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luveline · 1 year

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991

The air here smells like sulphur.

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.

Probably.

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.

Or when you're with Eddie.

As you stupidly told him.

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…

You grip the door.

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.

"I'll see what I can do," she says.

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"

"And is he expecting your call?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who's calling?"

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–

"Transferring now."

You hold your breath.

The phone clicks twice.

"Hi?"

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."

"Hey. How's Florida?"

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."

You can still save it.

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.

Wrong.

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.

"Okay, good."

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?"

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.

You know exactly what he means.

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"

"I should hang up on you."

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say.

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats.

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles.

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.

Eddie could get used to this.

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.

“You’re too busy,” you finish.

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."

"No, at the store."

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."

"Nerd."

"Loser."

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.

"They'll have yours."

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."

You gawp at him. "You did not."

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.

"You don't think you would?"

"I'm not really tenured."

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.

"What do I play?" you ask.

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

"Something fun," he says.

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."

"I'm telling people you said that."

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.

"No."

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.

"What do you know?"

"God, I know everything. You should know that."

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.

You're in awe.

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.

"S'what I get for trying to show off."

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."

He licks his lips. "You're cool."

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.

"I'm worried about people finding out about us."

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"

"No," you mumble.

"Oh. Good."

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."

"They've clocked on."

"Cruel!" he says, delighted.

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"

"What am I getting into?"

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."

"But I don't get that, we don't get along."

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.

"Okay," you breathe.

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."

"You're not on thin ice."

"I should be."

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.

"What's for dinner?" you ask.

Eddie smiles.

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.

"I miss you," he'd said.

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"

"Is there any room?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.

He whistles. Can't help himself.

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.

"Sorry. You're just pretty."

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."

About what? he'd asked.

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.

"Don't push me away," he whines.

"Don't make fun of me."

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.

"You don't like that word?"

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.

"You like Status Quo?" you ask.

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"

"Showaddywaddy?"

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.

"Because you didn't know me."

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"

"Sweetheart, we met before."

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.

"We did," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list.

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."

"You took your time," he says.

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"

You're already forgiven. "Three photos."

"Deal."

"Should've asked for five."

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.

"I've seen them," he disagrees.

"You have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"I'm seeing them right now."

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"

You beam at him. "Right."

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say.

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He hadn't meant to ask like that.

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.

The camera clicks.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic

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miclipse · 4 months

Text

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ worth the wait.

pairing: rafayel x fem! reader

sypnosis: rafayel hates waiting. but maybe, just maybe, some things are worth waiting for. even if it takes 800 years.

word count: 0.7k

cw: afab! reader, minor spoilers for rafayel's backstory, implications of abysswalker! rafayel, nicknames used (princess, silly girl, your highness), fluff

note: wrote this at 2am last night, might be a bit bad >< comments appreciated !!

all you felt right now was the cooling sensation of rafayel's hand pressed against your warm forehead.

a click of the tongue could be heard, the merman's normally relaxed expression now scrunched up in frustration.

oh, don't get him wrong. he wasn't mad at you; he never will be. he was mad at himself. how foolish he was to let you wait for him at your balcony for hours, even as the sun went to sleep and the moon rose up into the cloudy abyss.

it was never his intention to be late— rafayel always hated when others were late. however, this time was a little different. he had spent long hours in the sea, looking for the prettiest seashell or gemstone he wanted to gift to you.

afterall, a princess like yourself deserved an exquisite gift from her prince, did she not?

rafayel was young and ignorant at that time. he had underestimated how fast time flew by, and before he knew it, it was dark out when he emerged from the waters. panicked and guilty, he prayed that you hadn't spent your whole evening waiting upon his arrival.

the air was chilly at night, he used to nag at you often. he knew how easily you'd catch a cold from the night breeze. yet, the merman didn't find it the least bit surprising when he spotted you loyally sitting by your balcony, looking into the reflections of the ocean as you patiently awaited for his return.

"you silly girl." his chide was accompanied with a disappointed sigh. "i told you not to wait for me when it gets dark outside, did you forget my words?" he added, his index finger and thumb gently pinching your warm cheek.

you mumbled out a barely coherent response, the fever seemed to be messing with your senses. but rafayel was able to make out a faint 'i wanted to see you' amidst the rest of your nonsensical mumbles.

hearing your sweet answer made his heart sink with guilt. his sweet princess wanted to see him as soon as possible. you wanted for his vision to be filled with you and only you the moment he emerged from the waters. your loyalty and dedication also came with a pinch of possessiveness, something that rafayel knew all too well.

"imagine how the kingdom will react when they find out your highness caught a cold waiting for her merman of a lover." rafayel couldn't help but squeeze in a teasing remark or two even in a situation like this. he squeezed your cheek once again, gently.

you whined out a response, but rafayel just laughed and shook his head. "shh. i won't leave your side until you're all better. promise." his sweet whispers accompanied with the tips of his fingers combing through your hair were your lullaby for that night.

the last thing you saw that night was a blurry view of rafayel sitting by the edge of your bed, looking at something in the palm of his hand. “i'll give this to you once you're better.” the merman whispered to himself with a fond smile.

rafayel hated when people left him waiting. it left him with an anxious feeling. a sense of abandonment. and he couldn't help but wonder, was this what you felt 800 years ago, when you were waiting by the balcony for him? just imagining how your poor, fragile heart felt during those hours as the day turned to night made his heart ache tremendously.

perhaps karma finally struck him for making his poor princess wait outside alone 800 years ago, as he suffered a similar fate.

"you're late. i told you i hate it when people are late." rafayel frowned, his lips forming into a pout as he crossed his arms, turning away from you.

you only laughed and hugged his arm, standing on your tippy toes to give him a peck on his soft lips as repentance for your tardiness.

the merman only huffed. as you looked away from him, rafayel stole a quick glance at you from his peripheral vision. his gaze wandered to the seashell hanging around your neck.

rafayel hated when people left him waiting. but maybe, after finally being able to give his heart to you once again after 800 years, just maybe, the wait was all worthwhile.

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lovelettersforthedamned · 3 months

Note

Congrats on 400 followers!

I don't know if I can request two prompts, but could you write "they know about this. about us." and "your morning voice is so hot." "what?" with Poe? Pls make it smutty

Honey

✮ poe dameron x f!reader

✮ word count: 1.4k

✮ summary: A day off with Poe is rare, so might as well start it off right.

✮ warnings: fluff, smut, MINORS DNI, 18+, thigh riding, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, lowkey a situationship lolz.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main m.list ⋆ poe dameron m.list ⋆ four-hundred follower bash

not my gif. credit to the owner.

Having a day off was a rarity, but having a day off the same day as Poe? That was nearly impossible.

You and Poe have been sneaking around for a while. The thought of everyone knowing about your business with the Resistance’s poster boy gave you a headache. Whatever was going on between you two was good with the both of you, and you’d like to keep it that way.

Your sleep schedule was jumbled, from hours spent late in the night to early mornings, you were swamped. And though you wanted to sleep in, your body’s natural alarm decided to wake you as the sun rose. Cursing to yourself, you turn to Poe, sleeping soundly in your bed.

He’s lying on his stomach, and his arm draped over your waist as his curls sprawled over your pillow. His grip on you tightened as you moved closer to him, the heat of his skin radiating, causing you to curl up next to him.

Your eyes grew heavy. Poe’s soft breaths act as a lullaby until your holopad wrung. The blasting sound of the incoming call woke you both. You stumble to the bedside desk, fixing your appearance, not bothering to check who it is before answering.

Rose’s face appears and you turn to make sure Poe isn’t in view before turning back around, “Hey, Rose! Is there something wrong?” A bright big smile is plastered on your face, an obvious cover for your true state.

Her eyebrows furrow. “No,” she starts, “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Poe? He was supposed to send me the report for the new pilot.”

Poe was fully awake at this point, and you looked in the corner of your eye to see him looking at you. He shrugs and mouths “day off”. You hold back a laugh before turning back to Rose, “If I see him I will let him know.”

“Mhm…,” her words drag out as she puts the pieces together. “Poe! I expect that report in my hands first thing tomorrow morning,” she speaks louder to make sure he can hear from your bed behind you.

Your eyes widen. “Yep,” Poe calls out.

“Enjoy your day off, (Y/N),” she says before ending the call.

The moment you put down the holopad, your eyes are trained on Poe, worry and anger flooding through your veins. His arms are open, welcoming you back into his hold. You waste no time before settling in the sheets, nuzzling against Poe’s chest.

You break the comfortable silence, “They know about this. About us.”

“Only Rose does,” Poe mutters, his voice still raspy from sleep. He’s always been the person to try and ease your worries, but with this, he knows he won’t succeed.

“If Rose knows,” you turn to face him, “then everyone does.”

He laughs. He knows that your worrying isn’t funny, but he can’t help but laugh. You playfully smack his arm and try to move away from him, but his hold is too strong. “No, wait,” he says between giggles, “you look cute when you’re worried over things that don’t matter.”

“But this does matter, Poe–,” you’re cut off by a small kiss.

Poe’s hand is holding the side of your face, his thumb stroking back and forth as he looks at your features. “Your morning voice is so hot,” he whispers.

Your face scrunches in confusion, “What?”

Poe doesn’t even respond to your question, he dives in for another kiss. But this time, he fully pulls you in, the kiss is messy and desperate. Although you two spent the night entangled in each other’s arms, you couldn’t get enough of him.

You’re both naked from the night before, the heat from your skin makes it almost uncomfortable under the covers. Poe must have thought the same when he threw it off, the fabric lying on the floor. You giggle at his actions, the cold air shocks your system.

Poe pulls away panting, “Get on top of me.” His voice was soft but demanding. The lust in his eyes was entrancing, and along with the rasp in his voice, you were trapped.

You sit up and swing your leg over his waist before lining yourself with his hard cock. You were just about to lower yourself before he grabbed your waist, stopping you. Looking up, you’re confused. Isn’t this what we wanted?

He must have seen the confusion written across your face because he laughs before speaking. “Sorry, I should’ve been more specific,” he starts, a slight blush rising to his cheeks. His hands on your waist have subconsciously started stroking the skin there, “Ride my thigh, (Y/N).”

