#ballistic steel

[alex9mm]

Bulletproof vest definition

A bulletproof vest is a protective garment worn to stop or reduce the projectile ballistic and kinetic force from penetrating the body. It typically consists of layers of high-tech materials such as Kevlar  and Dyneema  for soft armor panels or ceramics ,Dyneema and steel for hard armor . The effectiveness of a bulletproof vest depends on various factors, including the distance from the shooter the type and caliber of weapon used, the vest's composition and thickness, and the wearer's body size and posture.

Dyneema is a type of ultra-high molecular weight polyethylene (UHMWPE) fiber that is often used in the production of body armor and ballistic materials. Dyneema is known for its high strength-to-weight ratio, making it a popular choice for use in bulletproof materials.

When used in body armor, Dyneema is typically combined with other materials, such as aramid fibers or ceramic plates, to create a composite material that provides protection against a wide range of threats, including bullets from firearms.

Dyneema is also used to create other types of ballistic materials, such as Dyneema Shield, a lightweight and flexible material that is used to create bullet-resistant inserts for backpacks, briefcases, and other personal protective items.

It is important to note that the level of protection provided by Dyneema materials can vary depending on the specific product and the threat it is designed to protect against. It is recommended to consult with a knowledgeable professional or consult product specifications for the most accurate information on the protective capabilities of Dyneema materials.

Ballistic Steel AR 500

Ballistic steel is a type of steel that is used in the construction of body armor. Ballistic steel is known for its high hardness and toughness, making it an effective material for stopping bullets and other projectiles.

When used in body armor, ballistic steel is typically used in conjunction with other materials, such as ceramics or polyethylene fibers, to create a composite material that provides enhanced protection against a wide range of threats.

Ballistic steel plates can be used as standalone armor plates, or they can be added to soft armor to provide additional protection against high-powered rounds. Ballistic steel plates are also often used in military and law enforcement applications where a high level of protection is required.

It is important to note that the level of protection provided by ballistic steel plates can vary depending on the specific product and the threat it is designed to protect against. It is recommended to consult with a knowledgeable professional or consult product specifications for the most accurate information on the protective capabilities of ballistic steel plates.

[allaboutsteel]

Everything You Need To Know About Ballistic Steel Plate

Ballistic steel plates are designed to provide protection against gunfire and other high-velocity projectiles.

Ballistic steel plates are designed to provide protection against gunfire and other high-velocity projectiles. They are made from a variety of materials, including high-hardness steel, ceramic, and polyethene, and are used in a variety of applications, including body armour for military and law enforcement personnel, armoured vehicles, and security doors.

Ballistic Steel Plates are typically rated according to their ability to stop bullets from different weapons and at different ranges. The most common ratings are NIJ Level III and IV, which are tested to stop bullets from common handguns and rifles, respectively. There are also higher ratings, such as NIJ Level V, which are designed to stop armour-piercing bullets.

One of the main advantages of ballistic steel plates is their durability. They are able to withstand multiple impacts and are not easily damaged by bullets or other projectiles. They are also relatively lightweight and can be easily carried or worn by military or law enforcement personnel.

There are several factors to consider when selecting ballistic steel plates, including the type of threat you are facing, the weight and size of the plates, and your budget. It is important to select plates that are rated to stop the specific type of bullets you may encounter and that are comfortable to wear for extended periods of time.

Overall, ballistic steel plates are an important tool for providing protection against gunfire and other high-velocity projectiles. They are widely used by military and law enforcement personnel and can also be used in a variety of other applications where protection against bullets is required.

[hozcar]

Oh, I can't believe I didn't post this here!

Anyways, awesome movie, well-deserved Oscar nomination. I jumped out of my seat from joy when I heard those 5 seconds of Breaking The Law, sadly the movie doesn't have a lot of metal despite its protagonist being metal!

[thatweirddolldude]

[dabidagoose]

She's the sword.

A sword can be used to block, to protect. Or a sword can be used to slice or stab, to hurt.

She's the sword.

She's the sword of the citadel.

