “You’re not leaving the band, Y/N, you— you can’t.”

You ignore Robin and step closer to Erica, eyes burning into her gaze as you speak, and Erica has never seen you this angry in all her years of knowing you. “Call it off.”

Erica will let you believe you have the upper hand for your peace of mind, but when it comes down to reality, you both know you don’t stand a chance against her force of nature. Erica is calm and uncannily patient as she speaks to you, “You’re at a dead-end street, Tiger,” she starts, “You either make a way, or you go back to Hawkins with your tail between your legs like everyone expected.” 

Erica sits back in her chair, not even bothering to look at you as she busies herself with the paperwork before her when she adds, “You make the call.”

You glare down at her, throat closing in anger and betrayal. You don’t say another word as you storm out, leaving the room with a booming echo of the heavy glass door slamming shut. Erica sighs, settling back in her chair and gazing at the rest of the band members, who are all silently fuming in anger. “Now, does anyone else have something to say or something of substance to add, or are we done here?” Eddie rises from his seat with clear annoyance, “This is bullshit,” the force of his movement sends his chair back to the wall as he walks out of the room, just as angrily as you had previously done.

The remaining band members sit in silence, avoiding each other's gaze, and Steve breathily laughs, “Well, Dustin, you were wrong,” he teases, smirking when Dustin and Erica turn to him. “Eddie took that pretty well.”

The band members glance at the managers, and Dustin sighs as he leans back in his chair, twisting his mouth in thought and tapping his pen against the table.

“This is gonna be more work than I thought.”

————

a/n: AHHH, YOU'VE MADE IT TO THE END!!! WE HOPE YOU LIKED THIS AND LOVE THEM SO FAR; more to come sooonnnn <3

————

teeny taglist: @tommyvelvet @oeuryale

[moralesmilesanhour]

my neighbor's a punk

summary: you move into a new apartment with a noisy neighbor. inspired by this prompt list! wc: 922 A/N: just wrote this for some practice. I'm getting better at writing longer drabbles, I think! As always feel free to reblog and leave your reactions in the tags or comments. As of the date this is being posted, my requests are also open! (pls check my pinned beforehand)

You had never seen a garden so beautiful.

Vibrant blossoms of yellow and orange greeted you as you hauled two medium-sized boxes carrying the last of your things through the entrance of your new apartment. Their fragrance wafted through the humid summer air, delighting you and confirming that they were, in fact, real. But for the past couple of days that you had been in the process of moving in, you’d never once spotted a gardener or seen the sprinklers turn on. Curious.

The modest apartment had only a couch to occupy the living room, which was currently still dotted with cardboard boxes. A freshly-ironed shirt and work pants lay neatly folded on top of one. You stepped over a few to get to the kitchen, where various unopened appliances were strewn about the counter. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, you made a note to finally put everything away in the cupboards tomorrow evening after work.

No TV meant your only sources of entertainment for the time being were your phone and your laptop. It was now evening, and you were slouched on your sofa in the midst of a harrowing ‘Game of Thrones’ episode when a violent guitar riff ripped through the air and made you jump.

These thin-ass walls…

Whoever was playing (very well, you might add) seemed to be next door, so it didn’t take long to follow the sound to the correct number. You knocked impatiently and rang the doorbell too, for good measure. It took a minute for the music to come to a halt before the sound of heavy footsteps approached the door and you heard it unlock.

Once the door creaked open, you weren’t sure where to look first.

Your eyes darted back and forth between the array of piercings on your neighbor’s face and dangling from his ears, the wicks styled to shoot out from his head like an explosion, and his bright red plaid pants before landing on a pair of large eyes set deeply within a dark, angular face.

Judging by the way his pierced brow quirked up in amusement, you weren’t the first to give him a weird look, and wouldn’t be the last.

You remembered how to speak.

“Oh, um- hey,” you began, “I live next door, and I heard you playing–”

The young man’s face lights up and he interrupts, “Oh, d’you like it? It’s a song I’ve been workin’ on for the past few weeks. Finally got the bridge down.”

You blinked. 

“I mean…it’s not bad. It’s great, even, but–”

“Say, I haven’t seen you around before,” he pointed. “You new here?”

The man spoke with a strong Cockney accent, you noticed, with a tinge of something else that made a couple of vowels run together.

“...Yes, I moved in two days ago,” you sighed. “Now that that’s out of the way, I was about to ask if you could maybe play a lil’ quieter? You’re very loud.”

The realization seemed to dawn on him that you weren’t here to applaud his sick guitar riffs, and he winced. You almost felt bad for disappointing him, but you had a show to binge.

“Ah shit, my fault. Got too used to playing on full volume after the last neighbor moved out,” With a hand placed over his chest, he promised, “Won’t happen again.”

You nodded with a tight smile. 

“Thanks. Goodnight,” you said as you turned to leave.

The next few days were quieter, though you could still hear the neighbor’s guitar through the walls at a much more manageable volume. Sometimes you would hear the man humming to himself in his baritone voice. Eventually, you were so used to it that you found yourself falling asleep to the sound.

One Saturday morning, though, you awoke to the peculiar sound of silence. Normally by now you’d be hearing the first few chords of…whatever the guy was working on, then he’d reach the end by mid-afternoon. Part of you wanted to check up on him, but reason held you back; you’d only spoken to him once. Maybe he was just taking an off day.

Unable to return to sleep, you decided to shower and take a walk outside while the air was still comfortably cool.

As soon as the early morning sun hit your face, a familiar head of hair came into view.

There stood your neighbor–band t-shirt and all–in the garden in front of the apartment. Watering the flowers.

Mystery solved.

“So you’re the reason the plants haven’t died yet,” you laughed, causing his head to snap up.

He grinned, and lifted his watering can proudly. “Sure am. Bring some color into the place.”

“I thought it was awful quiet around here,” you remarked. You toyed with the hem of your t-shirt. “How’s the, uh…song going?”

Something between delight and surprise graced his features and made him look boyish. 

He smiled, revealing a crooked front tooth as he replied, “Almost done with it, actually.”

There was silence for a beat, and the both of you shifted awkwardly where you stood. 

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off. 

“Mind playing it for me when you’re done?”

The tall man seemed about ready to run laps around the block at the suggestion.

Quickly setting his watering can down, he replied, “Thought you’d never ask, mate!”

He jogged his way around the perimeter of the garden and over to you. “Can I get your name while we’re at it?”

“Y/N.” You stuck out your hand, and he shook it.

“Hobie.”

[puuta-heinaa]

Joker Out, Paris (Café de la danse) 22.3.2024

I arrived at the venue around 14ish, and was third to last in the EE queue. However queueing is part of the party! I exchanged sooo many bracelets and met amazing people, some of which I just met that day, some I knew from Discord or tumblr or earlier gigs, couldn't have been happier. Got selfies with Bojan and Jan?? Hug from Bojan??? HELLO. That would never happen in Finland. I described his hug as jämäkkä and turvallinen, which roughly translates to sturdy and safe.

Some of the bracelets I made for the concert!

