#but that's conspicuous in a way that this isn't

[hephaestuscrew]

Sometimes I think there are certain parts of Wolf 359 that feel so familiar to me that I almost forget what they are like the first time round.

Like, I've just been thinking about how in the finale, after Minkowski gets shot, we don't hear any noise from her all through Cutter's gloating speech. We hear her gasp as the bullet hits and the show immediately cuts away to a different scene. Then when we rejoin the confrontation with Cutter, we don't hear Minkowski make any noise - not even a groan of pain or a laboured breath - for over a minute. And because it's an audio drama, this means that we don't have any direct indication of just how injured she is, of whether she's fully conscious, of whether she's even still alive. Lovelace's reactions can't tell us much while she's struggling against Cutter's control. And I wouldn't put it past Cutter to gloat to someone unconscious.

The first noise we do hear Minkowski make after being shot in the stomach - the first proof we have that she's still with us - is her gathering her strength and declaring "Renée Minkowski... and that is more than enough to kick your ass!", before punching Cutter. Which is always an incredibly powerful moment. But there's a particular power to it when it also serves as the reveal that Minkowski is still conscious and able to put up resistance. The moment when she asserts her ownership of her own identity feels almost like a moment of rising from the potentially-dead.

[nostalgia-tblr]

re: my seemingly fringe "I don't think we're meant to think Odin was a dreadful cunt" take, when was Thor 1 actually made? Like... 2010/2011? Because I think Odin is (presumably based on comics canon) meant to be "a bit distant but overall good as a parent" but 2010ish is well after the recent (historically recent, by which I mean since maybe the 1980s) shift in our culture's ideas about fatherhood and what make "a good dad" as well as similarly radical shifts in how we approach disciplining children. MCU!Odin is therefore odd because he's a couple of generations out if he's meant to convince the audience that he's A Good Dad or even an acceptable one. Even the people making the film can't have (all) thought he was any good so with this in mind I'm more open to the idea that Odin is meant to be fairly shit. (But not entirely, and certainly not to the point of him being evil - he's doing his best and arguably the issue isn't him but the culture they've all been born into.)

IDK how old the writer was but there could be an intentional generation-gap thing going on there? An "everyone thinks this is acceptable and even good parenting, but it isn't and everyone involved is getting messed up by it." You don't have to go that far back historically before failing to show regular affection to your kids wouldn't be seen as a significant flaw in a father (whereas it absolutely would be in a mother - v interesting that as the status of women in our society has increased our idea of a good dad has shifted significantly towards an ideal that would previously have been considered "maternal" and thus "unmanly." Oh hey, looks like patriarchy is bad for men too!)

I still think a lot of fanon and fanfic overstates it (which is fine until we're at the point of inventing obviously abusive behaviour and then seemingly forgetting that we made that up), and that Odin is at least meant to be 'doing his best' but yeah Them Thor Films must surely be aware that his best is nowhere near Actually Good, yeah? I mean unless they were written by a man who lives in the 1950s, which they probably weren't. (There is absolutely some generational variation in how far the social change has taken hold but you'd have to look for a long time before you'd find a man of any age who'd say "I really wish my father had been more reserved and had spent less quality time with me" rather than wistfully expressing the opposite of that.)

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗘𝗚𝗚𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗡𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗬

　　　　　　　　　𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: Where Matt uses his loss on the egg challenge as an excuse to reveal Y/N's pregnancy to his brothers.

WARNING: Pregnancy, crying.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by anon.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I've decided to post it today since it's Father's Day on Brazil! Unfortunately, I had to write it in a rush, so I'm sorry if it's not that good ;(

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Matt, Nick, and Chris had spent the morning engaged in their latest YouTube challenge; a seemingly simple task of caring for an egg as if it were their own child. What had started as a lighthearted competition quickly turned into something more meaningful, though none of them knew it yet.

Nick leaned back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head, exuding confidence as he glanced at the table. His egg sat intact in front of him, a proud reminder of his victory. He smirked at Matt, who sat across from him, his egg conspicuously absent, the pieces of it having already been swept into the trash.

"Well, Matt, it looks like you lost." Nick teased, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. His grin widened, knowing exactly how to get under his brother's skin.

Chris, sitting at the other end of the table, tried to suppress his laughter but failed, the sound escaping as a snort. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Seriously, dude, how did you even have the courage to throw your egg after knowing that it was already cracked?"

But instead of a witty comeback or a defensive retort, Matt remained silent. His usually quick tongue was stilled, and his shoulders slumped slightly as he stared at the table in front of him. His brothers’ laughter echoed around the kitchen, but Matt seemed miles away.

From her spot by the kitchen counter, Y/N observed the scene unfold, her smile soft and her eyes filled with affection as she watched the brothers banter. She had always loved these moments, the way they could turn the simplest tasks into something fun and full of life. But today, something was different. Matt wasn’t joining in the laughter, and the silence coming from him made her heart tighten with concern.

Matt’s eyes met Y/N’s across the room, and for a brief moment, everything else faded away. Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of curiosity and worry as she noticed the unspoken emotion in his gaze. It wasn’t defeat or frustration over the challenge; it was something deeper, something that made her heart skip a beat. What was he thinking? What was he hiding?

Nick’s voice cut through the tension, snapping Matt out of his thoughts.