[dyingporcupine42]

Happy 9/11 guys

And you know what that calls for

[historyofguns]

In the article from The Armory Life titled "9mm vs. 40 – Is the .40 Caliber a Better Handgun Cartridge?", Scott Wagner, a retired law enforcement officer, examines the longstanding debate between the 9x19mm Parabellum and .40 caliber cartridges. Highlighting significant events like the 1986 FBI Miami Shootout, which led to the FBI's subsequent switch to the 10mm Auto and the eventual development of the .40 caliber, Wagner discusses the pros and cons of each round in terms of stopping power and recoil. Through testing with Springfield Armory handguns and comparing the performance of both rounds using wet clay blocks, he concludes that while the .40 caliber offers more power due to its larger diameter and heavier bullet, advancements in 9mm ammunition have narrowed the gap in terminal performance, making the choice between the two a personal preference balancing power, recoil, and handling in defensive situations.

[gaogaosteel]

Bulletproof steel plate that can resist M193, M855 projectiles 、中国防弹钢可防护...

[maowives]

Anarchist moralist idealist analysis will assert that the Proletariat will win on the backs of Guts and Grit and Gusto and Gumption alone. By golly we will win the class war with our dual weapons of Being Morally Correct and Some Spit And Elbow Grease.

What are you going to do when the full might of the imperial hegemony comes bearing down on your little white CHAZ spinoff project? Who will build the tanks? Who will man the supply lines? Who will launch the nuclear submarines? The Revolution isn't won on the basis of Who Is More Moral. It's won with steel and millet and gunpowder and barley and rice and weapons grade plutonium and vaccines and intercontinental ballistic missiles.

You have become drunk on the all powerful victory of Friendship and Good Vibes from your star wars movies and anime cartoons. It is an insult to the people who fought and died in actual revolutions to liberate their colonized nations from the yoke of Capital. You people are profoundly unserious. Your idealist notions are a genuine liability to the survivability of the global anti-imperialist movement and should be treated accordingly and with the requisite seriousness.

[ratsname]

Really felt it when the singing man said:

"Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to. Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning. Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs, did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands? Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose. Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole, did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration, my hope is to assess through my objective report of your subjective conjecture. Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this transorbital ice pick. Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them. So now here we are once again, holding as it were, a mirror up to your mirror. I guess it's just something people do"

[earako]

Okay screw it another point form thingy

- Ballister has some traits that reflect his upbringing as a commoner in his certain area of the realm

- And both Ambrosius and Nimona love it

- Ambrosius didn't know Ballister had his ears pierced till he was dared to put on earrings in their early teens. Ballister just shrugged and popped them into his ear and didn't understand why his classmates were staring at him. [Apparently nobility didn't pierce their kids ears when they were babies]

- Also I'm giving Ballister sensitive ears. He may be a former street kid but his ears will never accept anything less than surgical steel/hypoallergenic/pure gold or silver [Ballister used to have gold earrings but he ended up selling them for food]

- okay wow that was a long rant on earrings-

-moving on: food as a love language! Ambrosius learned very quickly that Ballister used food as a means to communicate. After an argument or whenever they just didn't mesh well together Ambrosius would find a plate of cut up fruit on his bedside table followed by an apology from Ballister. [Funny enough, Ambrosius also likes to communicate via food, though he has a bit more sorta rules and stuff compared to Ballisters food as a love language]

- Ambrosius made the mistake of telling Ballister he liked a certain food once. So when he saw Nimona repeat his mistake he just said "Well I hope you're ready to eat that for the next month." Nimona didn't believe him. And was quickly proven wrong.

- When Ballister brought Nimona and Ambroaius to visit the area he grew up in Nimona asked him how many relatives he had. Ballister had to explain that he called family friends auntie/uncle/brother/sister out of respect. [Ambrosius also does the same, you know what fine, Ballister and Ambrosius share the Asian experience of calling everyone auntie/uncle/etc.]