Met someone in the queue who had hawk's eyes and who encouraged me to go and ask for a selfie with Jan, and later on she spotted Bojan on the street 100 m before everyone else did. I had a chance to give Bojan 3 2 ananaslonkero -bracelet that I'd made, with a tiny drink charm. If the main joke in fandoms is that a hug from your blorbo would cure you? well it's true. Getting a hug from Bojan removed some stiffness between my shoulder blades that I didn't even know was there. It was literally easier to breathe after the encounter. I also kept vigorously shaking for 3-5 minutes afterwards, so much that some people asked if I'm ok. Just released years worth of trauma ig. Also LOTS of happy hand stims throughout the day, my autism was showing lol.

Jan was outdoors SMOKING!!! And Bojan had charmingly dirty hair! He was taller than I had thought.

ANYways the gig !! I ended up on Jance side, which was nice as I was on Kris' side in Helsinki. Whole stage was about as wide as K-18 section at Kultsa, and I think they suit better on smaller stages.

We got Vem da Gres and Gola in soundcheck! I was wearing Vem da gres -bracelet that I got in Helsinki a few weeks ago and thought about that person for a few seconds!

Gola was ok. Bojan got disney mickey ears, and he was wearing my 3 2 ananaslonkero bracelet. Bojan also got a maca plushie that he was NOT scared of, he even made it fly.

Kris left the stage as soon as the last notes of Gola were over, other boys stayed jamming in accelerating speed for couple of more minutes. I showed them my UM sign that only read "I want to sing UMAZAN" at that point. :')

20h02 was ok, didn't connect with their music at all though. JC Stewart seemed a bit sick, but sounded good nevertheless. Finished my sign.

They started with Katrina and Bele Sanje, and people were singing even guitar riffs along. Dopamin hit like dopamine followed by Ne bi smel, Nace was staring at me several times during those songs.

Liinu's superb edit of staring sc Nace and struggling Kris and Arcti's edit about Jan's forgotten library books made my day

People were already singing along to Sta bih ja, and Bojan was sooo happy (and sweaty. We were all very sweaty, the concert hall was ridiculously warm.). Kris disappeared for a moment in the beginning of Sta bih ja, and Bojan looked like a lost puppy (wait, where is kris?? about 5-10 seconds into sta bih ja). Bojan said Kris didn't like how Jan played the riff and that's why he left the stage :P. Jan flipped a bird to him.

Decibels raised by about 20 when they played Ona and Demoni. Turns out they might be the easiest to sing along for absolutely everyone, not just for people who speak Finnish. Bojan looked me directly into eyes during second verse of Demoni for several seconds, and I felt so seen (in a good way). EE was definitely worth its price.

In Helsinki I felt like the setlist was over before it even started, but in Paris it felt more like we were really dancing and playing until the stars fade. I think it had something to do with how much they interacted with each other and with the public during each song. In Helsinki they seemed like they had forgotten how to be on stage, and there was just TOO MUCH SPACE, whereas Paris had Nordic Tour energy.

They all moved a LOT on stage!! Kris was on jance side several times! Nace had a mating dance thingy going on with Kris at least twice, Jan once. Jan interacted with the public on Kris's side a few times. Bojan almost run into Kris at one point - no wonder he caressed Kris's arm to let him know he's there before grapping his hips?? and dancing behind him??? during Behind those eyes. It's cafe de la danse after all.

Def thinking "THIS is how we'll trend on tumblr tonight" right after the famous dance

Everybody's waiting and soooooo many people raised hands when Bojan asked in his spiel before the song if anyone here suffers from panic or anxiety attacks, and I think it made everyone feel less alone. He sang I'm the problem it's me -line to make things a bit lighter before proceeding to the song.

We got Omamljeno Telo and I felt SOOOO HAPPY (but also sad for Moonu) but also SOOOO HAPPY it was on the setlist, I think I screamed VITTU JES on top of my lungs (manifesting it for Ruisrock huh). Famous water spray on Jan during OT, and it shows I've grown old, because instead of "yeeeess I want Bojan's spit on me" I went "rat disease, why am I not wearing a mask".

Everyone sang along during CD, not in French though even if there was a fanproject French translation published a whole 28 hours before(....). Plastika hit like a hammer once again, but I think I was already waiting and stressing for UM, so I didn't mosh for example. Which, good idea, because my neck was soooo sore after Helsinki.

Bojan announced the karaoke song, and asked which versions we have today. He saw my sign, asked "Slovenian version?", to which I "said" (from 4th row on Jan+Nace side) Finnish version, and he heard it and corrected himself and said perfect. I was not afraid at all even if I knew I'm probs going to sing in front of about 500 people in 5ish minutes???? How??? I'm usually a ball of anxiety but here I was just proud and excited to sing my version of it.

I loved the Bretogne/French version (I've still no idea what were the words, but it rhymed super well and she sang well, but that was def NOT paris region French), cringed at some of the "translations" because they did not fit the lines and did not rhyme, sang along to Slovenian versions in Finnish, felt bad for one of them as the karaoke singer started at the wrong moment and Bojan spent most of their special moment trying to orchestrate the band.

When Bojan approached with "I think we still have a Slovenian version, OH NO, A FINNISH VERSION" I chortled, and felt the last bits of nervousness disappear. (Cue "some boat, titanic, oh no".) I had my ACTUALLY finger pointing moment, which, on point with my personality, telling him it's a hybrid version. I don't know what he meant with SUOMI SAA, but it was NOT full-on Suomi SAATANA, that much is certain. I quite like the idea/interpretation he was making a pun with SAA(tan)Are you ready? But who knows. Sad about missed chance to answer "ArE YoU???" now that I think about it, but at least I wasn't the only one who failed the moment :') . Speaking of cursewords though, a histronic youngster next to me did shout vittu though! I loved my spot but she was super annoying throughout the evening.

The Finnish version is in the beginning of this one, and the Arabic version right after Finnish version is AMAZING. The French version is on the first part, as well as Bojan going "uuu Finnish version? perfect".

Started in Slovene, which made him have a Ok?? face, but when I switched to my own Finnish version that rhymes with the Slovene version, he raised his brows and seemed so impressed that I just nodded to him, sending telepath(et)ic messages that yes, our languages match and rhyme, about time you collaborate with Jere. I think he remembered I asked for a hug in the afternoon, because he did not hug everyone during karaoke. Afternoon hug was better btw.

I love his little surprised smile right when I finish the first Finnish line on this one

I usually think quite a lot about how other people perceive me, but now I didn't give a single fuck, just enjoyed being the main character for 20 seconds, having this interaction with my blorbo. Forever grateful for the 4 different angles I received from friends I made in the queue, and 1 from a random guy who asked me after the concert if I'd like to receive a video he took of me singing. Even Vita was filming the whole thing with her big light + camera + phone ensemble. I often sing in my car, and even IMAGINING i'm singing karaoke makes my voice suddenly tiny and weak and compressed, so I'm overflowingly glad it went this well, you have no idea even if I've just bragged about it for 4 paragraphs.