"Come on, Matt, admit it. You’re just not cut out for fatherhood." Nick joked, his tone light but teasing.

Chris chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a playful grin.

"Yeah, maybe it’s a good thing you’re not a dad yet."

The words, meant in jest, struck Matt like a physical blow. He inhaled sharply, his gaze flickering to Y/N once more, and this time, her eyes widened in realization. Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach, a small, unconscious gesture that Matt had seen her do countless times since they discovered the news. It was a habit she had developed; whenever she felt nervous, excited, or overwhelmed, her hand would rest there, a protective touch that spoke of the new life growing inside her.

Matt took a deep breath, turning his gaze back to his brothers.

"My egg 'broke,' so technically, I lost-" Matt began, his voice quiet, almost detached as he tried to find the right words.

Nick interrupted him, raising an eyebrow in confusion as he imitated Matt’s air quotes.

"'Broke'? Motherfucker, it broke." His voice was full of bewilderment, unsure of why Matt was choosing to word it that way.

But Matt wasn’t paying attention to Nick’s teasing anymore. He pushed back his chair and stood up, the scraping of the legs against the floor breaking the comfortable rhythm of the morning. All eyes were on him as he walked over to the counter, where Y/N stood, her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at him. He leaned against the counter, positioning himself next to her, his hand brushing against hers in a silent exchange of comfort and support.

Nick and Chris exchanged puzzled glances, the playful atmosphere from moments ago now replaced with a sense of anticipation. Matt was rarely this serious, especially during their videos, and the change in his demeanor left them both on edge.

"What’s going on, Matt?" Chris asked, his voice steady but laced with curiosity, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied his brother.

Matt took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He and Y/N had talked about how to break the news to Nick and Chris for days. They had planned it out, imagined different scenarios, and rehearsed how it might go. But now, standing here in the kitchen with the camera still rolling, Matt realized that all those plans didn’t matter. There was no perfect way to tell them; there was only the truth.

"I didn’t lose." Matt said, his voice stronger now, filled with emotion that he could no longer hide. He took a step closer to Y/N, his hand finding hers and squeezing it gently. His eyes never left his brothers as he spoke. "My baby is safe and sound... right in the oven."

The words hung in the air for a moment, the meaning not immediately sinking in for Nick and Chris. They blinked, their expressions mirroring each other’s confusion as they tried to make sense of what Matt had just said.

"The oven?" Nick repeated, glancing around the kitchen. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Chris frowned, his gaze following Nick’s to the actual oven, which was clearly off.

"Matt, what are you-"

But before Chris could finish, Matt shook his head and smiled softly, a smile that held all the love and anticipation he had been carrying for weeks. He gently guided Y/N’s hand to her stomach, the gesture so tender and full of meaning that it spoke louder than any words ever could.

"The oven," Matt repeated, his voice a whisper now, thick with emotion. "Right here."

It was as if time stopped. Nick and Chris froze, their eyes widening in sync as the realization finally hit them. The weight of Matt’s words, the significance of the gesture; it all came crashing down on them at once.

"Wait... are you saying...?" Nick’s voice trailed off, the disbelief evident in every syllable.

Y/N looked up at Matt, her eyes shining with tears that she had been holding back for days. She nodded, her voice trembling with joy and nerves as she finally let the words out, the truth she had been dying to share.

"We’re pregnant." She whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. "I’m pregnant."

For a heartbeat, the kitchen was silent. The camera continued to record, capturing every second of the moment that would change their lives forever.

And then, all at once, the emotions erupted.

Chris was the first to react. His eyes filled with tears that spilled over the rims, his face a mix of shock, joy, and overwhelming love. He stood up so abruptly that his chair almost fell, forgotten as he crossed the room in two long strides. Without a word, he pulled Matt and Y/N into a tight embrace, his arms encircling them both as he buried his face in Matt’s shoulder, his body trembling with sobs.

"Oh my God." Chris whispered, his voice cracking with the force of his emotions. "I can’t believe it. You’re going to be a dad, Matt. And Y/N... you’re going to be a mom."

Y/N found herself laughing through her own tears, the sound mixing with her soft sobs as she wrapped her arms around Chris, resting her head against his. She could feel Matt’s warm hand on her back, holding her close, grounding her in the moment.

"We were going to tell you guys differently, but..." Y/N’s voice faltered, the words catching in her throat as she tried to speak. Her lip quivered as she bit down on it, trying to hold back the fresh wave of tears that threatened to spill over.

Nick, who had been frozen in shock, finally seemed to snap out of it. He looked at Matt, then at Y/N, and back to Matt again, as if needing to confirm that this was real. His eyes were wide, his jaw slack, but then, slowly, a wide, joyous grin spread across his face.

"Holy shit!" Nick exclaimed, his voice full of excitement as he jumped up from his chair, his movements so sudden that it clattered to the floor. He didn’t care. All he could focus on was the fact that his brother was going to be a father. That they were going to be uncles.

Nick rushed over to join the group hug, wrapping his arms around the three of them and squeezing as hard as he could, his voice cracking with the intensity of his emotions.

"This is insane! I can’t believe we’re going to be uncles. Oh my God, Chris, we’re going to be uncles!"

Chris pulled back just enough to look at Nick, their faces mirroring the same shock and joy.