- There is a very specific sound that'll get Ballister's attention in an instant. It's like a hiss but also tongue clicking kinda noise. Ambrosius accidentally copied it once and was confused when Ballister's head shot up, looking around confused before realizing Ambrosius made the noise

- Nimona learns about it and now makes the noise every time she wants Ballister's attention

- And back to the earring thing real quick but Ballister and Nimona going earring shopping together.

- Ballister and Ambrosius having traditional foods that look similar but are called different names. They'll playfully argue for hours calling each others dish the name of the dish in their respective home cultures. Nimona just rolls their eyes and eats half the pot so they'll stop.

- Lip pointing. The first time Ballister did it Ambrosius leaned in for a kiss. Poor guy-

- [this is just me projecting buut] sharpening pencils with a knife. Ambrosius gave Ballister a pencil sharpener but he likes the knife better [Screw it I'm giving Ballister a balisong-]

[shotmrmiller]

Gaz telling you one day it was his bed that you woke up in, with his dog tags around your neck and 22 Simon goes BALLISTIC. But when you confront him it’s always something about you being a sneaky bint, because if he told the truth it would meant he cared about you

didn't triss merigold do this with geralt in witcher 2? like he had amnesia or something and triss was like yer my boo tho.

read about it somewhere cuz i didn't play it, only witcher 3

anyway.

You'll question then why you aren't wearing the tags anymore.

"I'm right here, doll, and I know you're mine. You can have 'em back, if you like."

The certainty in his voice didn't have you thinking twice, and now every night you go to sleep in his actual room that doesn't look anything like the one you woke up in.

"I just moved across the hall recently."

"Just redecorated a little."

And when Ghost sees the dog tags around your neck, they are nothing like the one you had originally. They're newer, the stainless steel glinting brightly under the light— unlike the worn, scratched, slightly bent ones you had that said his name on them.

He'll be straight cruel to you then, asking if you're becoming the barracks bunny or something, and this is the

only time

he lets you strike him in the face— palm hitting the side of his cheek with a resounding slap.

because he didn't mean to say that, not really. He's just so upset that you'd move along so easily? after showing so much devotion to your 09 Simon.

but he's never been any good at talking. any time he opens his mouth, it's to stick his foot in it.

one day he'll realize that you don't speak much of 09 Simon anymore, don't talk about him at all, actually. Like you've forgotten. Like it's been erased from your mind altogether.

Like you aren't the same person you were when you first arrived.

[themotherofhorses]

paloma: first meeting

— simon "ghost" riley x oc!silentdove reyes.

summary: he's not annoyed, per se, but ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the american airman scurrying around the base. at best, he tolerates them.

(or the first exchange between ghost and his montanan woman.)

warnings: none, aside from explicit language.

note: okay, so despite this being an obvious OC-insert series, i invite anyone and everyone to read it :D this is actually my first time tackling an OC-insert fanfic (as well as writing ghost) so im still trying to get the rhythm of things.

dividers by: @saradika

paloma (masterlist) | main masterlist

[2021] 

Simon Riley won’t ever admit it — never aloud, anyway — but every time he steps foot on American soil, he feels more akin to a wolf draped in sheep’s clothing. 

In his mind, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He is not a hero, really; unlike the lot teetering around the military base he is currently stationed at for the next five or so weeks, he is less flesh and blood, and more a phantom. Or something along those lines. Actually, that could explain why there is such little traffic aimed his way. But he doesn’t particularly care. His schedule lacks the room to voice any complaints. 

Right now, his main concern is doing his job, and doing it right. 

Two weeks back, Price had him fishing out his passport tucked away inside his bedside table. “Fancy a two month getaway to the States?” Great Falls, Montana, to be exact. High west, nearing the border of Canada, and surrounded by land he’s only ever seen in those silly ass spaghetti western movies. 

The view is nice, he’ll admit. Beautiful, even. Exhilarating. He now understands why they refer to Montana as “Big Sky Country.” 

Malmstrom is much smaller than he imagined, and homier too. The Air Force base is nestled within the city’s east side, offering its own museum and park. He’s quite grateful for the latter; the trails allow for his nighttime walks when the nightmares prove too shitty to sleep. 