I later realised I was the only one who didn't hold the mic themself, this is a clear example how I objectify the boys, seeing Bojan just as a mic stand.🫣😵‍💫

I got fluent Kiitos from Bojan, that guy needs to move to Finland he speaks Finnish so well. Also LMAO I forgot to sniff him in the afternoon, now I'm praying the snifff I took after karaoke wasn't too evident and doesn't show on Vita's video……….. Jere is wrong, Bojan does not smell like shit, but there were no parfume smell either? He just smells like nothing in a pleasant, pheromone rich way lol.

my translation: Sanje so tvojega okusa Aamuihin taas tuoksusi Neula ei haarukassa Sieluni on hukassa Etsimässä tietään luoksesi

I haven't figured how to translate the first line. I've been playing with "Makus' on tarrannut uniini", but it does not rhyme with the og well enough. Otherwise super proud of my version. Neula and haarukka are parts of compass, basically saying the compass is layed on the map the wrong way. 🧭

This is how small the place was??? I was in 3/4th row, and the hat guy in the right corner was right behind me during the concert so the club truly was tiny.

Apparently bubbles were not allowed on stage in Cafe de la danse? But some people had brought their own so we had bubbles anyway.

Jure exchanged his drumstick to a breadstick. I laughed because a) it was a clever pun and b) such a stereotypically French thing to bring a BAGUETTE wrapped in a napkin to a concert. Also no wonder boys are always sick, I don't even want to know how many people touched that bread before it was on stage.

Life is pain (in mouths)

We waited for the boys after the concert outside the venue in the rain, and they walked past quite quickly. Bojan stayed for 30 seconds to take a group selfie. <3

Honestly so happy I traveled there and met amazing people and surpassed myself on so many levels.

I feel like 2004 again, because that's when I last made a post this long on livejournal and also when I last was this hyped about a group.

I loved band's AMAZING OUTFITS in Café de la danse, everyone had some idrija lace on them, and I'm afraid my next special interest will be bobbin lace.

[anthemofgvf]

Behind Closed Doors: Jake Kiszka x Reader Fanfiction Series

Part Three

description: when your best friend asks for a favor, that being having his twin move in with you, you're hesitant. you've never really liked him, but you are struggling to meet your rent, so you oblige. who knew with time that you would become more upset with his presence, or upset with the fact you have underlying feelings for him that you don't want to face?

-the masterlist for this series-

trope: enemies to lovers x roommates au!

warnings for this series: alcohol and tobacco usage, explicit content (18+, minors dni), angst, swearing

word count: 6.8k+

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You expected yourself to feel a bit better about living with Jake. Since it had been a month since he moved in with you, nothing much had changed. You two continued to bicker like kids, although there were those sweet moments where you two got along. You were hoping to see his true colors, since they seemed to have yet to be revealed, but to no avail. You were left living with someone who you couldn't stand. No matter how desperately hard you tried to be optimistic about the living arrangement, you found yourself incapable.

Work was always a relief from him. If anyone was able to love their job, you began to more and more once you realized how busywork kept your mind free of Jake. Finally getting into your manager position, you had more responsibility, and that meant less time to daydream and be left alone with your thoughts.

Every so often, yes, you did complain about Jake to Stacie. But you'd never discuss him with Josh. It felt wrong to do so, and when he asked you about how everything was, you'd always be short with him. You'd quickly change the subject to get Josh to go on a long story about his own life and whatever he had going on, and you were able to indulge in Josh's life rather than your own. It was a blissful escape when you'd go out with Josh or go to work, and when you'd arrive home, you'd find yourself ignoring Jake unless he spoke to you first.

Working for the closest thing to a friendship with him seemed harder than you could imagine. He was stubborn - more than you. You gave up on trying to form some sort of relationship with him, and realized that if it was meant to be, then it would happen. Otherwise, you were sick of playing nice with him while he tried to pick on you purposefully to get under your skin.

Jake began to leave the house more often. It was usually around nighttime that he would be gone, and he never announced his departures. But they were probably for gigs, and you had no intention of supporting him, so you didn't mind the lack of communication. There was never a specific day. It was often a surprise to you on whether he'd be home or not, but you appreciated the quiet apartment whenever it wasn't bombarded with his presence. 

You arrived home from work later in the afternoon, which was longer than your usual shifts. Upon entering, you heard Jake's guitar strumming in his room. Although you were a bit tired and ready to wash off the scent of coffee and sweet bakery items, you decided to stride slowly by his bedroom to hear the playing. 

It was better than you expected. Whatever riff or song he was playing, it was pleasing to your ears. You could go further to say you could feel goosebumps prickling your skin, but you didn't want to play with the idea that his musical talent was an amazement to you. 

You stopped at his bedroom door with folded arms and leaned against the frame of it. He hadn't noticed you just yet, and you were grateful that he didn't, because it gave you more time to listen to his playing peacefully. He was sat on the edge of his bed, with his guitar in his lap and the strap hung lazily around his shoulder. He seemed to be wearing a plain grey shirt with black jeans, which you weren't surprised of the attire. You examined the way he played; he mouthed words that you couldn't quite make out, whether it was the song or some sort of coordination of chords. His fingers glided up and down the neck skillfully, along with plucking the strings into a perfect melody. 

"Stop staring at me." Jake muttered to you whilst he continued playing. 

You straightened your posture. "Do you have a problem with me listening to you play?" 

He sighed, flicking his eyes up to you with a blank face. "Just a bit weird that you didn't say anything and just...stood there watching me. Kind of weird, don't you think?" 

You rolled your eyes at his response. "I didn't want to interrupt you, okay? Is that so bad?" 

"Guess not," he shrugged, "well, did you like what you heard?" 

"As much as I hate to stroke your ego, you're actually not too bad. I could even say that I'm actually impressed." You placed a small grin on your face. 

A hint of a genuine smile hit his lips. There was a small moment of silence, but nothing to make you uncomfortable. "Thank you." 

You nodded. "You're welcome." 

"Surprised you'd pay me a compliment. Seems like you never have anything kind to say to me often." 

You dared to step foot into his room, standing before him as he sat on the bed. His eyes walked up your body with each step you took. 

"Well, today I'm feeling a bit nice. Besides, I've never heard you really play, and I've always wondered if you were actually good or not." 

"Your expectations of me have always been low," he chuckled, "but you think I'm good?" 

"If it's important for you to know, then yeah, I think so. Don't like satisfying your ego, but I can't lie and say you're shit at guitar." 

He set his guitar onto the bed and placed his hands on his thighs. "Seems like you're afraid to compliment me because you think I'll act more arrogant." He stood up from the bed and left a small space of proximity between you two. "But I like the change of heart. Nice y/n isn't so bad, even though you still manage to slide in an intentional, mean comment. But, hey, I'll take it." 

"Not a change of heart, just me showing you that I am capable of not being rude to you." 

He pressed his lips together to contain a smile. He found you entertaining, in the sense that you continued to defend your kindness with reasoning that didn't need to be spoken into the air. "What a surprise. Is this just a one-time thing?" 

You shrugged with your bottom lip sticking out. "Who knows. But you're making this a bigger deal than it should be. Just take it lightly, and try not to be so annoying about it, 'kay?" 

He stifled a laugh. "Yes ma'am. Sorry for being so shocked." His words were laced with sarcasm, which only drove your annoyance more.