“Oh,” you perk up at his request. You back down to his thigh, place your wet core onto him, and start grinding.

With the way you’re moving, the friction on your clit is perfect, causing you to throw your head back and let out a dangerously loud moan. The walls on the base have always been thin, and you knew that, but you didn’t care, especially when Poe’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the galaxy.

His cock is resting on the outside of your thigh, the tip leaking with precum. Your hands were once placed on Poe’s chest, but now one of them is holding his hand to your hip and the other is jerking him off.

Poe’s body tenses at the sudden stimulation before he lets out a low groan. The sound of his pleasure urges you to keep going. You move your hips faster as you tighten your fist around the tip of his cock. “You’re gonna be the death of me, honey,” he slurs.

You take a mental note of the new name he used for you, storing it in the back of your mind.

Your legs are shaking and tired, but you’d be an idiot to stop now, especially when you’re this close. Momentarily pausing your movements, you lean down to give Poe a quick kiss, “You wish.”

Leaning back up, you can feel the coil in your stomach edge its way closer to the tipping point of pleasure. The grip on your hips tightened catching your attention and making you look at the desperate man below you. “You’re right there,” he kneads at the skin there, “I can feel it.” You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. “Cum for me. Please, I need it,” he tenses his thigh, the muscles now acting as more stimulation for your aching clit.

With this new angle, you cum instantly. The sight of you coming undone causes Poe to cum with you. Your hand is a mess. Your fist is covered with ropes of cum, the warm liquid running down your fingers.

As you come down, you collapse onto Poe’s chest. You’ve both made a mess, you could feel it. Your inner thighs are sticky and uncomfortably wet, causing you to try and dismount yourself off of his thigh. But with shaky legs, you fail. You barely raise your leg a few inches before the muscles shake, causing it to collapse back into the sticky mess.

Poe notices your discomfort and quickly flips you so that you’re the one lying on the bed. He presses a delicate kiss to your forehead before whispering, “I’ll be right back.” Your eyes are closed as you nod.

You can hear the sink running from the refresher before a warm cloth is placed on your core. Your eyes widen at the feeling, before relaxing at the sight before you. Poe is cleaning you up with such care. He wipes away all remnants of pleasure and triple-checks that he got everything before he even thinks to clean himself up.

You grin at the gesture. When Poe tosses the cloth in the hamper, he returns to you. Laying on top of your naked frame, his curls tickle your chin. “You’re a real gentleman, Dameron,” you mumble into the crown of his head.

His arms tighten around you, “Only for you though.”

“Oh yeah?” You start, “Why’s that?”

He takes a deep breath before sinking further into your hold, “Good night, (Y/L/N).”

“The day just started. You have all day to explain what you meant by that, and the ‘you’re gonna be the death of me, honey’,” you lower your voice to mimic his, eliciting a laugh from Poe.

He lifts his head and pauses before pressing a warm kiss to your lips. “Patience is key,” he whispers before laying his head back down on your naked chest, “...honey.”

✮ author's note: i love poe dameron smut!! thank you anon :) come join us in my bash!! we can't wait to see you!!! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog to support me and my work. ok, bye ily

#poe dameron smut #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x f!reader #poe dameron fluff #poe dameron #star wars #fluff #smut #llftd 400 follower bash

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lovingonryles · 10 months

Note

Father!Hobie x Parent!Reader

Omgggg Hobie would have such a cute small chunky baby and since his hands are fucking huge I’m sure the baby will be extra comfortable :,)))

SOBBING BECAUSE OMGG THAT’S ADORABLE 😭 TY ANON <33 also, sorry if this took a while, I was superrr unmotivated

pairing: father!hobie brown x parent!reader

summary: hobie being a dad

warnings: established relationship, cursing, but just fluff besides that :))

word count: 393, should take about three minutes to read

listen to: sweet child o’ mine by guns n’ roses

okay, so i think at first he wouldn’t really be up for taking care of a kid

not that he doesn’t like kids, he’s just afraid of messing up or hurting your kid

but the second he sees them, he immediately gets baby fever

he is everywhere with this child, I swear to god

he’s going to the store, he insists on taking them, he’s making dinner, he has that baby carrier thing on him with your baby in it

he’s not a bad influence unlike peter b, though, so he doesn’t bring them to fights or shows

as mentioned, he literally loves holding this child. he’ll never admit it, but he does

the baby will immediately fall asleep in his arms and it’s just UGHHH it’s adorable

believe it or not, he’s actually amazing at singing lullabies

that baby’s crying, the second he hears his voice, they shut up. it’s like magic

if your baby starts crying in the middle of the night, he always insists on waking up instead of you. always. and it always works. he won’t be gone for more than fifteen minutes

like peter and mayday, he has a shit ton of photos just dedicated to the kid. he’ll show them to everyone he knows

the arachnakids also love them

they’ll offer to babysit your kid so much

like, they’ll purposely set you and hobie up on dates just so they could babysit your kid

they also love you two a lot though they’ll never admit it

hobie accidentally cursed a few times around them when they were still young, so when they started talking, they started cursing

you’ll never get over it

he’ll steal cute little baby clothes

you always scold him for it, because you know, you’re adults and shit and he’s being a bad influence, but you forget all about it when he actually puts them in the clothes

half of the photos he has is just of your kid dressed up

he’s genuinely such a good dad dude oml 😭

#hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown x y/n #spider-man: across the spider-verse #atsv #fluff #reader insert #father!hobie x parent!reader

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he-goes-down · 6 months

Text

MASTERLIST 🫶

REQUESTS: OPEN

Very slow request finishing as school is starting up and tests are hectic

might take ages cus i procrastinate

English aint my first language

I go by what im feeling that day for writing requests sorry.

I ALSO NEVER EDIT FOR SHIT

Fics:

There Was A Time - GNR

Something Stupid - GNR-shortstory

Estranged - GNR - fantasy -an idea

Shit posts:

Guns ‘n Poese - GNR - might be made in like 2 years time

Gnr mermaids - guide on how to do it - on hiatus for about maybe 2 years max

Requests:

Over 40 😥requests in the making (some not shown here cus im lazy)

Chosen by spin the wheel

Smut

Angst

Fluff

Although I mostly do smuts as they’re easier to write

Will:

- male reader cus im one too

- threesomes, foresomes, whole ass country (jokes)

- harder things like bondage ect

Wont:

- dont do ships just cus they aren’t my thing

Axl Rose:

Human Nature

Speedin’ Back To My Baby

Please - in drafts

Big Man With A Gun - in drafts

Wichita Lineman - in drafts

Thriller - in drafts

My Kinda Lover - in drafts

Burning Heart - in drafts

Slash:

Love Lies

Cant Fight This Feeling - in drafts

Underwear -in drafts

Give me Love - in drafts

Gimmie More - in drafts

Highway Tune - in drafts

Duff Mckagan:

Turbo Lover

Break On Through

Tenderness

Need you tonight - in drafts

Within you - in drafts

Sunspots - in drafts

Black Velvet - in drafts

Water - in drafts

Slither - in drafts

S&M - in drafts

Cum On Feel The Noize - in drafts

Crazy in Love - in drafts

For Crying Out Loud - in drafts

Izzy Stradlin:

Photograph

Too funky

Run to you - in drafts

Come On Now Inside - in drafts

Big Love - in drafts

Hot For Teacher - in drafts

Girls on film - in drafts

Hard to get away I’m sorry/ get away - makes me wanna die inside from sadness so might take time

Steven Adler:

End Of The Night

Addicted To Love

Obsession

Excitable - in drafts

Out Of Touch - in drafts

Bad Medicine - in drafts

(I Just) Died In Your Arms- in drafts

Multiple:

DuffxrxIzzy:

Wild Child

Pretty Tied Up (wild child pt2) -in drafts

My Best Friend’s Girl - (Turbo Lover pt2) in drafts

DuffxrxSlash:

Our Last Summer

IzzyxrxSteven:

Sweet Surrender - in drafts

Allxr:

In The Still Of The Night - stumped

Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah) - in drafts

Fantasy:

V! - vampire W! - werewolf

Blood That Moves The Body -V!IzzyxrxW!Slash

Lullaby - V!Izzy

The Walk - V!Axl

-in drafts

Lovesong -V!Steven

-in drafts

Crossover:

IzzyxrxJulianCasablancas:

Reptile

IzzyxrxDaveMustaine:

Rock You Like A Hurricane - in drafts

Others:

Warren DeMartini - Dancing On Glass

Julian Casablancas - Relax - tryna get thru the gnr ones

Jon Bon Jovi x r x Tom Keifer - Shake Me - in drafts

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amxrany · 9 months

Text

!! CHAPTER 7 / DIASOMNIA ARC SPOILERS !!