Great Falls is pretty as well. Price would like it, maybe Garrick too. He knows the two are big on history, and almost every inch of the city is drenched with some memory belonging to the old frontier days. 

Upon arriving, the yanks provided him with his own private office, housed in the back of the 341st logistics readiness squadron. It’s nothin’ fancy, really, just a wee room furnished with a dark mahogany desk, two windows, a steel cabinet, the Montana flag to his left, and the American to his right. 

Again, he’s not one to complain. Something’s something. 

Earlier, one of the higher-up airmen, a Staff Sergeant Benson (he believes is the name), had handed him a folder jam-packed with a shit ton of mission statements — logistics, strategic planning, reports of previous global concerns, and reviews of the base’s Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missile. All the documents are dated in a time range varying between two months ago to 0800 this morning. 

In the back of his mind, he can already hear Price chuckling.

“Have fun, Simon.”

Bloody bastard. 

So now, Ghost sits hunched over the desk, feeling a little too damn big for it. All the paperwork is strewn about messily around him, with sticky notes, a pen, and some other random shit of his. No one has yet to visit him; until that happens, he feels little need to remain organized. 

His boot taps against the floor. “—Initial efforts to clean polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) from launch facilities at Malmstrom AFB are ongoing but seeing success…” Ghost reads under his breath. PCBs? That’s nice to hear.

“...after PCBs were detected on surfaces in launch facilities at all three of the command’s missile wings.” 

PCBs. Polychlorinated biphenyls — man-made and highly toxic, consisting of carbon, hydrogen, and chlorine atoms. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he flips onto the next page.

“We know they’re present on what appears to be otherwise pristine surfaces, due to the survey—” 

—a sudden knock interrupts his reading. 

With a curse on his tongue, Ghost sets down the report. He quicks a sneaking glance at his watch. 1342 hours. He’s due in a meeting at 1700. 

“Come in.” His voice sounds low and raspy, the two words sounding more like a growl than a greeting. He’s not annoyed, per se, but Ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the American airmen scurrying around the base. At best, he tolerates them.

(In his mind, they’re all little Graves, ready to stir up a headache.) 

The door slowly cracks open.

“Lieutenant Riley?” A female voice calls out — soft and cautious; Ghost’s chin drops against his knuckles. “Apologies for the disruption, sir, but I have some additional paperwork I need to drop off with you, at the request of my superior.” He grunts, and the airman then steps into his office, quickly shutting the door behind her before meeting his eyes. 

It is entirely unlike him, Ghost knows, but his brain almost short-circuits right then and there. Two dark brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, peering up at him. Shit. He’d always thought brown was such a pretty eye color on a woman, but hers stretched further across common compliments. 

Both of  ‘em — they held no animosity, no uneasiness or fear, nothing. 

That, itself, is quite fucking bizarre. He’s not used to that.

Ghost is .... well, Ghost. He knows the mask he is always donning on his face isn't exactly a sign of welcomeness. Just his mere presence is enough to startle the living shit out of rookies, baby recruits, wide-eyed sergeants, and the like. There is something inherently unnerving when you are unable to get a good reading of the person you're standing across from.

She’s brave, he thinks. Or merely oblivious to who he is. 

“Here you go, sir,” the airman says while placing the packet of new documents down on his desk. Her lips are shaped prettily, plump and shining with a fresh layer of gloss, and across her nose is a splatter of faint freckles. Under a different circumstance, maybe he would’ve taken the time to try and count them all.

Ghost swallows hard, incapable (for what feels like the first time in his life) of mustering up an appropriate reply. “Ah, thank you, ma’am.” 

The airman's brow lifts.

“Reyes,” she then corrects him with a kind smile, gesturing to the name badge sitting above her right chest pocket. Sure enough, in bold military lettering, reads Reyes. “My name is Senior Airman SilentDove Reyes. I am actually a cryptologic linguist analyst here on base; but sometimes I run errands for others, when not needed for a translation, of course.”