You held back an eyeroll and decided to walk out of his room to enter your own. You pressed your arms tightly against your chest in an attempt to contain a scoff of irritation. All you let out as you entered your room was a deep sigh and let that be the most you'd let out in frustration. Your skin itched with the image of Jake's eyes lingering on you. There was an unexpected feeling it gave you, but you couldn't depict what it was. You were unsure if it was mere intimidation, or just annoyed that he laid his eyes on you longer than you'd like. Whatever the reason was for you getting so worked up, you were only going to set your mind on taking a shower and removing the scent of your coffee house off of your body. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You received a call from Josh later that night as you sat in your room. Although you were used to talking to Josh nearly every day, a call like this was somewhat unexpected. 

"Hello?" You said into the phone.

"Hey! My night is open. Was wondering if you'd want to go out and grab a few drinks at Fireside? Are you free?"

You sat up from your bed and walked over to your closet. "Yeah! I'd love to do that. Do you want me to meet you over there now? Or will you be a bit late?"

He chuckled. "I suppose I deserve the shit you give me for never being on time. I was planning on leaving now, actually, so no worrying about being there alone waiting for my arrival."

"Good to know," you hummed, "I'll see you there then."

"Wait," he said, "do you mind bringing Jake along? I'd like to see him. Wonder how he's been."

"Like you don't talk to him nearly every day," you huffed a laugh, "I guess I can invite him."

"You two still not getting along? Have you sorted out your differences yet?" He sighed into the phone.

"I don't know," you examined a top that you pulled out from your closet, then putting in back, "we keep going back and forth. It just seems that we keep on hitting a bump in the road that neither of us want to move past. Sometimes, we seem to get along, but those moments are always too good to be true. I'm trying, though. Think my problem is I can never decipher his sarcasm from his mean remarks." 

"Okay, well, I hope that you can play nice with him for the night. I'd like to enjoy my time with two of my best friends."

You smiled at his remark. "I'll try, but no promises. He likes to change his attitude at the drop of a hat. See you in ten!"

You hung up the phone before he could say give any objections, and you continued to flip through your articles of clothing to find something a bit more suited for going out. You were in a pair of blue sweat shorts and a baggy tank top, so there was no way you'd leave your place without changing.

You landed on a low-cut red shirt that cut just above your bellybutton, and a pair of light wash jeans to match. The weather this time of year was somewhat unpredictable, so you grabbed a grey jacket with you just in case.

After slipping on your shoes and grabbing your purse with all of your necessities, you walked past Jake's room without a single thought. You were used to not letting Jake know about your whereabouts. So, you found yourself stopped at your front door, exhaling a deep breath. You dragged your feet to Jake's closed door, knocking lightly and waiting for a response.

There was a moment of silence, and before you had the chance to knock again, Jake flung the door open with a confused look.

"I'm, uh, going out with Josh to Fireside. He asked if you wanted to come." You spoke quietly, averting your eyes from him for a moment.

"Or else you wouldn't be inviting me, huh?" He placed his hand onto the doorframe.

"Pretty much," you rocked on your heels, "so, you'll come?"

He walked away from the door, throwing on a pair of shoes and walking past you with a sigh. You rolled your eyes at his ignorance, but nonetheless, he was complying. 

"I'm driving, by the way." He clarified to you before opening the front door. 

"Fine by me." You threw your hands up. 

He led you to his car, which was a modest black Nissan. In your head, you imagined his car to fit his narcissistic demeanor, but it was comforting to know that not all of his possessions were based off of your original impression of him. 

The drive was quiet, even growing an uncomfortable silence between the both of you. The only sound that filled the air was the engine of the car running, along with the soft music coming from the radio. It was nearly inaudible, and you thought about turning up the volume yourself. But, nonetheless, you kept to yourself, and kept your eyes glued outside of the window. 

It wasn't too long until you and him arrived at Fireside. You were thankful that the drive was short, which would lessen the time between you and him. It was hard to find something to talk to him about, due to the fact you weren't interested in anything he had to say. But you didn't want to outwardly tell him that, so you just kept your mouth shut to not cause another issue between the two of you. 

You entered the bar and saw Josh sitting alone, with a beer bottle accompanying his hand. Without checking to see if Jake was close behind you, you walked over to Josh quickly and said hello before you fully reached him. 

"Hey! Good to see you." He said, standing up from the barstool and pulling you into a tight embrace. 

His eyes flicked behind you, and his lips curled into a soft smile. You figured Jake was behind you, so you took a step to the side and allowed them to greet each other. Their hug was tight, somewhat meaningful, from what you examined. Jake wasn't lying when he said him and Josh had a great relationship, and a part of you felt a bit sentimental towards them. Not Jake as an individual, but the twins combined. 

"How's everything been?" He asked him. While waiting for Jake's response, he took a sip of his beer. 

His lips were rested into a grin. "Not too bad. Got some gigs coming up, recording studio sessions - the usual." He shrugged. 

"Heard from that record label yet?" Josh asked him. 

"Not yet, but it's only been a few days. All I can do is wait, but I'm hopeful about it." He shrugged. 

Josh turned to you with his hand placed on your back. "Would you like a drink?" 

You nodded in response, and he called the bartender over and ordered your usual, which was a strawberry margarita. One thing you appreciated about him was that he remembered tons of different things about you, big or small. Like your favorite foods, different factoids about your life, and of course, your choice of drink. 

"What's your poison for the night, Jake?" Josh turned to his brother. 

"Something light. I'm driving." He took a seat next to the stool you were stood at. 

He settled on a Coors Light and Josh took his place next to an empty seat, which left an open one in between the two boys. It was his silent way of him wanting you to be sat between the both of them, and as much as you wanted to decline, you obliged and took a seat with a huff. 

There was small conversation between you and Josh, and Jake would butt in and say something to tear the conversation into three. It was an ungrateful presence, and when you'd respond to whatever he said, Josh made sure to remove the tension with a light-hearted joke or changing the subject entirely. 

As you talked to Josh about your new position at work and the minimal things that were happening in your life, you heard the screeching of a chair being pulled out of its spot. When you stopped your talking, you turned your direction to Jake. 

"I'll be back." He tapped his hands onto the counter and walked away without any other explanation. 

"Don't be gone for too long!" Josh joked, taking another sip of his beer and setting it down. Once Jake was far enough, Josh leaned closer to you. "So, things really haven't changed between you two, huh?" 

"Glad you figured that out, despite what I tell you." You chuckled. "Think we've both kind of silently agreed that things aren't going to be different, so we just leave it be and put up with each other. Tried being nice to him and he made it a big deal, as if I've never once been nice to him." 

"You both seem like stubborn people. Well, I know he is," he chuckled, "but you seem to not want to act differently towards him for whatever internal reason that may be." 

"Guess he just needs to earn my respect, which he hasn't." You extended your finger at him with the hand that was wrapped around your glass, with a cocked brow. "He just needs to give me a reason to change my mind about him, you know? He hasn't done anything redeemable yet. I don't really know what to do." 

"It's not a one-way street. I'm sure he has some work to do, but so do you. I don't really know what happens behind closed doors, but I assume that you're trying to act differently towards him, right?" 

"I'd be lying to you if I said that I was." You said sheepishly. "Just got to give it more time, I guess." 

He shrugged with an understanding nod, unsure of what to follow that with. When his eyes left yours, you followed his sight. Turning your head, you saw Jake with a drink in hand, chatting with a girl. With a sigh, you turned back to Josh, who had a slight look of disappointment. 