WE CAN GET THROUGH THIS GUYS LET'S GO (Part 4):

While Silver is in the darkness, he then sees Lilia's old memories. The first one is of Lilia visiting Wild Rose Castle after a peace treaty was made, this takes place 300 to 400 years after the events of Meleanor's death

While walking through the abandoned castle, Lilia hears a cry in the throne room. He rushes there to find a baby, and not just any baby IT'S BABY SILVER WHICH REVEALS THE FIRST CG IN THE GAME 🥹

(SILVER BEING TWISTED FROM AURORA IS REALLLLL)

Of course Lilia wondering why the hell is there a baby in the abandoned castle uses his Unique Magic on it. Thus revealing his UM "Far Cry Cradle", this allows him to see the past memories of someone who gets hit with the spell. This is how he finds out that the baby is actually the son of the Knight of Dawn and Princess Leah, while the war was happening 3 fairies blessed the baby by making him sleep through the war, even if it will last 10 to 100 years (well it went beyond 100 years). Once the little prince finds someone who loves him (or in other words true love), he will awaken from slumber; AND IT WAS LILIA WHO APPEARED WHICH CAUSED BABY SILVER TO WAKE UP WHICH IM JUST AAAAAAAAAA 😭😭😭

We can't forget that present time Silver is watching all of this happen, and noticed Lilia having mixed feelings about the whole thing. He (Lilia) tries to kill the baby after finding out he was the child of the enemy, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Lilia then asks himself if he can even love a human being? After losing his loved ones to them, and everything that happened. Which causes Silver to scream at Lilia that he doesn't deserve love (STOP SILVER IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT)

Lilia then tells baby Silver that the day he finds him will be his birthday (which is May 15th), and blesses him. This explains why Silver has silver hair despite being born blonde. Lilia also names the baby Silver because of the moon that shines through the night, which serves as a light to light up the path

We then move to another flashback, now this time it features Malleus. We see the cottage that present time Silver grew up in (which is like the cottage from the movie)

While Lilia is singing a lullaby to baby Silver (the same one Meleanor sang to egg Malleus), Malleus comes in cuz he overheard from the fairies that Lilia found a human. Then Malleus proceeds to call baby Silver A NAKED MONKEY CREATURE NAHHH 💀🤚

We also have to remember that Lilia didn't know shit about taking care of a human, much more a baby, so he visits Baul's daughter and son-in-law (Sebek's Mother and Father) for advice. Lilia then tells Malleus he's going out to get baby supplies and leaves Malleus with Silver, but Malleus is afraid that he might destroy Silver if he holds him (aww that's cute 🥹) but Lilia still leaves him behind regardless

Baby Silver wakes up to Malleus and starts crying and Malleus is now wondering if lullabies can help put it (yes he referred to the baby as "it") to sleep. He then hums to the baby the only lullaby he knows, which is the same lullaby is mother sang to him (I forgot to mention that whoops). This is the same lullaby Malleus sang when he placed the sleeping curse on everyone in part 3. Baby Silver falls asleep to it and Malleus is relieved, hoping for Lilia to come back soon but also wonders where he heard that lullaby before

We then see more flashbacks of Silver growing up, from his first time walking and his first words (which is "Dada/Father")(Edit: got this wrong by accident sorry guys). We also learn more about faes from here as well, it takes 30 years for a fae child to learn how to walk, but for the case of Malleus it took him 20 years to have a 2 legged form

Malleus then asked Lilia why he decided to take the baby in and Lilia respond that Malleus's father, Leverne said that Fae and Human should learn more about each other, thus learning a language that humans can understand. Lilia wants to learn how to love humans through Silver, but Malleus is like "but what if you can't", he replies with "let's not jump to conclusions"

STOP YOUNGER SILVER CALLS LILIA "TOTO" MY HEART CAN'T HANDLE THIS. WE ALSO FIND OUT THAT THE ACORN BRACELET WAS SILVER'S GIFT TO LILIA (since it symbolizes living a long and healthy life). He (Younger Silver) also says "I love you Toto!" (Guys what if this my last straw 😭). One more memory we see is Silver running away from home after finding out him and Lilia aren't related (in reference to his 1st birthday card)

Back to present time Silver, he thinks that he doesn't deserve to be called Lilia's son because his true origins is that of the son of the Knight of Dawn, this causes him to take on his biological father's form and General Lilia appears before him, saying he's the enemy (BUT IT'S ALL NOT REAL)

Thus a battle between the two begins, until present time Lilia suddenly appears; telling Silver to stand up and stay alive 😭

This end Silver's segment of the story, but we can't forget about Sebek, Yuu and Grim

Next: Part 5

Previous: Part 3

#rany talks about twst #twisted wonderland #twst #twst jp #twst spoilers #diasomnia #Fuck i feel like shit this chapter overwhelmed me

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boundinparchment · 3 days

Text

Lullaby

Sunday/Female Reader and their child, in which Sunday sings a lullaby. Domestic fluff. On AO3 here.

It was a rare experience to hear Sunday’s voice croon and bless the walls of your home.

Every now and again, he would hum, lost in his own thoughts as he went about this or that. An unconscious echo of a life you only knew from stories and hearsay, shared in quiet moments of the night when nostalgia moved from wistful to fuel an existential angst only he could pull himself out of.

But singing was a sacred act, full of purpose and soul, conscious in what it sought to weave in both musician and audience. It came from a fountain of emotion that threatened to overflow if not directed just right.

Much like crying.

You’d spent the last twelve hours managing the tears and screams and fever of the little one in the other room, drifting off to sleep when you could. Sunday returned home from a meeting with Elio and found you in the kitchen, half-asleep with your hands covered in dish soap. Your husband was gone for months at a time prior to the change in your lives but now, thankfully, he was never far from reach.

Somehow, he’d managed to get you into bed, although you didn’t recall more than the kiss to your forehead and brushing of his wings against your cheeks. Through the walls, you could feel the vibrations of someone vocalizing but you couldn’t make out more than that. Blinking and accepting the fact that you’d slept longer than you intended, you rose and shuffled quietly out of the master bedroom and padded down the hall, where a sliver of light cut through the darkness. You nudged the door open with your toe, careful of the creaking hinge.

Sunday kept his rhythm with the gentle rocking of the child in his arms, his footsteps just as silent as yours were as he paced the length of the nursery.

The tune, familiar now that you could hear it properly, was one you were well-acquainted with. He’d composed it himself after a rather restless week of sleep, when you’d both been dismayed to realize your child was a night owl and kept you up all night with flips and kicks. Every chance he had, he whispered and sang to both of you, and his voice was the only thing that soothed the constant restlessness inside you.

At times, you thought perhaps it was a byproduct of the empathy that Halovians could extend one another. It would be impossible to know for another few years, of course, given the human genetics in the mix.

And truthfully, what did it matter?

Your child, born of both of you, loved their father’s voice. Few things brought you greater joy, especially when all previous memories of the act were tainted.

Eventually, the cries turned to whimpers and then gentle fussing. Sunday pressed his lips to a tiny forehead, both an act of love and a dutiful check of the fever, and his face relaxed. You watched, head tilted as you rested your weary body against the wall and watched your husband expertly navigate the latches of the crib and arrange the monitor just so.

He wasn’t surprised in the slightest when he turned and found you there. His face bore traces of exhaustion and you held out a hand, beckoning him close. Sunday stepped closer and took it, pulling you close.

“The fever is broken, finally. That should be the worst of it,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Be sure to rest, my love; pushing yourself will do more harm.”

“You should take your own advice, too,” you replied, angling your head to capture his lips. “I know Elio is eager to have you in the field again. You can’t afford to get sick.”

“There’s so much to be done.”

You felt a tickle at the base of your skull that reminded you of the way a dam buckled under pressure. Resignation stirred in your shoulders and you kissed Sunday again, gentle and coaxing. Always taking up what needed to be finished. Never resting until every item on the list was entirely crossed off.

“It can wait,” you replied. “We’ll talk about everything once you’ve slept.”

You parted long enough to plea silently, earnestly, with gold and indigo eyes. The sensations faded, replaced with a content hum, the way air felt in spring.

Full of promise for an even better tomorrow.

#sunday #sunday fluff #sunday x reader #sunday/reader #x reader #x female reader #sunday x female reader #sunday/female reader #fluff #hsr fluff #domestic sunday

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flowerandblood · 10 months

Text

The Impossible Choice (49)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, anxiety, angst, smut ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

For the last few days, which had seemed to him like long nights melted into one, he had forgotten how soothing his wife's touch had been to him. How calming her warm, tight walls had been to him, clenching on his fat erection in pleasure, refusing to let him go, wanting to keep him deep inside her.

I need you, husband.

He longed to hear it.

He needed to know that he was necessary to her as she was to him, that she too found peace in his arms when he filled her to the brim with his seed.

He was ready to give her everything and he did indeed.

As he laid on his side with her, panting heavily with his nose snuggled into her hair, he ran his fingers along the inside of her palm, tracing with his fingertips the cut mark of the dragonglass, a reminder that she was only his.

"− I’d like to spend some time with Royce − he’s overwhelmed with his responsibilities − he needs me −" She whispered, and he felt his stomach twist unpleasantly, his body tensed all over. He pressed his lips together, swallowing quietly.

I'm the one who fucking needs you.

He couldn't get the words out of his throat, embarrassed by his simple, baseless jealousy and regret. He knew that Royce had suffered as he had, that he had just lost his father, was still waiting for him to be buried.

That, apart from his sister, he had no one now.

"Do you trust me?" She asked softly, and he felt a squeeze in his heart. He sighed heavily, sinking his face into her hair, fighting his possessive side with difficulty.

"Yes."

And then she left, leaving him alone. He stared ahead, lying on the bed, the sheets beneath him suddenly seeming terribly cold and empty. He breathed steadily, fighting the images before his eyes, fighting the sight of Borros disappearing into the fire and Daeron choking on his own blood.

He got out of bed and tied his breeches, swallowing hard, sitting in a chair in front of the fire as if in lethargy, just trying to survive until she return.

He had the feeling that his body was colder than before he flew out to Harrenhal.

That something had changed in him, that another drop had fallen into the goblet filled to the brim with his madness.

He squeezed his eye shut, trying to think of their child. He always saw the same thing – his wife lying in his bed, cradling their offspring in her arms, singing a lullaby in the candlelight.

This vision soothed him, filled him with warmth, made him realise that even though he sometimes didn't want it, he was still alive.

He opened his eye when he heard the sound of the door opening, his wife walked into their chamber, looking up at him with a gentle smile. He felt a sense of relief, which, however, found no expression on his face. She approached him slowly, with her hands placed on her womb, and looked down at him.

"– do you wish to take a bath, husband? –"

He looked from the side at the servants who were filling the tub with hot water at his wife's orders.

He wanted it to be boiling hot, he wanted to feel discomfort and pain, to burn himself.

To punish himself.

He watched as his wife began to pour in his favourite oils, the scent of lavender teasing his nose.

He realised that the last time they did this was before her beautiful body burned.

When everything was ready, she ordered the servants to leave their chamber and nodded at him to come up to her. He rose lazily from his chair approaching her with an unhurried step, looking down at her, her hands with sure, quick movements began to undo the buckles of his leather tunic.

She drew in a loud breath as his hand suddenly tightened violently on her hair, his lips pressing voraciously into hers, forcing his tongue down her throat, robbing her of breath. She threw her arms around his neck and for a moment they simply caressed each other with their mouth, their kisses intense, sticky and fast, pulling away with a wet click, panting into each other's throats.