There is a slight chirp in her voice that Ghost picks up, along with the way she casually rocks back and forth on her feet. She seems awfully young, no older than 22, possibly 23, but even that's cutting it; a kid, compared to him. Maybe 5'7, with dark hair pulled back into two tight braids that fall at her belted waistline.

A stark contrast compared to him.

He's oddly curious now — about her age and first name and those long braids and why she stands before him, calm, collected, and sure — but he knows damn well this is not the time nor place for any questions. Both of them are on the clock, and it is likely she’ll need to report back to her supervisor soon. 

He offers her a curt nod. “Well, thank you again, Reyes,” he states, keeping his voice flat. 

“You are welcome, sir.” She turns to leave, but when her hand latches onto the doorknob, Reyes glances over her shoulder at him, “—oh, and Lieutenant? If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

–

The successful cleaning came after a bioenvironmental team at Malmstrom AFB …. Malmstrom AFB .. consulted with engineers and ….. and medical experts on the cleaning …. cleaning processes and– 

–and agents most likely to effectively remove the chemicals…. 

He knows his mind is wandering off, in desperate search of that pretty senior airman from fifteen minutes ago. “Bloody fucking hell,” Ghost grumbles, leaning back in his chair. His head lolls back as he blinks upward, studying the ceiling overhead. The texture is popcorn, a creamy color, with a simple fan jutting down. One light bulb, probably a recent replacement. 

Fuck. He doesn’t need this shit. Not one bit. 

Five more weeks and he’ll be gone from here. 

Ghost rechecks his watch, feeling a bit peeved at the time. 1411. He has several more hours until he can leave all this work shit behind for the evening, and maybe catch a short walk before hunkering down for the night. He doesn’t like sitting down for too long; it causes him to become restless. Agitated. Overthinking.

He doesn’t want distractions. He doesn’t need ‘em. Distractions ruin work ethic; clouding up the mind while fucking up all sense of responsibility. Price will have his ass if he – somehow – becomes compromised. And he'll never hear the end of it from Johnny. 

Settling back into the paperwork, he decides that he won’t allow himself another second thinking about all that – the American airman and her pretty brown eyes and high cheekbones and first name. 

Something tells him that’s easier said than done. 

[charles-breaks-beakers]

I just have one thing to say.

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to. Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning. Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs. Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands? Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose. Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole. Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration. My hope is to assess through my objective report of your subjective conjecture. Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this transorbital ice pick. Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them. So now here we are once again, holding, as it were, a mirror up to your mirror. I guess it's just something people do.

[captainkurosolaire]