"Yes, you are." Y/N whispered, her voice filled with warmth and love. "You and Chris are going to be the best uncles in the world."

Matt couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. He let them fall freely as he wrapped his arms around his brothers, holding them tight, feeling a surge of love and gratitude that left him breathless. This wasn’t the way they had planned it, but it felt right. It felt perfect. He could feel Chris’s shoulders shaking as he cried, and when he finally pulled back to look at his brothers, he saw the same tears in Nick’s eyes.

Chris wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, a huge, teary grin spreading across his face.

"You sneaky bastards." He said, his voice still thick with his crying. "You kept this from us!"

"We wanted to surprise you." Matt said, finally finding her voice again, though it was still shaky with laughter and tears. "But I just couldn’t wait."

Nick looked at him, his grin turning mischievous.

"So, technically, you didn’t lose the challenge, huh?"

Matt chuckled, shrugging as he looked at the Y/N glued to his side.

"Nope, I didn’t lose. I think I actually won something even better."

Chris wiped at his eyes again, sniffling as he looked at Y/N, his expression soft and full of love.

"You two are going to be amazing parents. This little one is so lucky to have you."

Y/N reached out and took Chris’s hand, squeezing it tightly as she smiled through her tears.

"Thank you, Chris. That means the world to us."

Nick clapped his hands together, the grin never leaving his face.

"Well, I guess this calls for a celebration, huh? Let’s order some food and make this the best day ever."

They all agreed, the room filling with the sound of their joy, and as they gathered around the kitchen table, Matt couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest man in the world.

He looked at Y/N, who was beaming at him, her eyes still sparkling with tears, and ge couldn’t help but think that this was the best video they’d ever made; not because of the challenge, but because it captured a moment that would change their lives forever.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Extra - comments

"this has to be the best twist ever 😭😭 I was NOT expecting Matt to drop that bombshell at ALLLL"

"omg, they're going to be such amazing parents 🥺"

"chris’s reaction had me in TEARS!!! the way he just broke down crying when he realized he’s going to be an uncle… this is why I love them so much, they're so genuine 😞"

"nick’s face when he finally understood what matt meant by ‘the oven’ LMAOOO"

"FUCK NO, I was laughing so hard during the egg challenge, and then I ended up crying when matt revealed Y/N is pregnant 🤧"

"matt is going to be the greatest dad out there, I just know it 🙏🏻"

"who cares about a fucking broken egg when you’ve got a real baby on the way 😩"

"when matt said the baby was in the oven, I thought he was joking about the egg, I did NOT see that coming 🤡"

"please guys, let me in the group hug 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻"

taglist:

@lustfulslxt @ladybunny44 @earth2starkey @freshloveforthefit @sturniolowhore @luvr4miya @alorsxsturn @urfavgirllyyyyy @hearts4chriss @cupidzsq @junnniiieee07 @lightsgore @gidgett11037 @soimightlikeoldmen69 @ldr-sl0t @its-jennarose @sainzzsturns @soso-scarlettolivia @bitchydragonparadise @freshsturns @h3arts4harry @patscorner @strnilolo @bernardsbendystraws @poetatorturadaa @meg-sturniolo @orangeypepsi @jnkvivi @chrisactualwife @fratbrochrisgf @elordilover @somegirlfromasgard @hpyjw @colorthecosmos444 @thewhispersofthewaves @mattslolita @imwetforyourmom @mrl217 @sturnsmia @mattsfavbitchhh @sturnioloshacker @soursturniolo @blahbel668 @sarosfilms @moncherriis @tobesolonelyjess @zainabthescientist @littlemisswhore

(If you want to be added to the taglist, go to this post)

[penny-anna]

ok further thought having finished re-watching the OG Descendants:

not only is Cruella de Vil wildly out of place in a line up of otherwise fairytale & fairytale-adjacent villains the film also just completely fails to grasp her as a character?

Like: Jay's thing is that he was raised to be selfish and only look out for number one and he learns the value of being a good team player. Evie was raised to think being beautiful is the only thing that matters and learns that she's actually smart and talented. they're both solid character arcs w good messages for the audience and engage with what made their respective parents evil.

Carlos's thing is that he was. raised to think dogs are bad and then learns that dogs are nice? problems here:

a. this isn't a Growth Arc like the others bcos its not like he was raised to think dogs suck bcos love & friendship are bad his mother straight up lied to him that they're dangerous and as soon as he met one he realised they're not. he doesn't have a personal flaw to work on, he was just ignorant.

like there's shades of a good arc here w idk his mother having raised him to think love&friendship are overrated and that the only thing that matters is what people can provide for you? he would be all like 'what's the point of having a dog they're nuisances who just eat and poop all day' and then he would learn about unconditional love. but no that's not what happens bcos his mother just lied to him about what dogs are.