"Looks like he ditched us for the night." You laughed lightly. 

"Appears that way. But hey, I don't mind it. Glad to at least have you here." He nudged your arm. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

You drank the night away with Josh, talking about numerous things that weren't that important. It was easy to talk to him, especially since anything you said he showed extreme interest in. You liked the dynamic between you two, which made you forget about Jake, and gave you a good time without Jake in the picture. It was the sort of night you expected to happen; you and Josh alone while Jake played the field. It was reminiscent of the first night you met him. 

You couldn't forget that day. Whether a year was a long enough time to keep a memory alive in your mind, you still could picture every moment. You remembered what he wore, how he introduced himself and what he talked about. There was that uncertainty of why you were thinking about that night. Maybe it was to drive your annoyance that you felt for him at this exact moment, or it was the alcohol consuming your system and letting your mind wander as it tends to do. 

Jake eventually came back over to the two of you with a playful grin on his face, resuming his original seat and grabbing the beer that was left for him. You didn't pay too much attention to him, but Josh being Josh, immediately struck up a conversation as a welcome back. You didn't know how much time passed between then and now, but however long it was, you noticed the condensation that laid upon Jake's beer bottle had disappeared, and the ice in your third drink had nearly melted. 

You kept your eyes glued to the liquid that was left in your glass. Their conversation flew through your ears, but you didn't pick up on the conversation and left it incoherent. You began to feel the effect of the alcohol on you, with your body growing warm and feeling airy. You decided to finish the rest of your drink in one go and let that be the last of your night and stick to water. 

"Y/n?" Josh nudged you. 

You turned your head to him. "What? Did I miss something?" 

"You heard nothing we said, huh?" Jake said to you with a chuckle.

"I turned on my selective hearing." You smiled, then turned your direction to Josh. "What were you guys talking about?" 

"Talking about how we’re thinking of heading out." Jake said to you. 

You slowly flicked your direction to Jake. "I didn't ask you, Jacob," you spat, "but why head out? The night is still young, isn't it?" 

"Your perception of time is amazing," he jeered, "but it's 11:30. Don't you have work tomorrow?" 

"I have Sunday's off, thank you very much. Why don't you leave, and I stay here with Josh?" You cocked your head to the side. 

He pressed his lips together with a light look of aggravation, but more contorted with disappointment. He was concocting what to say to you next with little time, flicking his eyes between you and Josh. 

"How about I see you for lunch tomorrow, y/n? Go home, get some rest, and we can continue our hangout tomorrow, yeah?" 

He stood up from his chair and wrapped his arms around you tightly from behind. Once he gave his brother a hug, he said his goodbyes to the both of you and pranced out of the bar. 

"Alright, now can we go?" Jake sighed. 

"If you insist." You dug your hand into your purse to rummage out your wallet. As you were doing so, Jake placed his hand on your wrist. 

"I already paid for our drinks." He rubbed his lips together. "Don't worry about it, let's just go, okay?" 

You shot him a confused look, removing your eyes from his hand that wrapped around your wrist and to his. His touch pulled away slowly, but you could feel every movement. You were unsure of the feeling it sent to you, but ignoring it was best for now, and listening to Jake before you made him upset. 

Once getting into his car, you lolled your head onto the window to feel the cold glass soothe your hot head. Your eyes were shut, and in tune with the music that played softly, and you focused on the relaxation of the drive rather than your mind growing dizzy. 

"You have a good time?" Jake asked you. 

You squinted one eye open at him, noticing he was waiting for a response by looking at you. The red of the stoplight shone over his features, highlighting his dark eyes and the carvings of his face. It was something you never intently observed, such as in broad daylight, but now, you were given the opportunity that you wouldn't usually jump at.

"A splendid time. Loved when you ditched us to go talk to that girl. Staying true to character as always, Jacob." 

He rolled his eyes. "I actually went to the bathroom before she came up to me. Not going to resist talking to a pretty girl. Is that so bad?" 

You scoffed with an open-mouthed smile, shutting your eyes and relaxing your head back to its original spot on the window. "Took you long enough to make your way back over to us. Did you get her number or something?" 

"As a matter of fact, I did." He stated proudly. "We'll see whether or not I follow through with texting her." 

"That's kind of fucked up, you know? Giving a girl the impression that you're interested in her, then deciding that you don't want to be a decent human being and try to get to know her." You scoffed. 

"I don't think I need to explain myself to you, but for your information, you've got me completely wrong." He threw his hand out into the air. 

Your eyes opened. "Alright then. How many girls have you actually taken out on dates, huh? Or are there too many to count?" 

"Why are you acting like this, y/n?" He flicked his eyes at you with a scrunched face. "How much did you have to drink tonight?" 

"I'm not even drunk, just tipsy. Enough for me to feel good, but not enough to not control my surroundings. Don't avoid the question at hand. I'm curious." You gave him a playful smile. 

"I don't know, y/n," he sighed, "I've never really been on a real date, but I'd consider having gone on three or four. That's not counting the times I'll meet someone and end up spending time with them for the rest of the night." He shrugged. 

"I catch your drift. Are you some sort of womanizer? Or is that just the rockstar life you're trying to live up to? I mean, how many of those were dates that you didn't end up sleeping with-" 

He was quick to cut you off. "Why is it so important for you to know how many people I've slept with, huh? Frankly, it's none of your business." He looked at you with a face of disgust. "Don't feel like talking about this with you anymore." 

He was growing tense, with his shoulders straightened out and his neck stiff. You'd never seen him so upset before, and it was slightly entertaining that you were getting under his skin. Maybe if you had a good heart in mind, you would feel sensitive about the situation. Guilt, perhaps. But, with the way he treats you, you think he deserves whatever he feeds you. 

"Someone's a bit sensitive." You giggled to yourself. "Would it make you feel better if I told you how many dates I've been on?" 

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyways." 

"I've been on four, roughly. Nothing too major, and no one special. I don't really date anymore because I'm too busy with work."

"Thanks for sharing. Can we go in, now?" Jake had already put the car in park, and you shot your head up and saw your surroundings. 

You looked at him, who waited for you to step out of the car or give him an answer. His face was close to expressionless, with a light hint of aggravation. Whatever he was waiting for, you opened the door and stumbled out of the vehicle. 

After making your way to your apartment, with Jake close behind, you dragged your feet to your bedroom. Falling face first onto your bed, you groaned into the sheets. Your comforter was soft against your face, and your body began to feel heavy. 

You forced your body to turn over flat on your back. As you made your movements, you saw Jake standing at the doorway. He leaned against the frame with folded arms. 

"Got something to say?" You lifted your head off the bed just enough to see him. 

He opened his mouth to speak but shut it quickly with a smile. Whatever he was going to say, he decided to save it, and say something different. "You going to sleep in jeans?" 

"Judging me and my comfort? Quite rude." You snorted. 

You leaned up with a huff, sliding your shoes off onto the ground and crawling to your pillows. He still hadn't moved from his stance at the door, watching your movements and keeping his soft smile plastered on his face as you enveloped yourself in your blankets. If the moon wasn't shining into your bedroom, you wouldn't be able to see his smile. Maybe he was unsure if you noticed how he was looking at you, but whatever his reasoning was, you weren't going to acknowledge it. 