Father of Shadow

Grey skies of bone waste, dry uncertain humidity polluted the air, in a time stone of an oppressive era. When a peaceful Nation was under siege of a Garlean Empire was prominent conflict. Depleted soul's were torn from destruction brought upon them, not able to spark their rebel spirits. Hopelessness festered, longed, in the dark-void, absence reigned. Until those who dwell and thrive in night, answered. A Doman elegant-magpie, colored descended below gracefully upon a leather-glove, with a braille message-strung delicately for delivery, to who wields sharp steel and handles Black Miracles. It read two-words, stroked in Hingashi. "Unsheathe Shadow." The figure clad to black, descended below a tall cliff-side using a large-bright dragon-theme kite at the last daring moment, blocking a Magitek Armor with an Operator and fellow squadron leading a convoy of spoiled slavers, formerly settlers, farmers of the neighboring land, that'd know a harvest again. Feet-padded quietly a step in their pause. This mask-silhouette figure gave a small startle. Keen eyes of one Imperialist gave rise to a Eastern-forged scabbard blade, letting out a small-laugh from his throat, "Hey, Men! Seems we forgot one. Ki--" Cut off before the executive order, through a sleeved kunai punctured the throat. The specter of death, was swarmed instantaneous. Time felt frozen momentarily, when two-pursuers stepped in striking distance, before they were aware of the next breathe, they were struck down from a blinding quick unsheathe. A firm masculine gloved-hand grappled one of the defeated imperialist by their skull and used their cadaver as a shield-charge to block, a volley of ballistics sponged to the reload, swiftly, the assailant lunged his blade through the deceased into the reloading legionary, puncturing two-hearts. Crushing flail came swinging towards the assailant from behind, stern senses strengthened for obscured sight gave an acrobatic bending dodge, strands of raven hair's plucked grazing overhead, the swordsman withdrew his blade full of heated ichor, blinding the bruiser. Handicapped and shouting obscenities, he withdrew his chained-flail, the assailant vanished alongside the call-back, leaping carefully on returning weapon. Graciously leaping overhead. A swift-slice midair struck. Another head fell below removed from neck. Sudden commotion and pause made the prisoner's of war began up-roaring with renewed spirits, kicking at their confines. Magitek-Armored pilot took firing aim and unleashed a mini-gun of bullets at the shadow. The figure-glided with the wind, feline ear's rattling towards the preparing machinery coiling before assault, heel's building up wind, his blade let out a howling gust, rocketing him forth towards a hanging-tree, bullet's closely racketing behind. Fluid-movement, his free-arm locked onto a sturdy branch. He parted his blade-flat below his feet using it like a temporarily standing-board. Then unhooked from hip satchel a paper-scrolled bomb strung to another kunai, a fuse laid underneath the hilt like a switch, once launched and struck its target, it'd detonate. Ilm's from filling the assassin with swissed-holes, the weapon's arm of the machinery imploded and cracked pilot's glass windshield, the magitek armor fell off balance, exposed trying to regain control. His eye's-opened widely. Sole's directly above his small-layer between him, in the death-dealer who had catapulted and sprung himself with a feline leap. Shedding a last-gasp before expertly steel slid between the cracked- creases, and impaled him unable to evade demise. His skull ragged dolled forth bashing into the detonation button. Electrical in-balance was felt predicatively, the assassin leapt backwards, yet was unable to clear. Blocking with his arm's and blade, shrapnel of machinery projectiles dug into his flesh, boom sent the shadow careening below harshly.

Ember's surrounding him, scorched land and concussed with his hearing shrieking, distorted, his mask cracked. His body was tortured fashioned to these sensations. Adrenaline coursing inside him, nullifying the extent of his injuries, momentarily, he rolled instinctively feeling the heat near his feline tail. Despite being a deadly-weapon, expressionless, empty-nearly. He finished his task employed, by releasing the prisoner's door, they flooded out looking to find their rescuer but only a blood-trail remained mixed with all the other disarray. He had a date, with someone, that daringly made his sharpest blade, blunt. Even demolished like this, he wouldn't miss the intended target who'd forever alter his knowledge of Life. Using his blade-hilt as a cane to hold uprightness. In all or any; Darkness... There was somewhere a Light, to appreciate.

[Prev:Chapter]: ~ ♪"As Above, So Below"♪

[fhrlclln]

rockstar!eddie going ballistic and jealous when his guy fans are all screaming for his wife, asking to sign an autograph on her playboy magazine after the show’s over. some would even ask her hand in marriage and it makes her laugh but eddie doesn’t find it funny in slightest lmao

rockstar! eddie x wife! reader

WOOWIE i hate how i’m so lazy to reply with my inbox. 😭 but anyways, this is so funny and cute tho. i feel like he’d be smug at first seeing everyone hot over his wife LOL then he’ll go ballistic the moment someone says about that ‘hand in marriage’ i love it <3

suggestive themes under here

｡･:*˚:✧｡

like every fantastic show that ends, eddie would always have to face the flashing lights of the paparazzi and the fucking screams and cheers outside the venue when he’s prepared to finally get the fuck out of there. he does like the excitement of a crowd racing for him, all his fanboys screeching for an autograph or even just for him to glance at them. he feels on the top of the world though when you manage to accompany him after his shows with his band.

but right now, he feels like he wants to punch his massive fanbase for overly gawking at you now as he watches you inside the limousine, waiting as you signed the heck out of that recent playboy magazine cover from each prick’s hand as they were squeezing in from the steel barricade separating you from them, with your million dollar smile on. all of them screaming for your attention as eddie rolls his eyes underneath his sunglasses.