& this stands out bcos the other character journeys are actually very solid!!

b. hating dogs. was never Cruella's thing? Cruella's thing is consumerism. she's into furs bcos it's a way of showing off how rich and powerful she is and slaughtering 99 puppies just to make the world's fanciest coat is the ultimate expression of her conspicuous consumption. its a custom baby seal leather boots situation.

so like Cruella's kid's issue should be having been raised to value material goods over people's feelings which is an arc that absolutely could be resolved by him befriending a dog but again the root cause of his issue with dogs is that they're 'rabid pack animals'

aughhhh (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

So as we know sharks are very territorial and sometimes little attention whores, they tend to love divers and get territorial over them with other sharks. So I was wondering if Price ever gets protective or territorial over remora reader with the others, or if he feels miffed when she spends time with the others more than him? If some part of him likes her cleaning him and only him?

using this as a follow up to shark mer Price being a territorial bastard >:)

to recap: Price is super protective over you--you're his territory--but you spending time with the Ghost, Gaz, and Soap doesn't bother him because they're his territory too.

however this does not extend to anyone outside the 141. this is a problem because you're naturally curious. because you're a remora mer, right?

and way too friendly for your own good. and extra extra prone to lapsing into a fawn response instead of a fight or flight response.

so you can't really blame Price for being kind of overprotective.

when he's not around, you can bet you're juuuuust dumb enough to swim right up to, say, a diver. or even the small diving boats humans putter around in near the reef.

you might meet a friendly human diver like perhaps Alex Keller (◕▿◕✿)

who for sure doesn't mind your poking and prodding and general lack of boundaries.

he's totally chill about it. actually he's into it. he loves your curiosity! swimming with mer is rare. being this close to one is a dream.

you're basically doing this (video).

you're idly aware that he's examining you as you're examining him, but it doesn't stop you from checking out his suit, his tank, his legs--weird plastic fin-feet he's got--you'd even pull his goggles right off his face if he's not careful.

you have more curiosity than sense. so does he.

because the moment Price sees you, he immediately pushes his way into the middle of this little... mutual exploration you're allowing to happen.

more accurately, he snatches you away. diver Alex is lucky if he escapes with a glare instead of a warning bite.

you, meanwhile, are fucking grounded.

plead ignorance if you want, but you know it's against the rules to do what you did.

you were sort of hoping you could avoid punishment by acting cute. or by not getting caught in the first place. idiot.

no dice. Price takes you straight back to his cave--and you are to stay there. you'd better stay put on your own free will, too. Price isn't above tying you up. he knows Gaz will feed you anyway.

and Gaz is the only one allowed in. if he's good.

it sucks for everyone when you're grounded. Soap is bored and horny out of his mind. Ghost says nothing, but he conspicuously moves his usual day-sleeping spot closer to the entrance of the cave.

how long can you expect it to last? you're not sure. maybe until Price isn't fuming at the thought of you getting snatched up like a goldfish in an aquarium net.

more mer au / more Price / masterlist

[jibunbosh]

Mesmerizer is a satire of TikTok, YouTube Shorts, and the rest of the modern short-form vertical video format

A brief thematic analysis.

I'm sure there are countless people already interpreting the imagery and details in this wonderful song & MV, like here and here, so I won't spend too much time retreading that ground. Miku and Teto are dancing. Miku gets hypnotized. Teto signals for help, but gets hypnotized at the end as well.

That part is obvious enough, but that's still pretty surface-level. What is this seemingly hyperspatial horror scenario supposed to mean to us?

While checking to see if anyone before me's already come to the same conclusions as I did and if I should bother not writing this text post at all (lol), I came across udin's great analysis video. She comes to the conclusion that the song tackles themes of disillusionment with reality and the ways we indulge in escapism to relieve ourselves of the pains of the world.

I agree with that reading! From practically the very beginning, we have Miku call to us - the viewer - to push away our true feelings. Teto comes in to peddle a solution, inviting us to surrender and empty our minds - in her words, "pretending to know nothing."

You, the viewer, are a critical character in this masquerade. For nearly the entire video, Miku and Teto's eyes are unfailingly trained on you. Or, well... perhaps they can't actually see you, but they can see a camera, or whatever other aperture the point of view is supposed to be from. And they know they're being watched. (Who else would Teto be sending distress signals to?)

Let's put a pin on that for later.

udin notes very early on that Miku and Teto are, conspicuously, kept in vertical frames - very similar to the video formats of TikTok (and Instagram Reels, and YouTube Shorts, and whatever other clones of the format exist.) You know, just like the animator Caststation's Rabbit Hole fan MV that went viral some months ago.

Hey wouldn't it be crazy if the song's producer, 32ki, released Mesmerizer shorts too haha. Wouldn't that be crazy.

Wow, wild.

These short-term vertical videos are captivating & alluring. If you're reading this, it's more likely than not that you've also found yourself caught up in them at least once, scrolling through the infinite algorithmic slurry and forgetting about the real-life issues you have at hand. Would you say, then, that you felt hypnotized? Mesmerized, even?

And so these two invite us to join their world and focus on the... uh... rectangle.

Their dances are repetitive, following the same loop. Their outfits are distinct, but their choreography isn't. They're copying the same formula, repeating it ad nauseam to the best of their ability.

They're doing a fucking TikTok dance.

Back to the pin I told you about earlier, with Miku and Teto looking at a camera.

Miku sways with the camera, eyes looking directly at it like a swinging pocket watch. She's been looking at it the entire time, after all. We've been seeing her via our screen this entire time, but, again, she doesn't necessarily see us. She's beholden to the camera, which she dances for day after day, caught up in its spell. She's hypnotized by it. Eventually, she breaks.

Teto, on the other hand, resists. For a while, anyway.