"– my water is cooling, sweet wife –" He breathed out into her mouth and she hummed softly, her hands went back to undressing him, but her puffy lips did not leave his, brushing and teasing his skin – he felt his erection getting hard again, his manhood pulsing painfully in his breeches.

She pulled away from him when she felt it, untying the material and glanced down involuntarily, her cheeks flushed.

Even though he had fucked her so many times, even though she saw him bare almost every day, the sight of his cock still filled her with sweet embarrassment.

He ran his hand over his cheek as she lifted her bright, warm gaze to him again – he thought that perhaps she was slowly beginning to recover from her father's death and kissed her forehead.

He stepped into the bath and sighed heavily, feeling both pleasure and discomfort from the temperature – the water around him was steaming, droplets of sweat appearing on his skin. He tilted his head back and laid it on the base ot the tub, murmuring loudly as he felt his wife approach him from behind, untying the ribbon in his hair, keeping their ritual.

He felt her spill some oil water in his hair after she tilted his face back, not wanting to pour water into his healthy eye. With a gentle flick of her hand she pulled his eye patch off his head and he didn't stop her, completely relaxed – at some point he had already forgotten to put it on with her, used to the comfort of sleeping without it for weeks.

He gave himself over completely to her gentle, tender treatments, her hands rubbing oils into his hair only to rinse them away with water again moments later. He felt her fingers on his cheeks, touching him there just for his pleasure, for his sense that she was by his side again and all her attention was on him alone. He swallowed quietly at the thought.

"How is your brother feeling?" He asked out of the blue, without opening his eye.

He heard his wife come around the bathtub, sitting down next to him on the wooden stool, dipping a piece of soft cloth into the water. She began wiping his arm, thoughtful.

"He's trying to manage, but the new responsibilities are overwhelming him. He's afraid of marriage and he's afraid he won't make it as a commander. As a Lord." She said quietly, and he opened his eye and looked at her – her hand dipped into the water with a quiet splash only to emerge and continue trailing over his body.

He hummed quietly, looking ahead again.

"He's been preparing for this all his life." He said indifferently, without accusation or mockery, more stating a fact. He felt his wife look at him.

"You weren't afraid before we got married? After your father died?" She asked uncertainly, dipping her hand in the water again, and he pressed his lips together.

Of course he was afraid.

"My real father died in the Eyrie." He whispered before he had time to think about what had actually left his mouth. He swallowed loudly, glancing at his wife and met her surprised gaze, her lips parted in disbelief.

He felt embarrassed by his words and knew that he needed to give them context.

"I told him, then, when I threatened him, that even though my mother treats you as if you were her daughter, he doesn't treat me like his son." He muttered.

He could see her chest rising and falling in accelerated breaths, her eyebrows arched in pain, her eyes turning red.

"− Aemond −" She choked out with difficulty, though it sounded more like a plea, as if his words brought her pain and relief at the same time.

"− ever since that night when he saved me, I have imagined what would have happened if my father had sent me as he sent Daeron, only not to Old Town, but to Storm's End − if, after I had lost my eye, he had stated that I needed, as a future Lord Commander of my brother's army, to learn the art of war, so that I could watch from the sidelines how the best army in Westeros, the Baratheon army, functioned −" He felt the words literally pour out of his throat, as if he could no longer hide what he had been thinking about in recent weeks.

"− If Borros had shared with me everything he himself knew, if I could have trained with Royce, if I could… −" He said and looked at her as if he was only now seeing her for real again, her lower lip trembling, her eyes flooded with tears that ran down her cheeks one by one, her hands lying on the edge of the tub clenched into fists.

"−… get to know you sooner − maybe then… −" He said and felt his voice break.

"−…maybe then I would have been a different person −" He mumbled hiding his face in his hand, feeling vulnerable, weak. He felt her warm, soothing hand on his face, on his shoulders, his chest.

"− my beloved − I wish so much that this was true − I wish so much that I had met you sooner −" She whispered, and he swallowed loudly and looked at her, her face red with tears, her gaze full of pain and love.

Love for him.

He stood up suddenly with a loud splash of water and took her in his arms, walking with her towards the bed, heedless of her squeals, of the fact that he had wet her entire gown. He laid her on the sheets and knelt over her, the water from his hair dripping onto her face as he untied the ties of her gown and sleeves, which she tried helplessly to help him with.

"− I would have taken you for myself sooner − I would have kissed you in the cold corridors of your father's fortress −" He breathed out in a trembling voice, slipping her top gown off with difficulty, his wife reached back behind her back, untying her bottom skirt, slipping it off quickly, remaining at last in just her nightgown.

He sank into her plump, sweet lips pressing her body with his own to the bed, spreading her thighs in front of him, the tip of his hard, throbbing manhood pushed against her slick entrance, drawing a helpless mewl from her throat. His hand ran through her hair, his forehead pressed against hers, his other hand caught her thigh, holding her in place, not letting her escape.

"− would you visit me in my chamber? − in my bed? −" He panted into her mouth, sucking and licking her lips, sliding in and out of her with a quiet clicks of her mositure in a lazy, slow motion of his hips, her body quivering under him with pleasure.

She threw her arms around his neck, holding him close, moaning sweetly, her nipples hardening visibly under her nightgown from his words, her fleshy insides welcoming his fat cock with ease.

"− yes, gods, you know I would −" She mewled, responding to his every thrust with the impatient roll of her hips, panting along with him, crossing her legs around his waist, their bodies wet with water and their sweat slapping against each other with a sticky, loud smacks.

"− I would be your prince − brother − lover − fuck! −" He hissed, listening to her sobs at his words, her insides clenching around his length so tightly that he knew she was about to come.

His words were arousing her.

She wanted it.

"− A-Aemond − oh gods −" She mumbled out with difficulty, feeling his hips begin to accelerate, pumping his erection into her with a loud slaps of her moisture, her hands tightening on his hair.

"− fuck, fuck, fuck −" He exhaled loudly, slamming into her brutally and quickly, clenching his eye, imagining him fucking her in his chamber in Storm's End.

He came hard hearing her loud moans, her violent orgasm squeezing his hot spend right out of him into her throbbing core. He ran his nose over her wet, sweaty face, placing sticky kisses full of tenderness, love and devotion on her hot skin.

"− my sweetest − shhh −" He whispered, trying to calm her shaking body, her eyes closed, her lips parted sweetly in uneven breathing, her hands stroking his naked back.

"− Aemond −"

They fell asleep in each other's entwined arms, sleeping peacefully through the night for the first time in many days − it was only in the morning that their servant woke them up, informing them that they had to prepare for the ceremony of burning Prince Daeron's body.

They did not speak to each other as the servants helped them put on their black mourning robes, both thoughtful. They left his chamber together, walking slowly through the cloisters of the keep.

He pretended it was not his brother's funeral, but someone else's, that Daeron was in the Citadel.

He didn't know who lay on that big wooden pyre and didn't want to know.

He looked with indifferent eye at Sunfyre standing on the hill above them, Aegon standing beside her and Helaena next to him, embracing their children with her arms.

His sister was trembling all over, her face covered by a dark, transparent veil, but he was still able to see the tears running down her cheeks and her trembling, pale lips. Their grandfather held their mother, who was barely standing on her feet, hugged to her father's chest, looking somewhere to the side, distant in thought.

"− I can't −" He heard a quiet whisper and looked to the side, he, his wife and Helaena stared shocked at Aegon.

Aegon, standing in his mourning royal attire, wearing Aegon the Conqueror's crown was shivering all over, his eyes red, open wide, terrified, staring at their brother's shroud-wrapped body lying right in front of them.

"− I can't − I can't −" He mumbled, Helaena's hand tightening on his arm. She said something to him in a trembling voice, and Aegon looked at her. She touched his cheek with her and he swallowed loudly, nodded and looked ahead.

This was the first time he had seen Helaena touch his older brother of her own free will.

Aegon raised his gaze, clenched his hands into fists and looked ahead, his lower lip trembling before he uttered his order in a loud, breaking voice:

"Dracarys."

Their mother sobbed loudly as Sunfyre's maw opened to envelop their brother's body in a wave of flames that consumed what was left of his flesh. She wanted to throw herself towards him, but Otto stopped her, catching her in half, whispering something to her quickly.

He had the feeling that he had only participated in all this with his body.

He felt nothing.

He shuddered when his wife's fingers touched his hands placed behind his back. He swallowed loudly, his thumb running almost imperceptibly over her palm, just as it had when he had first touched her cheek in Storm's End.

Afterwards, they were to sit down to a grand shared feast, prepared for all the lords who had come from afar to attend their brother's funeral ceremony and to congratulate the King on winning the battle. He knew that the battle of the Eyrie had been crucial in consolidating his power in the eyes of his subjects and magnates.

He and his wife hardly touched the food – Aegon decreed that there would be no music during the feast. It was not a time for rejoicing or dancing.

He leaned against the back of his chair, taking a sip of wine, thoughtful, involuntarily seeking his wife's womb with his hand, her proximity, subconsciously checking that she and his child were safe. He was answered by the touch of her hand, tender, gentle, soothing.

He thought they would get through this together.

And then the door from the throne room opened, one of the guards stepped inside announcing that Lord Borros Baratheon's daughter had just arrived. He felt his wife move beside him hopefully, swallowing loudly, and then they both froze.

Floris stepped inside, descending the stairs slowly, as if her aim was to keep everyone looking at her for as long as possible. Her long, ornate, emerald gown with buff, slit sleeves from under which her nightgown shone shimmered with the colours of the Hightowers, her wordless devotion to the King despite the fact that everyone around her wore black. Her hair was combed into an ornate, exquisite braid – he looked at her in disbelief and glanced at his wife.

She looked at her sister with her lips parted, her gaze expressing pain and disbelief.

Her sister looked like a copy of her.

He gave her a protracted, angry look when she finally approached their table, noticing only the same details that had caught his attention when she had come to his chamber that night to suck his cock.

Her face wasn't as smoothly formed, her hair wasn't as dark, her lips were shaped differently, her nose was rounded differently, her eyes weren't the same shade.