he grits his teeth, sighing as he groans. what was with you with signing every single cover or whatever those weirdos wanted from you? your attention away from him was already a torn on his clingy heart and now his fanboys are being the center of your attention was the least at his list! he’s fucking livid. and he’s had enough, knowing you might want the help to get out of that mob of people screaming your name. he gets out of the limousine as the crowd goes wild again seeing him, the number of securities doubling as eddie walks towards you. causing his manager to almost faint. eddie’s jaw ticking hearing everything what came out of those weirdos mouth as you smiled at them, still grabbing marker by marker.

“y/n! sign me next, please!”

“mrs. munson, i love you!”

“can you sign it on my arm!? i’m gonna get it tattooed just for you!”

“i fucking love you!”

“i loved your playboy cover-“

“thank you!” you merely said, waving at them, amused how eddie’s supposed own crowd has grown a liking towards you knowing majority are metalheads and teenagers. but it was fun, seeing how many arms and hands were waving your playboy cover. not noticing your own husband waving to the now hurling crowd as you were about to finally sign the last item that you decided to get the hell out of here. laughing a bit awkwardly hearing so many flattering and unflattering things they were saying to you until one made you giggle—

“can i have your hand in marriage?”

“marriage?” your eyes widened as you laughed at the teenage boy you were signing some notebook he was holding. he smiled cheekily at you, blushing seeing you notice him. “i’m already married, darling.” you giggled, handing him back his pen.

“it’s worth the try!” he counters making you laugh, not noticing the fuming rockstar behind you hearing all of that.

“yeah, better luck next time, bud.” eddie quipped suddenly making you turn around to see him. the boy eyes’s practically widened seeing his favorite rockstar talk to him.

“eddie!” you greeted him as he gently tugs your arm, silent as ever as he puts on a fake smile. eddie glared at the little prick from his sunglasses. marriage? asking for marriage to you? his fucking wife? oh, he could feel the bile form in his throat until your back hit his chest as you turned around surprised to see him out here.

you raised a brow, kissing his cheek as you were lead back into the car. the door shutting loudly as the crowd and flashes muffled. you could feel the sudden switch of the mood your husband has put on. you face him, seeing as he removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes. you frowned, knowing how camera flashes hurts his head.

“you alright, eds?” you ask gently, feeling the car start as you moved closer to him. eddie hummed, a slight pout on his face as he didn’t answer again.

“eddie…” you scolded gently, knowing he has this habit of getting silent when he’s in a mood. “what’s wrong, baby? you have a headache?” you put your hand above his, cooing him gently. a moment of silence transpired as he finally sighs.

“don’t like it when you sign for ‘em.”

“who? your fans? why eds?” you laughed gently, eddie pouted more hearing you not take this seriously as he looks away to the window making your roll your eyes at his behavior. “c’mon, eds! your fans are so cute wanting my autographs! i love their interactions. it’s so sweet.”

“yeah, like asking for your hand marriage is fucking cute, huh? bunch of creeps…” he claps back, mumbling. you’re taken aback, remembering the teenage boy as you laughed at it. he’s jealous! you realized making you wheeze at how he’s reacting to his own fanbase.

“oh my god, eddie! he’s literally a fucking kid!”

“oh a kid? yeah, still not fucking cool.” he groans, annoyed you were laughing it off with his jealousy. “stop laughing!” he sighs out. “babe, this isn’t funny. you know what shit those weirdos of mine would say else?”

“like you aren’t the one dirty talking to me all the time, eddie.” you countered, still stifling a giggle. “you’re just as bad as them. and you’re my husband.”

“don’t compare me to those asshats—“ you giggled, rolling your eyes as you squeezed his hand. leaning in to kiss the pout away on his face as he gives in to your affections, still muttering shit talk about the situation as you felt yourself getting annoyed at his antics, making you pinch his cheeks to shut him up.

“oh, stop the fucking whining, eddie!”

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