Despite her being the one jumping to us with the "solution" at the beginning of the MV, there's very quickly good reason to question how much agency she has in this. She dances for the camera as well, but she doesn't want to. She's signalling for help. She wants out.

Many content creators (as much as I personally loathe the non-specificity and soullessness of the term) have struggled with the adaptation to the short-form video format, and the preference the algorithm has had for these captivating, bite-sized videos. They're catchy, and easily drive up metrics. Practically anyone who's publishing their work via video format online needs to learn to adapt or fall behind, even if that means whittling their content down to fit the frame, the time, and people's shortening attention spans. Sometimes, that means compromising on specificity and completeness... or, in other words, the true representation of a full work.

The song's writer, 32ki, has been releasing songs on YouTube for several years. Their first YouTube Short, however, was posted only a year ago: a short, whittled-down segment of their previous song, CIRCUS PANIC!!!, hoping for it to win the ProsekaNEXT song contest. It was their first song to achieve widespread popularity and hit a million views.

The shorts, however, aren't the "true" versions of the song. The full song just won't fit.

We're being mesmerized as consumers of this endless stream of content, rather than appreciators of music and art. However, that relationship isn't completely symmetrical across the plane that is the 4th wall. Miku and Teto are trapped not by their attention spans, but by a compulsion to project their "truthful acting" and peddle that window into a colorful, problem-free world.

We, as the collective audience, need not dwell on any one thing for too long - we need only swipe, and move on to the next video. However, Miku and Teto are trapped behind the screen for eternity, day after day.

They're the only characters we get to see, of course. There's no evil 3rd voice synth character that's plotting to keep them trapped in there. We can't put a face to whatever force is hypnotizing them and trapping them behind the screen. It's faceless - like the inscrutable algorithms of YouTube recommendations or the TikTok For You page, or the impersonal corporations that develop & maintain those aforementioned apps. Miku and Teto's likenesses, on the other hand, are being exploited and extracted from for their entertainment value, being strung along by that metaphorical hypnotizing force like puppets on a string.

Many people, represented by Miku, enjoy their success on such platforms. It's freeing and liberating to throw oneself wholeheartedly into such an endeavor, of course! Others, represented by Teto, harbor their doubts of the emotional veracity of such a medium, but know they have little choice lest they face destruction... perhaps not literally as a person, but as an idea.

Wouldn't it be easier just to let oneself be swept away by it and give in?

[junipers-archive]

Sweater

Word Count: 600

Includes: fluff! the team finds out about reader x Spencers relationship when you show up to work wearing one of his sweaters

"Y/n." It was Penelope, she was whispering conspicuously as you entered the office heading for the conference room.

"Goodmorning!" You answer quickly as you were already running late due to your much needed coffee run this morning.

She begins to trail after you. "Y/n."

You stop, now wondering what's wrong, especially as all the heads in the room begin looking towards you as you walk in. But it isn't until Derek speaks up that you're hinted as to why,

"So you and pretty boy finally did it?" Oh no.

You mind races trying to figure out how he knew. Did Spencer tell him? You'd agreed not to tell anyone at first so you wouldn't cause absolute chaos. But it's been sixth months you guess it's be perfectly reasonable if-

"Your-your Sweater...its Spencers." Penelope elaborates, calming you rampant mind, all at the same time making it spasm.

You look down silently at what you're wearing, its almost identical as your regular getup, but because you were really running late this morning you'd grabbed a sweater from the couch in your shared apartment on your way out.

Completely missing the fact it was Spencers. It had been a soft cobalt blue color crew neck, one of his favorites with little designs lining it in navy...and also one he wore quite often.

You stared in both disbelief from how you'd manage to grab the one he used most consistently and also at your own stupidity and how you'd failed to notice the whole car ride here.

You look up bewilderedly, to find your colleagues staring at you all in varying ways, Derek was grinning, Rossi was smirking, Penelope had taken to a worried/excited look, Emily was respectfully trying to hide her smile and even Hotch was pretending to read the papers in front of him to avoid eye contact.

You attempt a reply calmly but stammer despite yourself,

"I-I-we-um"

closing your eyes to focus your thoughts and breathe, you open them to find Spencer your lovely boyfriend entering or rather staggering into the room.

He had taken the long route so you'd show up at different times,

"Hi! Sorry I'm late-I just-I-What-why's everybody looking at me like that?"

Everyone shaking their heads and smiling to themselves ignored his question as Penelope began to brief all of you on the case.

You hope the subject will be forgotten.

But of course it won't be, and surprisingly its Hotch that asks once the case had been explained and he'd called wheels up,

"Are you two dating?"

Everyone was still seated, waiting for something to be said, and you could see the pleasure in all their faces as he uttered the question.

Spencer swallowed though, not having become aware of the situation even after you'd tried to pass him a note like some third grader.

It had read: I'm wearing your sweater!

To which he'd simply responded with, I'm sure no one's noticed.

Having of course not been aware of your previous interaction with the team.

"We-uh-well-" he tried to begin

"Yes. We are dating." You had to confirm it, knowing if you didn't it would only make matters worse in the long run.

To that Hotch gave his lopsided smirk, "I'm Happy for you, but I'm not thrilled to do the paperwork."

The team of course having heard, errupted in giggles, reminiscent of child like giddy as they finally took it as their cue to leave.