He felt like getting up and spitting in her face.

Floris bowed before his brother, on her face something that if he didn't know what she was capable of could be seen as gentleness and concern.

"My King." She said calmly, with a feigned humility from which his stomach twisted. "I come on behalf of my sisters to take our father's body to Storm's End. Know that we are blessed that he died in defence of the kingdom, protecting your brother, so inexperienced in matters of war after all −" She said calmly, and he felt his jaw clench in rage, fingers of his terrified wife squeezing his hand.

He thought he'd fucking kill this whore with his own hands.

"− I place in your hands my words of assurance that Storm's End remains faithful to you, my King." She said, bowing low, everyone at the table looked at her in shock. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his brother and froze.

He knew that gaze.

A gaze full of desire for love and acceptance, a gaze full of his stupidity and naivety.

He pressed his lips together in rage, knowing what it meant, that he had fallen for this cheap, feminine trick.

Floris didn't even know how much she had been hit with her appearance − by wanting to humiliate her sister, by dressing and combing like her, by wanting to show her her superiority and dominance, she had become, in Aegon's eyes, the perfect object of his desire.

A copy of his wife.

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dulcesiabits · 7 months

Text

when the fog rolls in.

summary: You try to piece together your scattered memories about a woman you once knew.

notes: 1.7k words, fic, author's notes, memory loss + nonlinear narrative, I just really wanted to play with form and perspective with this one!!!

There is something you have to do.

There is something you have to do, and you do not remember what.

There is a memory, like a scrap of discolored silk, that you clutch in your numb fingers.

There are many memories, like faded pieces of fabric, too light and too loose for you to hold and to collect. They fall out of your hands just as you reach for them, so you can only hold one at a time.

You have to remember.

You cannot forget.

There is something you have to do, and you’re running out of time.

—

A woman runs light, gentle fingers through your hair, combing the unruly strands. She’s humming an Eastside lullaby that pools in your heart and all its crevices.

Your head is in her lap, and you snuggle against her like a cat. Her touch makes you melt boneless into her arms.

You love her, you think. You have loved her for a long time. You love her gentle fingers and her soft voice and the way she looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“Awake already?” she asks. Sharp sunlight cuts across her face, obscuring her features from you. “You should sleep some more.”

“But if I do, I won’t get to spend as much time as you,” you say drowsily.

Her laugh is a light mist that settles comfortably over you. You must have done this many times, you think. You must have whiled away countless hours in her warm arms, to be so comfortable here, so relaxed, so at peace.

Her fingers ghost across your eyelids, and you close them obediently. Her fingers trail down to your lips, tracing their outline.

“Of course you do. We have all the time in the world,” she says, but there is a trace of sadness in her voice.

You want to ask her why. You want to hold her. You want to tell her you love her. But before you can open your eyes, she is already kissing you like a goodbye.

—

There is a woman you love.

Her name is [ ].

—

“Why do you cut hair?”

It is an idle question, posed when there are no more customers in the salon, and the woman is sweeping the floor. You sit in a rolling chair, twirling yourself around in planetary rotations.

“It was a dream I had when I was little,” she says. “I liked the idea of being able to soothe away people’s worries by cutting their hair and listening to them talk. In the end, a lot of people really just need a listening ear.”

“It’s sweet that you care so much about others,” you say, slowing to a stop. You peer up at the woman. You are always looking at her in stolen glimpses like this, stealing away memories to pocket and keep, to pour over when you’re by yourself.

She’s beautiful, with her long, slender fingers, and the silk of her hair brushing her shoulders.

“Something catch your eye?” she says, without pausing in her work. “Want to talk about it?”

You flush. “No.”

“Well, if you ever need someone to hear your worries, my door is always open for you.”

“Then I’ll do the same for you!” you propose.

“What?” This time, the broom slows to a halt, a touch of astonishment in the woman’s eyes.

“I’ll listen to you. If you’re always listening to other people’s worries, then who’s going to listen to you? I can do that. If it’s not too presumptuous,” you add, embarrassed.

“It’s not,” she responds softly. “It’s not at all. Thank you. You’re a very kind person.”

“I don’t know if I’m that kind–”

“No. You are,” she says firmly.

The broom clatters to the floor. The woman leans close to where you sit on the chair. You do not dare to stir when she cups her hands around your cheeks and kisses you on the forehead, like it is a spell that can be broken.

—

You move from house to house in the Eastside. You don’t know why. You’re looking for something, you think. But you can’t remember what.

—

You bring a bouquet to the woman one day, a fresh meadow of roses and lilies, pale and fragrant.

Her fingers graze against yours as she takes the flowers, her touch lingering just a second too long.

“They’re beautiful,” she says, fingering a petal.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you say nervously. “I thought you looked a little sad lately, and these flowers reminded me of you, so…”

“Sad? I looked sad?” she says, surprised.

“I mean, a little. I don’t know. I thought maybe it was because there’s less customers lately, and everyone is scared of the fog and that silly urban legend, so I wanted to cheer you up,” you begin.

There’s a kaleidoscope of emotions across her face, each one flitting by so quickly you can’t hope to decipher them.

“I’m all right,” she says, but she still looks a little shaken. “I didn’t realize you could read me so well.”

“Well, I care about you. It would be weird if I didn’t pay attention to you, you know?” You twist your fingers nervously. “Sorry. Was this too much?”

“No. It’s lovely,” the woman says, but there’s a fog blanketing her eyes again, and she is a thousand miles away from you.

“If you’re worried about the rumors, don’t,” you say impulsively. “I’ll protect you.”

“You’ll protect me?” she says, and she is smiling, right where you can reach.

“I’ll walk you home if you want,” you offer.

The woman holds the bouquet to her face, breathing in deeply. “No. It’s okay. Stay home. Try not to go out after dark. Rumors are rumors, but you should try to stay safe, don’t you think?”

“Okay,” you say uncertainly. “Sure. But what if you–”

She smiles mischievously over the flowers. “I’ll be fine. No one will bother an ordinary hairdresser, don’t you think?”

—

There is a woman on the streets with short black hair. You grab her arm without thinking.

“What are you doing?” she snaps, jerking her arm away.

“Sorry. I thought you looked like someone I knew,” you stammer, but she’s already hurrying away, and your hands are as lonely as ever.

—

Hair like a circle of moonlight on your pillow. Soft hands around your waist. Legs entwined like lovers.

In the inky sea of night, it is just the two of you, floating in the boat of your apartment bed.

“You’ve always lived here?” she whispers to you. “In Eastside?”

“Yes. What about you? Did you grow up around here?”

The woman falls silent, contemplating. “I move around quite a bit for work, so I’ve never had time to settle down anywhere.”

You pull her closer. “Why don’t you settle down here, then?”

“It would be nice,” she acknowledges.

“If you’re worried about business, I could help you drum up customers. Solicit random people in the streets. Maybe do some sort of street performance in front of your shop.”

“You? A street performer?”

“I always wanted to learn how to juggle,” you propose.

She laughs. “I don’t think you need to go that far. Or is it just that you want an excuse to juggle?”

“Maybe,” you say. “But you should stay here. It’s a nice neighborhood.”

“It is,” she says. “Very nice. It’s where you grew up, isn’t it?”

“You know, we could…” You lace your fingers together with her. “We could be a family here, too.”

“A family,” she repeats.

“We could be each other’s family,” you murmur again.

“I would like that,” she says quietly.

Her hand is cold and limp in yours. You squeeze it, once, in reassurance, trying to will warmth back into her touch.

—

There is a new hair salon in your shabby neighborhood. You do not remember when it opened, just that it suddenly sprang into existence between the space of one day and the next. It is a lovely little place, and everyday you pass by, you see a woman through the glass.

Some days she is snipping hair with her scissors. Some days she is bent by the sink, gently washing a customer’s hair. Other days, when it is slow, she is simply resting at the counter.

Once, when she sees you staring, she smiles and tilts her head, bangs falling across her forehead, and you look away before she can see you blush.

The next day, the door is propped open, and as you pass by, she pops her head out. “Hello. Are you interested in a haircut?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really cut it much.” You self-consciously touch the ends.

“You do have lovely hair.” She’s posing by the door, arms crossed over the other.

“So do you,” you blurt out. “But, I, uh, guess that’s expected. Since you’re a hairdresser.”

She laughs, a sound like wind chimes in the light breeze. “Why, thank you. If you ever find yourself in need of my services, even for a little trim, don’t hesitate to come in.”

The day after that, you scrounge up what little money you have and head into the shop. When the woman sees you, she smiles like the sun. And you, like a flower, cannot help but bloom in her light.

—

A hand over your eyes. A familiar touch. Your body, sluggish and slow to respond.

“I’ve stayed too long.”

A voice, like a drop of starlight in the night.

“I should have moved on much, much sooner.”

A warmth, next to you.

“You made me selfish. I didn’t want to leave you.”

The shiver of steel in the air.

“But that’s no longer an option. I don’t want to become another worry for you.”

A cool kiss on your lips, a kiss as faint as frost.

“You deserve to be happy.”

And then, a hollow yearning, stretching like a chasm in your mind, in the space where something should have been.

—

There is something you have to do.

There is something you have to do, and you are starting to remember what.

There is a memory, like a scrap of discolored silk, that you clutch in your numb fingers.

There are many memories, like faded pieces of fabric, and you collect them all in your hands, as many as you can. They are puzzle pieces, and you have to fit them all together, even if you can no longer tell what they are supposed to be.

You have to remember.

You cannot forget.

You have to remember, as many times as it takes. No matter how painful it is. No matter how difficult. No matter how lonely.

You cannot stop until you see her again.

#liya writes #path to nowhere #adela #path to nowhere x reader #adela x reader #ptn #ptn x reader #ptn adela

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yaut-jaknowit · 3 months

Note

Okay lil idea! Don’t force urself to do this I had to write this down before I forget.

Fem reader who has a soothing lullaby voice while also good at singing!, reader lives in a cabin deep in the woods, hunts and build her own tools, she uses a bow and arrow, got that magnificent strong will, stubborn as shit tho, never backs down from a challenge no matter how overpowered her enemy is. Very smart mouth always fights back never fail to step back from a fight.