"Gonna watch me sleep, Jacob?" You mumbled with shut eyes. 

He chuckled. He stood off from the doorframe and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just...making sure you're okay, that's all." 

"I don't like when you're nice to me. Feels wrong." You laughed to yourself. "You're giving me the impression that you actually care about my well-being." 

There was silence in the room. You opened your eyes, then turned your head to the doorway. He was no longer there, and your door was cracked open slightly. There was that uncertainty of whether of nor he heard your words. Or, better yet, the unsureness of if you wanted him to hear what you said. You weren't in the right headspace, even if you didn't want to believe it. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

There was a recognizable scent that hit your nose when you woke up. It was a light buttery, bread-like aroma that filled the apartment. 

You turned over with a groan and felt the seams of your jeans pinching into your thighs. Remembering you slept in your clothes of last night, you got yourself up and changed into something a bit more comfortable. Throwing on a pair of plaid jaw string pants and a baggy band t-shirt, you walked out of your room. 

You rubbed your eyes to bring your vision to full light. You saw Jake's bare back at the stove, with light smoke rising from the front of him. He was cooking something, and whatever it was, it smelt good. 

"Good morning." You said groggily to him. 

He set a spatula down and turned his head over his shoulder. "Sleep well?" 

"How'd you guess?" You slumped into the stool at your small island. 

"Your hair's a mess." He chuckled. You flattened your hair out and used the ponytail that rested on your wrist to tie your hair up. After watching you, he turned from you, and kept his focus on the pan in front of him. 

"Thanks for letting me know," you rolled your eyes, "what are you making?" 

You tried viewing the stovetop from behind his figure but were unable to. You looked next to him, and noticed a plate sat beside his right side filled with pancakes. Your eyes lit up at the sight. 

"Pancakes?" You said with light excitement. 

"Yup." He responded flatly. 

You got out of your seat and grabbed a plate, along with a fork, and stabbed into one of the airy cakes. Setting it onto your plate, you brought it over to your seat.

"There's syrup in the pantry, by the way. Do you like butter on your pancakes?" He asked you. 

"Syrup's just fine." You stated plainly. 

He set a steaming cake onto the stack, then turning the stove off and grabbing his own plate. You looked at him with confusion. His nice tone was foreign behavior, and one that made you suspicious. There was no reason for you to be, but you couldn't shake the feeling. 

You decided to ignore it and walk into the pantry, finding the bottle of syrup and taking it graciously to your plate. He brought over the hot plate of pancakes, setting it between you two and placing another one onto your plate before you had a say. You thanked him with a small smile and doused the airy cakes with syrup. 

"Did you sleep well?" You dug the side of your fork into your pancakes in an attempt to cut them. 

"Yeah," he huffed a laugh, "thanks for asking." 

You nodded with a hum and took a bite of your food. They were delicious, but pancakes aren't that hard to mess up. The satisfying taste of the sweet syrup hitting your tastebuds and making the pancakes chewier had you fluttering your eyes shut with gratification. 

"Pretty good, Jake." You said to him. 

He was standing across from you, holding his plate in his hand and eating. He nodded and continued to eat. 

"Still going to lunch with Josh today?" He asked. 

"Thanks for reminding me," you said with appreciation, "I'll have to ask him when he wants to go out. Have yet to text him." 

He hummed in response. He was keeping to himself. No snarky remarks, no quips to make you annoyed by his presence. It was an odd feeling that helped wake you up more. 

"Is there," you began, "is there a reason you're being so nice to me this morning?" 

He finished his food and set his plate into the sink. "Do I need a reason to be nice to you?" 

You shook your head with your bottom lip into a pout. "Just suspicious, that's all." 

He chuckled at your response. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed two water bottles for the both of you. 

He set one of them down in front of you. "Just...woke up in a good mood, I guess. Sorry for freaking you out over my kindness." 

You huffed a laugh as you stood from the stool and walked over to the sink. "I just find it weird. Don't think I've ever woken up and you've actually spoken more than five words to me." 

You began to wash your plate, then setting it into the dishwasher. You jumped onto the corner and snatched your water bottle from the other side of the island, opening it and taking a few drinks of the liquid. 

Jake stood across from you, with his hands sprawled onto the counter behind him and giving you an odd expression. "Well, think it's time we turn over a new leaf, don't you think?" 

"Like, no bickering?" You pretended to wriggle with disgust, which caused him to laugh. "Don't think I'm ready to not hate you yet." 

"You're stubborn, you know that?" He said with a small smile. 

"As are you. What a coincidence." You shrugged, pulling your legs onto the counter and sitting crisscross. "Do you have a gig tonight?" 

"Yup. Performing with two other bands, I think. It's at a pretty nice venue, so I'm a bit excited." 

You nodded. "Did you invite that girl from last night?" 

He rolled his eyes in return. You couldn't miss the chance of picking at him a bit, because after all, it was entertaining to you. 

"Maybe," he shrugged with a knowing smirk, "so I’d like it if you didn’t come." 

"And don't bring her over tonight. Deal? Besides, I wasn't planning on seeing you perform, anyways." You quipped back. 

He nodded with a sigh, pushing off the counter behind him and making his journey back to his bedroom. You followed his movements only for a moment, then hopping off the counter and starting your day. 

You texted Josh, who said that he would be able to meet you for lunch around 12, so that left most of your morning free. You weren't sure how to fill your morning, other than to relax in bed or tidy up the apartment as you pleased. Getting ready knocked about an hour and a half of waiting time off your shoulders, so now, you were left with a little under two hours to yourself. There was always sparking up a conversation with Jake, but you didn't feel the need to. Or, necessarily, the want to. 

You were left alone with your thoughts, though, which was something you never liked. You always appreciated being busy to keep your mind occupied and not on anything particular. But, with your time off, and the recent events, you sat on your bed and ran through everything. 

The thing that stuck to mind first was Jake’s change of behavior this morning. Sure, it could've been a periodical moment, and he'd go back to being his snarky self later. But, leaving him alone would keep you from venturing that idea any further. There was always reasoning behind his actions, whether he wanted you to know that or not, and it picked at your brain agonizingly. Just like Josh said, there was an internal reason for your hatred. There was the obvious answer, which was you never liked him. His reckless behavior, matched with his egotistical persona that constantly irked you. His first impression always stuck to you, so when he changed his attitude directed towards you, you were left to assume it was for his own personal gain. 

But the negative mindset you had on him shouldn't be as much of a main focus as you make it out to be. Sure, you didn't like him, but you're stuck with him by choice. He seemed to be trying to earn your respect, which you appreciated, but it still shadowed your thoughts with suspicion. 

When it came time for you to meet Josh for lunch, instead of meeting you at your usual spot, he asked you to meet at a deli nearby. You obliged, and upon arrival, he was already waiting for you outside. You always adored the platonic relationship between the two of you. You were quite fond of your friendship with him, and his twin was never going to get in the way of your bond. It was a sacred relationship that only made sense to have with him. 

"Nice to see you on time." You smirked at him. 

He chuckled, leading you instead the small shop. "Well, I was a bit excited for this little lunch date. Would like to know what happened after I left." 