And as they filed out Spencer received several pats on the backs and "good going reid" from Rossi and Derek as you yourself had been berated with questions from Emily and Penelope and "I swear to god if he hurts you-"'.

But as you both shyly retreat, gather your things and exit you agree that the best reaction had been from Hotch as he whispered quietly before he left,

"Well I guess I have to let you room together now."

[plounce]

what people misunderstand about the hvw patch urianger plotline is that urianger's greatest sin in that arc is not sending minfilia to the first. he didn't actually do that. what he did is set up a confrontation between the wol and ardbert's party without elidibus' knowledge so all the crystals of light from the wol and from ardbert's party would allow them to talk to hydaelyn and minfilia. that is what he did. then he presented his solution to the first and source's dual problem, and minfilia AGREED and so did hydaelyn and so minfilia chose to go over. minfilia was already lost in the sauce. the wol and the scions knew that, they saw her in the antitower as the vessel of hydaelyn as The Word Of The Mother. she was already in there and it wasn't going to be as easy to get her out like they did y'shtola and thancred - or maybe even possible. what he arranged is a meeting that had the ability to conclude in the way he wanted - which was a way for the first to survive, and for no calamity to happen on the source. and in that, he allowed everyone to see minfilia again and speak with her. so he could ask her if she was willing to do that. he didn't punt her over there! because even when he's taking action, he is still a really passive person lmao. but he gave minfilia the option to save two entire worlds, which she was happy to choose to do.

urianger's ACTUAL greatest sin in that arc is alisaie's poisoning by renda-rae's arrow. i don't know if urianger was with the warriors of darkness for that incident or if he was at the waking sands, and i KNOW he was probably horrified to hear about the incident and intensely regretfull and ashamed he wasn't there to stop it (like he stopped ardbert's party in the cutscene after xelphatol later on) but regardless, i don't think their relationship was ever the same after that. which makes me miserable, because right before this is the bahamut coils plot, where alisaie trusts urianger as her scion contact (not alphinaud!) because he's a close family friend, and he obviously respects her so incredibly much (he uses "you" for her!) and is so distressed when he sees her (and alphinaud) all beat up after the final coil. they never act very close after 3.4, aside from urianger presenting her with a custom-made rapier and a prophecy before she sets sail to kugane in stormblood. i think that is in part meant as an apology (and also so alisaie has an easier time casting), but they never really team up again like they did in the coils plot. this probably isn't intentional on the part of the writers, but it's an absence that feels conspicuous to me. when your childhood babysitter almost gets you killed.

[underdark-dreams]

It's finally here, all 7k words of it 👀 Thank you for everyone who read chapter 1, and waited so patiently!

[ch1]

Birds and Bees - Ch.2

Rolan isn't usually the type to accept help. In his defense, Tav is very persuasive—and he is very, very desperate.

Tags: Tailplay, Oral Sex, Biting, NSFW | Word Count: 7.7k [Read on AO3]

Rolan didn’t appear again for the rest of the day.

After their awkward exchange this morning, Tav felt she might be somewhat to blame. She tried to recall the bits of Tiefling etiquette she’d picked up from the Elturians; perhaps touching his tail had crossed some sort of line? Either way, the gesture seemed unthinkably forward to her now. 

Then again…Rolan was the one who’d coiled his tail across her desk like that, its tip nearly brushing her hand as she wrote. She’d never seen him do anything like it before. If she didn't know him so well, she’d have found the move almost flirtatious.

At shop’s close, Cal took charge of locking up the front. Tav caught sight of the large iron keyring he carried and realized that it must be Rolan’s. So his brother had checked in on him today, at least—that gave her a modicum of relief.

Lia pitched in to help wipe down all her equipment and carefully fill the many waiting bottles with her cooled elixir. Tav held her tongue from repeating any of the worries she’d made after Rolan during the day—but it seemed her silence was just as damning.

“Stop fussing,” Lia repeated firmly. “Rolan’s just overdue for a rest. I mean, you saw his face.”

“I did.” Rolan had never been the type to slow down or show weakness easily. To Tav, the fact that he’d willingly taken himself to bed worried her more than anything. “Just promise you won't let him turn down a healer if he needs one?”

“If it comes to that, which it won't,” Lia said down to her work. “I promise we’ll find someone, okay?”

Tav kept her tone teasing as she packed away the sealed bottles in their crate. “Hmm, yes…if only you already knew someone with some knowledge of healing.”

Lia let out a bark of laughter. “Trust me, you’re the last person Rolan wants to see right now.”

The sting of those words took Tav by surprise herself. Lia caught their edge too; she pulled up with a grimace, letting a few drops of antidote dribble onto the desk. “Shit, Tav, I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” Tav replied, making a fuss of sealing up the filled crate. The thought made her feel rather less than okay, which she didn't want Lia to see. “I think—I don’t know. I feel like I did something rude today, anyway.”

“Oh?” Lia’s tone was light, but she allowed a conspicuous pause to stretch between them. Tav pushed through a twinge of embarrassment to turn to face her.

“Lia, what would you think if I touched your tail?”

Lia glanced up with an eyebrow cocked. “What, right now?”

“No, just—say I did by accident.”