Fem reader x We'ar-ow

Siren Calls for a Challenge

Pairing: We'ar-ow (female Yautja) x Reader

Word Count: 3913

Summary: Deep in the woods of Alaska, far up north in the state, you have a little hut. It serves it purpose throughout the years and seasons. You live and hunt up there, far from civilization. The best life you've known. As you venture out for a hunt you've planned, there a shimmer in the tree line.

Author Note: I'm gonna be honest, I don't know if I did the smart mouthing right. I had to look up good comebacks and comments as such for this. I tried to make the reader be super sassy... I hope it works! I do love sassy reader who gives no fucks about a Yautja. I should probably write more like that.

Masterlist

Ao3

Deep in the lands of Alaska, was a small little hut that worked perfectly. Just enough space to house one person and the necessities of life. A life of hardships, surviving in world meant for kill or be killed. You enjoyed it. The challenges brought to you almost everyday. The need to hunt for you own food. Even down to creating your own weapons to hunt for said food.

Guns and bullets are useful out here, easier to use against a large predator such as a bear. Yet, to get the ammo and supplies was another thing. It required you to leave the safety of the lands and travel more than fifty miles on foot alone to reach even the nearest civilization. It wasn’t a risk that was worth when arrows are craftable out here. A more renewable source for weapons. Use what the land gives in plenty.

In the confines of your hut, your vocal cords hummed with a tune your parents sung to you while young. Though, it’s original use was to lull you to sleep, now you use to fill in the silence that pierced the air. It was a soft tune that you remembered by heart, letting muscle memory guide you. Both in song and craft

More arrows were needed before the next hunt took place tomorrow morning. The supply was running low after the wind kept knocking them off course a week ago. You still brought down the elk, a smaller one than you meant to. It’s last you the week but supplies were running low. With winter coming as well, you truly needed to stock up on food before the first cold freezes over everything. All the creatures will either hunker down or rarely venture out. You couldn’t do either of those. Your stomach still needed to be filled during that time. Plus, the extra pelts never hurt to be dried and put to good use.

The last arrow had been created and sheathed into your quiver. That was set by the door with your trusty bow. A hunting knife was hung by its sheath next to the bow. Lastly, a machete for anything that tried to be up close and personal with you. This is Alaska. A dangerous land that tried to kill anyone on it, no matter who or what you are.

As the sun rose high above the ground, you slipped every piece of gear needed. Hunting knife? Check. Bow and arrows? Check. Machete? Check. Food and water? Also check. Once you deem everything in order, you stepped out into the chilling air. The door creaked closed behind you.

Cool air filled your lungs to the brim and enjoyed the bitting to help you wake up then you exhaled. A short, small white cloud appeared in the air. It immediately disappeared afterwards. Perfect.

A softly smile tugged at the corner of your lips while you began a path towards a known area for elk. A spot where they frequented as of late. You didn’t want to spook them from the area so soon and have to track them down all over again. Always a balance to nature, including this. After this, you would have to find a new spot to hunt before winter fell over the area. Or else, you would be stranded with no easy food source in the dead of winter. That was lesson you once learned the hard way. All it took was that one time.

Hunger wasn’t a fun feeling.

Though, you live within the confines of nature, you enjoyed every moment you were allowed this. A peacefulness that washed over you. As if you were just taking a normal stroll out to wander around. Yes, you were on a mission but it was never wrong to breath in this life you were given. A life you were too stubborn to die from, to give up. Anyone or thing would have to rip it out of your cold, dead hands.

In a peaceful atmosphere, you were still on watch. Lax as your form was, you watched everything around. Anything that could pose a threat to your way of life. May it be a mountain lion or bear growing to comfortably around your territory. You made a mental note inside of your head. Then, later on, a plan would be devised on how best to solve this situation all by your lonesome. There was no backup, no other savior this deep into Alaska. It was just you out here. Just you.

Light, carefully placed steps took you from the cozy little cabin you called home. Deeper into the forest, tracking down prey you needed to eat. With such knowledge, muscle memory guiding you, you reached the known grazing area and stopped just shy of the tree line. The meadows were void of larger life. Only soon-to-be wilting grass filled the open space. You hunkered down in a bush and took a couple sips from your water. It was refreshing over your tongue, cooling down your slightly warmed body. The hike long and helps warm up your body.

In the brush, you pulled your bow free from your torso and notched an arrow. Like the predator you’ve become, you wait as one, never faltering your gaze from the open meadows before you. Today, you were taking home next week’s food.

The day was slightly hotter, not enough to shrug off the jacket pelt that hung off of your shoulders. The sun rose higher in the sky but never crested to hit the peak. The tilt of the earth did not allow for that. It stayed midway through the blue sky the entire time, short in the amount of hours for light.

Soon, light would be a rarity this far north into Alaska.

As your hand reached out to touch the pouch containing water, a shimmer of light your attention. You froze to the spot, breath caught in your throat.

Out on the other side of the meadows, just into the tree line, sunlight reflected off something. You didn’t dare to move, only observing as the shimmered moved closer into the meadow. Nothing instantly came to mind to supply what this could be from. It wasn’t like light reflecting off of a cats eye. It was also too light for that to be. Your muscles grew taunt, ready to spring into action at a moments call.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed movement and had to take your gaze off of the shimmer. Elk. A herd of elk you’ve grown to know pranced into the meadow. A spot known for their grazing. The group bowed their heads and began to snack away at the grass.

The shimmer caught your attention again yet goes unnoticed by the prey animals. Downwind from them, you waited for a single elk to walk just close enough to strike down.

The herd dispersed a little, spreading out and growing closer to your hunkered down. You steeled your nerves despite the disturbance across the field. The bow in hand was held tighter and prepared yourself to pull the string back and fire the notched arrow.

As you prepared for the upcoming kill shot, the shimmer was on the move. Internally, you cursed and prayed to whatever god would listen to you this thing wouldn’t disturb your hunt. Just don’t spook the herd! That’s all you could ask for. It could be weeks before they returned to spot if it scared them badly.

Before you could comprehend the sight unfurling before you, one of the elks laid dead on the meadow. A large axe lodged into his head, nearly splitting the skull into two. The creature officially dead with no chance of escape. Your jaw dropped at that alone.

Then, the air was caught in your throat.

Pink, cream, and purple. A humanoid form stood at the down elk, easily dwarfing it. Adorn in metal armor, a mask covered the entirety of its face; hiding away what hid below. Four long… dreads hung over its shoulder. Then, the rest were tied up behind its elongated head shaped slightly like a dome on top. That was all you could get from the distance away.

All the other elk scattered like the prey they are. Anger flared to a blazing heat behind your sternum. With little care of what this thing was, you marched out into the field like a crazed hunter. Your steps were loud and easily announced your presence to this creature. This damn thing ruined your hunt and made you lose your next week’s food. Worst of all, this probably scared off the herd. They won’t return for some time. A growl rumbled in the back of your throat.

A blank, metal expression snapped up at you. That didn’t deter you in the slightest. You got within twenty feet of it before a bone rattle snarl bore through the rather quiet air. That stopped you in your tracks. A warning. A threat. If you stepped an inch closer, you would end up like its downed prey.

You still set a glare on the unknown, faceless creature. A challenge burning in your heated eyes. “You stole my kill. You ran off the herd. You spooked them! They won’t come back here for weeks,” you accused, knowing this thing couldn’t respond back to you. Humanoid or not. This wasn’t a human. Not with its height or the strange shape of its head. But it messed with your hunt. You weren’t about to let that slide.

Behind its emotionless mask, clicks and hisses sounded. It sounded like it was grumbling to itself. As if you were just some gnat that was annoying it. Your hand tightened on your bow, straining the wood under you palm. “You ruined my hunt,” you spat at it and pointed a finger at the unknown creature.

It snorted, muffled, and leaned down. The hatchet was swiftly pulled from the skull of its kill. The weapon twirled in its fingers. A skilled trick just show you how well it was versed with the axe. Your free hand drifted to the machete latched to your hip, ready to defend yourself.

“I did no such thing.” Soft in its tone yet told you about a chapter in its life of battle. Your grasp on the weapon nearly dropped it to the meadow’s grounds. This humanoid figure that clearly wasn’t human spoke to you.

Your eyes only flinched for a second before the glare was returned in full force. “Yes, you did! I set out this morning and waited in the brush since then for them to return here. They are a herd I follow. I know their pattern. You just scared them off!” Your body was shaking with anger. The comfort of your life had been disturbed by this thing.

The humanoid figure brushed you off by kneeling down. A knife was pulled free from a sheath at its side. With practiced movements, it sliced through the belly and began to clean its kill. This was hunter. It was too precise with the cut, the way it scooped out the guts. Your eyes narrowed on the creature and stepped closer.

An axe stuck out of the ground before your feet. Your gaze snapped down to it, nonchalant about its threatening manner. “You think that scares me?” you mused with a dangerous grin. You knew your prowess and were willing to challenge this creature for its hunt. “I’ve face worse than whatever you are.”

Without taking your eyes off of it, you leaned down and plucked the weapon from the ground. It wasn’t meant for you hand. The size and weight weren’t something even the average human would use. Yet, you still twirled it, testing its weight. “I think this mine now.” An shit eating smirk spread your mouth wide as you looked at the kneeling figure.

The growl it released shook the very ground you stood on. But, that didn’t deter you. Like any other predator who wonders into your territory, you’ll just beat it back until it learns its lesson.

It rose back to a standing position, body tense, ready just like you. You only shifted slightly into a less cocky stance and prepared to fight if it came down to it. This creature easily towered over your form, that much you could tell with the distance between you. That didn’t deter you. Instead, that only pushed more adrenaline into your veins, heart pounding into your ear.

“it’s only fair I keep this. Deny all you want, but you ruined my hunt. I feel like you need to pay for it. Either with me taking this as payment-“ you held up the hatchet- “or possibly with shed blood may sedate me enough.” The long-handled weapon was twirled again, showing off the fact you knew how to handle it.