You shot him a skeptical look. "What do you mean by that? Did Jake say something to you?" 

"No, I didn't ask him about it," he chuckled, "but I'm just curious." 

You placed your order before Josh and waited for him to finish his own. 

"Nothing happened, I guess. He was just acting unusual." You shrugged. "You know, nice?" 

He threw his head back with a faux shocked expression. "My brother was nice to you? Who would've guessed?" 

You playfully pushed his shoulder, causing him to chuckle and wear a permanent smile. "Listen, it was weird for me, okay? I mean, he waited for me to get comfortable in my bed before he went to his room. And he even woke me up with pancakes this morning. Just makes me think he's trying to get something out of me." 

"Or, he's just being a good person," he argued, "but it does seem a little weird, I suppose, considering yours and his's relationship. It's random but makes sense." 

"How does him being nice to me make any sense, Josh? He doesn't like me, and I don't like him. That's how it's always been."

"And would you like to keep it that way?" 

You huffed a sigh. As yours and Josh's names were called, you picked up your small platter containing a sandwich and took a seat outside with Josh. 

"I don't know," you shrugged, "I just think it's better this way. It's already aggravating enough to try and change my mind about him. He's always just rubbed me the wrong way." 

"I think you just need to accept that he's trying to show you who he really is, because he's becoming comfortable with you, and not just putting on a facade because he feels the need to. If anyone knows him and how he is, it's me." 

You nodded at his response, taking a bite of your sandwich. "Guess I'm just a little nervous as to what that means, in an odd way. Like, I'm afraid of the embarrassment of being wrong about him. I don't know if that makes sense..." You placed your hand onto your head.

"No, no I understand," he reassured, "and it's okay to feel that way about him. Just don't shut him out. If you see him opening up, try and embrace it. He's trying to make a better impression of himself for you, so do the same for him. You'll find yourself miserable if you just find his kindness annoying." 

"I guess it's my fault for being so stubborn. Like you said, he's trying to make things better, so I shouldn't dismiss that and let my impression of him get the best of me." 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

After your lunch date with Josh, you arrived back at home to see Jake walking out of his room with his guitar case in hand. 

"Leaving early for the gig?" You said to him. 

"There's something called rehearsal before every performance, so yeah, I'm leaving early." He wore a light smirk to show his sarcasm. 

You nodded. "Good luck." 

He worse a confused expression, but then rested it into a content one. "Thanks." 

He walked past where you stood to the door, which you followed with your eyes. 

"Jake?" 

He turned to you. "What?" 

"I never thanked you for breakfast this morning. I appreciate it. It was...a nice gesture." 

Something about the way he looked at you with a soft expression made your words feel more heartfelt than you intended. You were just trying to take Josh's advice, along with his, and the approach gave you an odd feeling. You were pushing down everything you felt towards him and showing your true character. Showing him you had the ability to be indifferent to your own feelings of him and pay homage to his actions. 

"It's not a big deal," he scrunched his eyebrows together with his sly smirk, "but I appreciate it. Don't expect it to be an everyday thing, though." He pointed his finger at you. "Anything else, or can I leave?" 

You folded your arms over one another. "You can go." 

A smile rested on your face, one that ran to your cheeks and made them burn. He left without another word, and you locked the door behind him. 

As much as it felt awkward to be nice to Jake, it wasn't a terrible start, nor was it as bad as you imagined. You two just had to get over that awkward stage of uncomfortableness, such as being uncertain of how to show your kindness to one another. But you were getting somewhere, right?

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

-part four-

series taglist: @jakekiszkasmommy @anythingforjtk @gold-mines-melting @twistedmelodies @ageofhearingloss @classicsneverdie @lmaooharry @raviolilegs @mydarlingdanny @iheartjakekiszka @edtvdf @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @gvf23 @flo-gvf @madneedshelp @carlyfleet @pinkunicornsandbluecows @joshysgirl @jasminesworldd @alwaysonthemend @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @takenbythemadness

other tags: @songbirds-sweet @sacredjake @mountain-in-springtime @ignite-my-fire @gvfsstardust @jakesguitarsolo @fallonfatality @digitalcalamity @demolitionndann @lipstickitty @lexii-nv-c @joopsworld @gvfpal @hellowgoodbye @writingcold @loverleaverslayerbeliever @stardustcatcher @absolutely--mental @hippievanfleet @haileygvf @gretasfallingsky @dont-go-home-without-me @beckahvanfleet @threadthatssacred @indigofallingsky @audgeppp

[agentlizardofowca]

(Drabble 10-30 Books)

Perry thought nothing of it when Ferb and Phineas let themselves into his bedroom. 

Phineas smiled broadly, a little too wide to be innocent. 

Ferb didn't smile at all. 

Phineas took the stack of books from Perry's bedside table and set it on the floor beside his 4-foot wide -stocked to the brim with hardcovers and paperbacks- bookcase in the corner of the room. 

Ferb took the smattering of books from Perry's desk. He kindly left the book that sat under one table leg to fix a balance issue.

This stack of books was also placed beside the bookcase.

"Uncle Perry?" Phineas asked as he watched his brother put the books down. "Can you show me that stack of books on top of your bookcase?"

Perry had a bad feeling about this.

Wordlessly, he got up from his seat and walked over. He Tip-toed and shuffled the stack into his arms. The uncle wasn't very tall, but the books reached the ceiling, so he had to reach.

When he turned to Phineas, the boy just nodded and pointed at a spot on his floor. "Now stand here please.... okay good. Candace!"

-----

Candy-Flynn has posted a new tiktok

The video opened to Candace standing in her living room.

"You must be wondering, where have all the books gone? They aren't in the living room." 

The girl gestured at the empty shelf behind her.

Jump-cut. Now she's standing in the kitchen.

"There are no books in the kitchen either."

Another cut, she is in front of an empty bookshelf in the study.

"All the books are gone! Could it be that all the books are with-"

Another cut. Now Candace is standing in front of a door in the hallway, holding a guitar.

"- My uncle Perry, who promised mom to sort out his bookcase five months ago, but who has only bought more books without getting rid of any!"

Candace kicked the door open and performed a sick guitar riff. In the background, you see Uncle Perry turn in surprise.

At the same time, Phineas and Ferb tip the bookcase over just far enough that a bunch of books topple to the floor dramatically. Perry is left surrounded by piles and piles of his own books.

Candace stops playing the guitar.

Ferb pulls on Perry's sleeve to get his attention and announces: "This is an intervention."

Video ends.

[stoneagedevil]

Her Song | Eddie Munson x f!reader

TW/CW: slight mention of sexual activity.

You’d wondered if accepting the responsibility of opening for one of your favorite bands was worth it anymore. A choice that had initially had you choking on butterflies of excitement now left you remorseful and regretful.

Not regretful for who’ve you met and the wonderful opportunities you’ve had along the way, but regretful for who’ve you made angry. It’s not like you were there first anyways.

Chrissy was.

Chrissy Cunningham. America’s newest skinny, tan, blonde model. She had a body sculpted by the Gods, and Eddie’s sultry lyrics in his greatest hit was a constant reminder of that. Despite the fact that they broken up, you’d felt as if she never really left. The riffs to her song were ingrained in the strings of his beloved guitar, “Sweetheart,” and you’d been left wondering if you’d feel better after stealing it and replacing the strings yourself. His vocal cords and soft lips danced in harmony, performing “Midnight Blondie” night after night.