Lia straightened to take a thoughtful inhale. “I mean…it depends on the context. You and I are friends, I wouldn’t think much of it. Unless you grabbed it up by my backside or something,” she added with a laugh. “It wouldn’t be a big deal. If I’m walking somewhere crowded, lots of people might brush against it unless I’m careful.”

Tav had moved around to reset the rest of her clean glassware as she listened, feeling marginally relieved by the explanation.

Then Lia paused her work again. “Are you saying you touched Rolan’s tail?

“You what now?”

With impeccable timing, Cal skidded to a stop at the edge of the conversation, a heavy lockbox under one arm.

Tav glanced between the two of them. “Yes?” The word came out as a question somehow; her mouth went dry as they stared at her. “Like you said, I didn't think it was a big deal. He laid it on my desk while I was working, so I just kind of—” She mimed a little picking-up motion with her hand.

The siblings exchanged a significant look with each other. 

“What?” Tav felt her face burning and knew the color must be noticeable to either of them. “How does it being Rolan’s tail make it different?”

Cal turned back to her with a frown. “What do you mean he laid it on your desk?”

“I don't know, damn—clearly I’m no expert!” She flailed her arms out a bit. “I just turned around and it was sitting there by my hand, all right?”

Another shared glance.

“That explains it,” Cal decided. It earned him a swift pinch on the arm from his sister. “Ow, hey—”

Tav looked between them again, trying to translate. “Explains what? Seriously, if I offended Rolan somehow, I want to kn—”

“You didn’t,” Lia cut in firmly. “This one here's just an idiot. It’s harder to control your tail when you're sick or tired, and Rolan’s been both, that’s all. I'm sure it was a mistake. And he shouldn't have minded you moving it,” she finished with a decisive nod.

With that, Lia snatched up the filled crate from her with one arm and grabbed her brother’s sleeve with the other. Cal stumbled slightly as she pulled him along, but he wisely held his tongue as they headed for the back stockroom. The hinges creaked shut behind them both.

Tav was left standing alone in the cavernous interior of Sorcerous Sundries, beside the desks that she and Rolan used to comfortably share—not sure if she should feel better or worse.

—

The next morning, Rolan was once again nowhere to be found.

He hadn’t even conjured his projection the way he usually did when occupied with research in the Tower. It was a shame; the shop was unusually busy by midday, and Cal and Lia worked without pause. When she could, Tav left her alchemy just to lend a hand with customers or make runs to the supply room.

She found herself worried to the point of irritation. Was Rolan really so stubborn that he wouldn’t take a potion? Or accept healing from someone he’d claimed was a trusted friend and colleague? She tried and failed not to be hurt by it.

Then again, Rolan had always been the type to shoulder his way through awful things alone while firmly turning down help—particularly from her. His apprenticeship, most recently. The memory made her radiantly angry on his behalf even now.

“Shit—” 

Tav jerked away from the flask and sucked on her freshly scalded thumb. She must have the ratios off again; this recipe wasn’t new to her, but the nuances had escaped her all morning. These sublimates shouldn’t get nearly so hot when mixed.

Might as well admit defeat and review the recipe before she wasted yet another bunch of black oleander. Surely there was a reference text somewhere in Rolan’s library?

Tav glanced around to the front of the shop. Cal was recording a sale at the front desk; Lia was chatting with a very large half-orc over near the conjurement runes. Things seemed well enough in hand. Tav damped the flame at her station and quietly took the stairs for the portal.

For lack of a better word: the library of Ramazith’s Tower was absolutely magical. 

Tav stood breathing in the quiet afternoon sunlight, taking an appreciative look up around her. The collection must be the best one this side of Candlekeep, with all sorts of books on spellcraft, Weave theory, alchemy, religion, the history of Toril—just to scratch the surface. She could think of no hands more deserving than the ones its ownership had fallen into.

Just as Lia mentioned the other day, Rolan had clearly been hard at work reorganizing the place. She ran her fingertips over the books’ spines as she walked around the perimeter of the main floor.

She imagined Rolan with his robe sleeves pushed to his elbows, enthusiastically at work in his book stacks, and bit back a grin. There was something so endearing about his passion for taming disorder. As she walked, she found her gaze drifting to the delicate staircase at the far end of the main floor. It spiraled upward invitingly. 

She’d never been to the upper floors of Ramazith’s Tower—nothing past the library. Certainly she hadn’t stepped foot in any of the private quarters of Rolan or his siblings. She wouldn’t even know which door led to whose.

But her mind wandered readily at the thought of Rolan’s bedroom. What it might look like…smell like. 

No doubt it was packed with shelves of books and scrolls, filled with the scent of fresh parchment and leather-bound volumes. That warm, bookish smell that seemed to be woven into his robes. The fresh hint of cedar from the way he kept his clothes meticulously cleaned and stored. And that other faint spice that she could never identify, but always picked up when he stood close to her.

The same scent that had filled her lungs with dizzy pleasure when he’d hovered close to her yesterday, chin brushing her shoulder and arm circled possessively around her waist— 

She bit her lip as heat pooled between her legs at the memory. She couldn't help it—how very fucking nice it had been to feel Rolan’s elegant hands on her, casually and effortlessly touching, as if he was accustomed to touching her much more often and much more intimately.

It would do no good to dwell on that moment. If anything, the uncharacteristic gesture was just proof of how out-of-sorts Rolan must be feeling. He was her friend, and by all accounts, he’d been too sick to leave his room for days. 