Behind the mask, it scoffed and rolled its shoulders. “You didn’t have rights over this hunt,” it snarled at you and pulled out another hatchet on its other hip.

“I’d agree with you but then we’d both be wrong,” you snarked dropped your bow onto the ground and used the newly freed hand to grasp at your machete. Both of your hands filled with a weapon. One you were far more knowledgeable then the other.

The soles of your self-crafted shoes dug into the soft earth. Your muscles helped you launch yourself forward, straight at the creature. Instantly, you took up the offensive position. Your moved were swift, bringing down the hatchets blade to bed itself into the creatures shoulder. An action it caught onto quickly. You weren’t looking to kill, only maim.

This newer weapon was harder wield than your machete, a different fighting style in general. It left you open for attack. The hatchet held high above your head to bring down onto its skin.

It darted backwards and started its own offensive attack. A battle of dance, trading blows and swings. Neither figure willing to back down. There you were, keeping up with this thing. Though, only by the skin of your teeth where you able to skim past without losing a limb.

A slice cut at your side, tearing your shirt open. Fresh, hot blood graced the open sky and dripped down your skin. You snarled, teeth bared in a whole show of unbridle rage. The beast returned the gesture with a bellow that shook your bones. You bared more down on it with a slash that drew its own blood and dipped the tip of your blade with neon green fluids.

The two of you trading dodges and hits the same. You were able to keep up with a beast such as it.

More cuts opened your skin. None of them fatal.

Both of you backed away from each other. Sweat clung to your skin uncomfortably, doing its job in cooling down your overheated body. Your shoulders heaved with panting breathe as you surged for air and studied the beast after a timeless battle. It took panted, chest expanding with each inhale.

“I didn’t expect for you to be able to put your money where your mouth is. If you have one. I’m impressed,” you mused and rolled one of your shoulders. An ache growing in the taunt muscles. “It’s time to leave. I told you; this was my food for the week.”

Either it straight up ignored you or just didn’t bother to care. You were quick to find yourself back into a harrowing battle with it again.

“Whoa, whoa. Hold your horse, there’s-guh! There’s plenty of me to share. Gotta keep some of it for the ladies though,” you jestered. The grin returned to your face. The hatchet’s blade skirted past the spot you once were a second before. “Man, you truly want to break off a piece like a kitkat bar.”

A small pout passed over your features when it didn’t even make a chittering noise. “it’s okay if you don’t like me. I know not everyone has good taste.” The creature only faltered for a second but left you a moment slice along its pink thigh. The creature snarled and whipped its axe towards you. Barely missing your scalp if you didn’t duck just in time.

“Oh, you missed me!” Despite not seeing its facial expressions freely, you read the irritation clear as a sun day. The muscles that lined its forearms flex while it gripped the wooden handle tighter. You thought it was about to cleave your head into two when it had the chance.

Something caught the heel of your foot while dodging a particularly deadly swipe. You gasped and teetered over straight onto your rump with a grunt. This was the end. The dance had ended with you making a fatal mistake.

Instinctively, you brought up your machete to block an knowingly incoming blow. Pain exploded in your forearm as a weight bared down on it. You choked on spit and fought underneath the tremendous weight, but it was futile.

A blade was pressed to the vulnerable part of your throat. One swipe and everything would be over. You swallowed down the lump building in your throat and looked up at the winner.

Behind its massive head, a halo of light framed it. Like a god or goddess peering down at your injured form. The seconds began to tick on by. The only sound in the air being the two of you panting to regain a balance. Your tongue darted out to wet your dry lips.

It never came for the killing blow.

“If you’re expecting me to beg for my life, might as well finish your cleaning. You won’t get anything from me,” you spat though there was a slight tone of respect in your voice. It fought well again you and became the winner in the end.

More weight was shifted onto your arm as it shuffled above you. The hatchet was pulled away and latched onto its belt. You knew at a moments notice, it could whip it back out and finish the job. Then, it’s stolen weapon was plucked from your smash arm and sheathed all the same. You clenched your teeth together in both the pain and disappointment it got it back from you.

“Can you at least give me the curtsey of knowing who and what you are before you kill me?” you questioned, tone still firm but with less anger in it. You truly wanted to know what this thing was. At least you could take that knowledge with you before it took your life.

Weaponless hands, one pinched your chin and tilted it up so you could face it. The other reached up and pulled at two tubes attached to its head. A small hiss entered the air before it tugged the metal mask free from its spot.

What was revealed wasn’t something you would ever expect. You nearly cringed at the sight. This wasn’t anything known to mankind. As if a crab was turned humanoid with a face like that.

Four mandibles or fangs adorn its completely inhuman features and twitched every once in a while. Hidden behind those were more teeth you didn’t wish to meet at anytime. Then, orange pupils that could possibly glow in the dark peered down at you. A predator look set on your pinned form. This thing screamed predator. A creature born, built for the hunt.

The hand on your chin stayed and forced you to keep looking into its eyes. “You would be dead by now. Your head hanging from my belt. Consider yourself lucky that I spared your life. I see potential in yout skills. I want to help develop those skills. I will not let them go to waste. You need a teacher.” That voice, less muffled this time.

“Wow, sparing my life? I feel so honored.” Even after escaping death, not fully though, you were still being smart mouthed.

It tightened its grip. “I might take back my offer.” The creature leaned down crowded into your space. You flashed your teeth at it with a grin.

“Nah, you wouldn’t. Seems like you already like me too much to do that.” You don’t know how you do it but you act like this was conversation with an old friend. It growled and shoved your head to the side but never made a move to gut you like the elk.

Then, it stood back up, towering over your laying form. You sat up and rubbed at your wrist you knew surely was going to bruise later today. “You still didn’t answer my questions.” If you were going to work with this beast, you would like to a put to its strange face.

At this point, the two of you caught your breaths. Its chest expanded with a deep, heavy breath. The beast turned on its heel to look down at you with a critical eye. “I’m called We’ar-ow. You will learn later what I am once I deem you worthy of the information.” You faked gasped and got up, placing a hand over your heart.

“Oh come on! We just had a battle to a near death,” you whined. “I feel like I’ve earned it.” The machete you once bore was sheathed back into its spot on your hip. Your body now sliced with multiple cuts that will require some medical assistance but not at that very moment.

All the pink beast did was look down at you with a neutral expression. Despite the difference of features, you felt it was universal for the expression to mean the same. “Fine. If you can’t answer me that, can you at least tell me if you’re an alien or not.” Still with cheeky smirk on your face. Yeah, you’ll learned it could if it so wishes. Why not tempt fate while you’re at it?

Its pink back met you, long legs striding away from you. The creature turned its head to look over its shoulder for a second. “Yes.” You jumped up and thrusted a fist in the air.

“Ah-ha! I knew it.” You scrambled after We’ar-ow, not wanting to wander too far from it. “So… what happens now? You said I had potential or something.” You were forced to trot next to the newly friended creature. The steps easily dwarfing three of your own.

We’ar-ow, if you remember correctly, knelt down at the belly of elk it once worked on and returned to cleaning its kill. “You will quiet down and stop asking many questions,” she snapped at you but didn’t even look over at you, focused on cutting out unneeded parts.

“Well, that’s going to a problem. I want to learn, that requires questions.” You had the creature caught then. It grunted underneath its breath and sheathed its blade after wiping it off. “I can carry that if you want.”

Orange eyes glanced over at your smaller frame. Yes, you were muscular for having to survive in a wilderness that was more than happy to kill you. The creature dipped its domed head and stood up.

You walked over to the dead elk and glanced at We’ar-ow. “Watch and learn from the master.” You crouched down onto your haunches, careful of your weight and maneuvered the downed elk onto your shoulders. A single push and you were back to a standing position, proudly looking at We’ar-ow. “Where to master?”

Oh, you were going to have fun with this creature.

#yautja #predator #yautja x reader #alien vs predator #yautja x you #predator x reader #yautja x human #predator x you #predator x human #x reader #We'ar-ow #We'ar-ow's first ask!

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pxnsneverland · 1 month

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Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 4)

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2510

warnings/notes: n/a

Chapter 4: Calm Before the Storm

The slender fingers of dawn crept through the gaps in the heavy, hand-hewn blinds, casting long, spectral shadows across the timber floor. Bonnie stirred from the depths of a dream-filled solace, her eyes fluttering open to the ceiling above. She lay nestled in Austin's muscular embrace. His chest rose and fell against her back in a rhythm that sang a lullaby of protection, a serenade of safety in this world of wolves and violence.

Her mind echoed with the echo of last night's conversation; Austin's voice rumbling like distant thunder, fierce and unyielding as he told her about the approaching full moon, his duty to the pack, his defiance for her safety. A sense of foreboding filled her heart at the thought of what this could mean for them - for him.

"Bonnie?" he murmured sleepily.

She sat up quickly removing herself from his embrace suddenly feeling very self conscious. “I-I’m fine. Sorry to wake you.”

Austin blinked away sleep, his blue eyes, as cool and piercing as a winter's dawn, focused on Bonnie. He sat up, the quilt pooling around his waist, revealing his chiseled torso.

"Don’t lie to me," he rumbled, reaching for her. His hand captured her wrist gently, but firmly. "You've got that look in your eyes. What're you thinking?"

What was she thinking? She was thinking about how muscular he had become and how cute he looked when he was just getting out of sleep. No, she had to stop. Austin was her childhood friend, the one who had always looked out for her and always kept her safe. This friendship was more important than whatever was currently tugging on her heart. Besides, she didn’t have time to think about it. Not with the impending full moon.

“I’m just hungry,” she partially lied, “I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”

Austin's eyes softened with understanding and concern. He let out a little sigh, and then gave her a soft smile that reached his eyes, a rare sight that was only bestowed to Bonnie. "Let me fix you something to eat."

He got up, grabbing a loose shirt off the floor and shrugging into it before moving towards the small kitchen at the far corner of the cabin. Bonnie watched as he busied himself preparing some food for her - his broad shoulders taut with strength, blonde hair tousled from sleep falling over his forehead.

The sound of sizzling soon filled the quietness of the space, and Austin turned round momentarily, giving Bonnie a comforting smile that made her heart flutter erratically.