It was a song about their unbridled passion in the bedroom. All of her perfections, her taste, her eyes, her everything.

And you’d have to listen to it. You. Not a model, but a musician. Not perfect, but rough around the edges. No sleek hair, but wild and spiky. Not perfect makeup where it should be, all the sweat and emotion of performing had always left your lipstick smeared, cheeks flushed, and eye makeup running. Not a body fit for modeling, your tattoos would all be in the way. You were her opposite, and of course you were. You didn’t have a song.

But little known to Eddie, he had a million. A lot of the material you performed with your band “H/C and the Banshees” was inspired by your inability to tear your heart shaped eyes away from your rockstar boyfriend. You felt like a pathetic puppy, and your bandmates started to take notice.

“Y/N, why don’t you just talk to him? Tell him that he needs to retire that song. We’re all sick of hearing it y’know.” F/N said. At their voice, you startled, moving your somber eyes to look at your friend.

“Because. I can’t.” It had been something you’d been trying to come to terms with. “I see the comments his fans leave. They miss that good girl and bad boy vibe from Chrissy and Eddie. I came into the picture and now I wish I hadn’t.” A tear rolled down your cheek as your throat closed up and nose burned. “I-I just can’t.” You ferociously wiped your tears away, not one to normally cry. Especially not in front of others.

“Dude, it doesn’t matter what the ‘fans’ think.” They emphasized with finger quotes, “if those cretins actually support him then they’d want him to be with someone who makes him happy, and you know there’s more support than hate out there. You’re a match made in Heaven. Or Hell, whichever you prefer.” They sat beside you backstage, rubbing your back gently. The soothing gesture almost made you cry more.

“I can’t….now……but, maybe I will soon.” Is all you could really say. You couldn’t voice that you weren’t sure if you were the one that truly made him happy. Not like she did.

“You can do it. I’ve never doubted you in my life, and I’m not starting now.” They smiled warmly at you, causing the corners of your lips to pluck up a bit.

“Yeah yeah.” You rolled your eyes playfully, smiling a little wider.

But it still didn’t reach your eyes.

-

The concert was over, and after chilling in the dressing rooms backstage and getting a bite to eat at the best rated restaurant nearby, you’d have to pile into your tour bus and head to the next destination, where within another beautiful theater, you’d have to listen to that damn song you hated with your whole being.

In order to kickstart the rest of the night, you set off for your dressing room, hoping the sooner you got there, the sooner you could eat and leave another “Midnight Blondie” tainted venue. Perhaps it was a mistake to do so, as the minute you shut the door that had your name plastered on it, you broke down once more.

It’s not like you were jealous. No, jealously would imply that you had competition, and you felt you stood no chance against a literal supermodel. You kicked over your chair and plummeted onto the velvet couch sat against the wall.

The door suddenly bursted open with a palpable excitable energy.

“Hey sweets! Holy shit. It was crazy out there. Did you hear them cheering? They were louder than the last….crowd……sweets?” All at once, Eddie’s boisterous nature had left like a spirit leaving the dead. “Honey, what’s wrong?” His eyebrows morphed into that of concern, and he rushed to the couch, to you. Wrapping his arm around you, trying to comfort you, but it truly only made it feel worse.

“Yeah Eddie. I heard.” You said shortly, your voice dripping with sadness as your face dripped with tears. “You did great.” You tried to walk back the initial anger you felt. It wasn’t his fault.

“Sweetheart, tell me what’s the matter. Did you get heckled or something?” He craned his neck to meet your eyes with his. You’d began to wonder if he had some sort of superpower held within those chocolate eyes. Every gaze of concern was like a truth serum shot, and you’d give in every time.

Well almost.

“Nothing. I’m fine. I’m just, like, homesick or whatever.” That was obviously a lie. You didn’t really have a home. He looked at you with that, ‘really?’ expression. Yes. Really.

“Look, I know I’m not exactly a genius, but I think I can tell when my girlfriend is lying.” He smiled softly in an attempt to make you smile back.

Suddenly, you exploded. “Eddie. I hate that song you always sing.” Instantly, you felt rotten.

He was obviously taken aback at this. What song? Which of them didn’t you like? His fans loved a lot of them, and while he had a flop every now and then, what artist didn’t?

“Think about it.” You encouraged snidely, seeing the thoughts fizzle out.

And then the gears in his head started turning. The pieces to the puzzle started falling into place.

Ever since you guys got together and started touring, your music would get progressively more angry. Of course it always had an edge, your voice was one of the first things he fell in love with, but lately it was just different. He assumed you were just trying out a new sound, but you strained your voice as if your heart was strained just the same. You’d be happy up until the crowd’s cries for encores. And when he gave into the crowd, he’d notice that post-performance euphoria dissipate.

It was Chrissy’s song. And holy shit. He was a fucking idiot.

“I-I’m sorry! Shit. I fucked up.” He panicked, more to himself, “I fucked up bad. Y/N I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” How could he be so stupid? His current girlfriend’s band opened for his, and then she’d have to sit through his whole concert until he sang a song dedicated to his ex. More so his ex’s body. He felt slimey.

“It’s okay, I just-“

“No! It’s not! Y/N you mean so much to me. I’ve never met anyone like you before. To be honest, I’ve written like a shit ton of songs about you. About everything about you. But I never play them because I’m afraid you won’t like them. They need to be perfect because you’re so fucking perfect.” He looked absolutely desperate now.

“But I’m not her.” You looked so deeply into his eyes when you said those words, his heart felt like thin ice you were carefully walking across. He’d let you down.

“And I never want you to be. I’m with you now, and I’m with you for a reason.”

Your heart stopped for a second, you’re sure of that. “Do you really mean that? I just feel like everyone wishes you were still with her.”

“Are you kidding?! Fuck them. I don’t care what anyone thinks. Never have, never will. Well, except you.” He added, smiling, and you laughed in response. He held you tighter. “Y/N, I’m never playing that song again. It doesn’t mean anything to me. You’re worth more to me than cheers from a crowd. I’d rather hear the whole world go silent.”

Jesus. You were a sucker for Eddie Munson. And how could you not be when he said shit like that?

“You’re a dork. I love you.” You rolled your eyes, sniffling slightly. What else could you say? You were speechless. More of a singer than a talker.

“And I love you more. So guess what? I’m going to write the best fucking love song ever dedicated to you. It’ll make everyone have heart attacks with how romantic it is.” He held your shoulders in his hands, pushing you away from him in order to make eye contact, assuring that his word is truth.

And it was.

[zippitty]

Finished binging ‘98 Trigun and every episode is like

(joke about Vash being a pathetic chickenshit goofball)

(cool trick shots with increasingly ridiculously designed guns)

(gut-punching portrayal of humanity’s capacity for hatred and violence when forced into desperate situations with scarce resources where every act of kindness is little more than putting a band-aid over a bullet wound, seemingly only delaying the inevitable self-destruction of humanity biting its own neck in a furious bid for survival)

(sick guitar riff)