Bonnie found herself watching Austin intently. His focus was entirely on the food he was preparing, yet there was a certain grace about him - a lethal elegance that contradicted his rugged exterior. A sudden pang of emotion flowed through her veins, strong and unbidden.

"I'm making some eggs and bacon," he said, "Should only take a minute."

The rustling of pans filled the cabin as he cracked some eggs into a bowl and chopped up some vegetables. The smell of frying bacon wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of freshly cut wood from the fireplace. Alongside it, there was a hint of his delicious musk that lingered in the air from last night. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food.

A few minutes later, Austin placed a plate in front of her on the bed, its contents steaming gently. She sat up slowly, taking in the thick-cut bacon and two sunny-side-up eggs arranged neatly on top of toast points. Her mouth watered at the sight and smell of it all. The scent of breakfast filled her senses as she picked up her fork to take a bite of egg yolk oozing over its edge. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste - warm buttery toast cradling flavorful egg yolk, interspersed with salty bacon and slightly charred bits. Austin watched her intently, studying her reactions to everything - including the way she ate his food. It made something stir within him deep inside.

"This is amazing," Bonnie commented between bites.

He chuckled softly from across the room where he sat on one of the log benches by the fireplace, finishing his own meal. "I try my best."

Finishing breakfast quickly, she felt more grounded and content than she had in hours. Despite everything that loomed over them both, this small moment felt like normalcy again; just them being themselves amongst nature's beauty around them.The hearty breakfast did wonders for Bonnie's empty stomach and the fresh air cleared her mind. She leaned back against the pillows, taking in deep breaths of the earthy scent of pinewood mixed with Austin's masculine musk that lingered in the air, wishing she could hold onto this peaceful moment forever. "Thank you," she whispered between bites.

Austin nodded, his head turning slightly towards her with a small smile playing on his lips. He stood up abruptly, stretching his strong arms above his head before grabbing a cloth to clean up any dishes left behind.

The clang of metal on metal resounded as he placed dishes into the sink filled with soapy water. The sizzling sound faded away as he turned off the stove top before returning to sit again near her by the fireplace. He watched her with those calculated blue eyes which seemed to see straight through her thoughts - those intense gazes making Bonnie's heart skip beats once more.

She couldn't help but notice how his body radiated heat; each flex of his muscles shifting under his clothes sent waves of warmth towards her direction. She tried not to focus too much on it but couldn't help herself; his broad shoulders tapering down into a strong V-shape torso leading to lean hips. His blonde hair fell over one eye, giving him a boyish charm despite the roughness around him - an irresistible mix that awakened something inside her.

She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, blushing as she looked away, hoping he hadn't noticed her staring.

"What is it?" Austin asked suddenly, his icy eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Bonnie's flushed face.

"Nothing," she stammered, shaking her head.

Austin chuckled, a deep, hearty sound that vibrated through the cabin.

"You're a terrible liar, Bon," he teased lightly, moving closer to her. He reached out and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. The touch sent shivers down Bonnie's spine.

The air between them crackled with tension as Bonnie found herself getting lost in those piercing blue eyes again. The distance between them seemed to shrink, making her heartbeat quicken. Austin's proximity and the way his eyes bore into hers was unsettling yet exciting. She swallowed hard, trying to gather herself.

The peaceful moment was abruptly shattered by a guttural growl that resonated outside the rustic cabin. Austin sprang from the bed, his heart pounding with fear and adrenaline. He rushed to the window and cautiously opened it. In the distance, he could see the headlights of a bike pulling up to the cabin. Cursing under his breath, Austin knew exactly who it was - Jerry, who always seemed to show up at the most inconvenient times.

Without hesitation, Austin grabbed Bonnie's hand and pulled her out of bed, rushing her to the back door. He swung it open as quietly as possible and gestured for her to hide outside. She looked at him with confusion and worry etched on her face. "Who is that?" she whispered.

"Jerry," Austin gritted through clenched teeth. "That son of a bitch would be the only person to come visit me after just seeing me last night. How did he even get along with me in jail?"

Bonnie froze in shock. "You went to jail?" Her voice trembled with concern.

Austin didn't have time to explain now - there would be plenty of time for that later. "Just go hide," he urged, motioning for her to find a place to conceal herself. Just as a knock sounded at the door, he made sure Bonnie was safely hidden before quickly answering it himself, bracing himself for whatever lies or excuses Jerry had concocted this time around.

"S'up, boss?" Jerry greeted brusquely, his figure massive and imposing even in the early sunlight. His gruff voice echoed eerily through the silence as he kicked the kickstand down on his bike and began lumbering towards the porch.

Austin, who had long learned the art of concealing his true emotions, casually leaned against the doorframe with an air of indifference. "Jerry," he replied coolly, keeping his voice steady. He watched as Jerry squinted at him suspiciously, his broad shoulders visibly tensing under the worn-out leather jacket he always wore.

The two men eyed each other for a moment, taking in each other's hardened exterior. Jerry broke the silence first, grunting as he took a step closer to Austin. "Thought you might want some company after being in the slammer for so long," he said nonchalantly, scratching at his grizzled beard.

Austin nodded curtly, not wanting to engage in any further conversation than necessary. "I don’t."

Jerry raised an eyebrow at Austin's curt response, a hint of suspicion flashing in his gaze. He didn't say anything for a moment, studying Austin's stoic expression. Austin's heart pounded against his ribs like a wild drum. He maintained his indifferent facade, curling his hand tighter around the door frame. Jerry shrugged, looked around the cabin, then back at Austin. There was a silent standoff between the two men for a moment before Jerry finally broke it by saying, "Come on, now. It’s just friendly concern for you. That’s all."

"Right," Austin responded, his voice dripping with disbelief. "Since when did you start caring?"

Jerry gave a shrug, the creeping sunlight highlighting the scars that marred his rough features. "Times change," he said cryptically.

The air seemed to thin between them, the tension palpable. Austin clenched his jaw as he contemplated Jerry's words. His right-hand man had never shown any sign of concern before. Something was amiss.

"Well, your sudden change of heart is touching," Austin said, injecting a note of sarcasm into his words, "But I don't need company. I need quiet."

Austin didn't miss the flash of annoyance that crossed Jerry's face at his refusal. His large hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening visibly. But instead of lashing out as Austin expected, Jerry slowly unclenched his fists and relaxed his stance.

"Alright," Jerry said gruffly, turning away and heading back towards his bike. But before he could hop onto it, he paused and turned back to Austin. "Just remember," He said, his eyes cold and hard. “Tomorrow is the full moon. The pack will expect you to lead the hunt since you’re back.”

With that, he revved his bike loudly before roaring down the dirt path away from the cabin, leaving Austin alone once more in the serene wilderness. Austin watched him until he was nothing more than a speck in the distance, a feeling of unease settling deep in his gut.

Austin took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unnerving encounter. As soon as he was sure Jerry was far enough away, he called out to Bonnie who emerged from her hiding spot behind a large tree. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"Is it safe?" She asked tentatively.

Austin nodded, stepping forward to embrace her in his arms. He breathed in the familiar scent of her hair, a mix of vanilla and honey from her shampoo. She didn't resist but her arms hung limply at her sides. "What about the hunt? Jerry has a point. They'll be expecting you." It would be suspicious if he didn't show up for the pack's regular hunts, especially since it had been awhile since his last one. Someone would come looking for him and find Bonnie in the midst of her first full moon transformation.

Austin sighed, rubbing circles on Bonnie's back to soothe her. "I know," he said gruffly, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew what the full moon would do to her, how it would awaken the beast within her. It was something he wished she never had to experience.

"I can't leave you alone during your first transformation, Bon," he admitted, his grip tightening slightly around her small frame. "It's painful... and dangerous."

"But what about the gang?" Bonnie asked worriedly, her voice muffled in Austin's chest. She knew better than anyone how crucial Austin's role was in the gang and how dangerous it was for him to defy their expectations.

Austin sighed heavily again, running a hand through his messy hair. It wasn't going to be easy dealing with the gang's questions and suspicions. But he had an idea - a risky one. He pulled away from Bonnie, looking down at her with determination burning in his blue eyes.

"You mean more to me than any gang or code," Austin's voice resonated with sincerity as he spoke, his eyes locked onto Bonnie's. She understood the weight of his words, their predicament a testament to their bond. "There's an old bomb shelter underground in the woods, a few miles from here. My dad used it to train me when I first turned. It's secure, no way out once you're in. During the hunt, amidst the chaos and bloodlust, I'll slip away to be with you." The plan was daring, risking exposure if anyone caught wind of Austin's intentions. Yet, he hoped his aggressive display at the bar had deterred prying eyes.

Fidgeting nervously with her hands, Bonnie longed for Austin's presence during her impending transformation but not at the expense of his allegiance to the pack. While she had never felt tied to their ways, it had always been different for Austin. His destiny seemed predetermined by his father's legacy within the Blood Moon Riders.

"Austin... during my first shift, I won't be myself," Bonnie confessed worriedly, haunted by visions of losing control to primal instincts and savagery. “Austin…I won’t be myself during my first transformation. Dad said it was like having no control over your body, thinking of nothing but blood and rage and tearing things apart. What if I hurt you?”

Austin met her apprehension with a smirk that drew a pout from Bonnie as she crossed her arms defensively. Stepping closer, he reassured her with unwavering confidence. "As an alpha, I possess strength beyond that of regular werewolves. If things go awry, I can hold my ground against you."

"But won't the full moon affect you too?" Bonnie pressed on anxiously.

Acknowledging the challenge in her gaze, Austin admitted candidly about controlling his own transformations except during pack hunts under the full moon when primal urges surfaced briefly before being suppressed by guilt and remorse once blood was shed.

Before Bonnie could voice further concerns, Austin interjected firmly yet tenderly. "No arguments," he asserted with conviction in his eyes,"I will protect you."

"Even from myself?" Bonnie questioned softly, uncertainty lingering between them like an unspoken dare.

With a resolute nod and a steadfast gaze fixed on hers, Austin affirmed his vow without hesitation: "From everything."

Stay tuned for part 5!! Click HERE to view!

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