With a sudden burst of determination and a disregard for the consequences, she strode for the stairs.

Taking the curving ascent so rapidly left her dizzy. Tav planted her boots on the landing for a moment, holding onto the railing while she took in her surroundings.

This upper hall was also quietly sunlit, filled with fine carpeting and oak paneled walls; but the atmosphere was somehow less grand than the cavernous library below. More intimate. 

Two doors stood on both ends of the hall. Hazarding a guess, she stepped to the closest one on her left. Its heavy oak panels swung forward with the slightest touch.

Not a bedroom at all, but a bath—and a tremendously fine one at that. All the fixtures seemed to be wrought from polished gold. Underneath a towering stained glass window stood the deepest, widest clawfoot tub she’d ever seen.

As she gazed around, Tav caught sight of her reflection in a large glass above the sinks. Her hair was all frizzy flyaways from a day over her potion work. Indulging a bit of vanity, she paused to tame it with her fingers.

One of Rolan’s many endearing habits was his dedication to fastidiousness. Never a hair out of place, horns polished and shining, robes immaculately pressed—knowing him, with a bit of the Weave.

She must look like some sort of wild hedge witch by comparison. Tav had never minded life in the wilds as a wayward adventurer, even after the Elder Brain was felled to the Chionthar. It was part of what drew her to the career of a traveling alchemist. 

But there were moments…most of them in this Tower, with Rolan and his siblings. Sharing a meandering dinner at a real table with actual chairs. Sitting with Rolan out on the starlit balcony, discussing blood alchemy over a glass of wine as they watched the harbor.  

Tav forced her hands still and stared back at her reflection. 

“What do you want?” She muttered to herself. The Tav in the mirror had no answer. But in her mind, one softly bloomed.

Over the past months, her feelings had tumbled forward faster than she could keep up with them. Seeing Rolan, talking with him about anything and everything, working beside him in quiet moments—she found those were the moments she looked forward to most.

His offer to turn one of the Tower’s empty vaults into a greenhouse for her. Essentially giving her a permanent place in his home, if she wanted it. Was it stupid to hope that he wanted more, too?

As she stood frozen silent in the confines of her lavish surroundings, a muffled sound came from her right.

She hadn't noticed the second door past the bathtub; presumably connecting to one of the bedrooms. She realized it most likely led to Rolan’s.

She stepped toward the heavy oak paneling and raised a hand to knock. As she did, more muffled noises came from within. Tav hesitated, questioning whether she should—then leaned in to press one ear to the wood.

There were the sounds of labored breathing, as if from pain or exertion. She strained her ear harder. There was something almost…rhythmic in it.

And then—she could swear—she heard Rolan's voice groan her name aloud.

A shock of heat ran through her chest, prickling up her neck and diving between the cleft of her legs. The rapid, hot ache at her core made her gasp out in surprise, then clap a hand to her mouth lest he heard. She felt her cheeks burning with realization.

Whatever she had expected to find by wandering up here…this had never been on the list. All she saw in her mind’s eye was Rolan, sweating and panting and desperate. And that thought filled her with overwhelming want in response.

Tav pushed herself back from the door with a jolt. She turned and ran, not knowing or caring whether the ring of her footsteps on tile carried past the door. Her pulse pounded against her ears as she rushed out of the room and back for the staircase. 

Even before Tav’s foot hit the third stair, she knew she was headed for the Elfsong. And a very stiff fucking drink.

—

Day passed to night and back to day again in a feverish jumble. Like a vessel adrift in a vast ocean, Rolan was passed along wave after wave of searing impulse.

Had his ruts always been this overwhelming, and he’d just forgotten? Or was there something different about the drives this time around? 

Even the little dignities were stripped away, one by one. He began by conjuring mage hands at first, but his concentration faltered too many times at the cusp. He finally just settled for his own grip. Desperate sounds rose in his chest each time he neared his next finish, the likes of which he’d never utter voluntarily.

And he quickly gave up on clothes altogether. He lay naked and spread-eagle on his sheets and tried to sleep when he could, before his demanding cock inevitably twitched back to life again. The fever turned his dreams shockingly lewd whenever he did manage to drift off.

By sunset, another strong wave of need was pulsing through his core, demanding his attention. Rolan lay back against his pillows and groaned open-mouthed as he stroked himself.

Even slick with oil, the friction between his hand and the raw, overstimulated ridges of his cock bordered on painful. His finish danced out of reach to the back of his mind.

With an impatient growl, he flipped over to his knees and snatched up a feather pillow, folding it into a sleeve for his cock. A crude solution—but with his first few thrusts, the cool softness of the silk caused a moan of relief to rise in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut as he fucked his own pillow in a desperate chase for relief.

And behind his eyelids, there she was again.

Tav appeared there so easily now. He’d tried to fight it at first—ashamed to be using her like this, without her knowledge or consent—but he found that nothing satisfied his urges so well as when he pictured her on his cock.

So he closed his eyes and imagined Tav…pliant, eager, hungry. Legs spread and center dripping with desire for him. The shameful depth of his need faded away as he fantasized her own. How her eyes might shine as she panted and gasped under him, calling him by name and begging him to fuck her and fill her and mark her as his—

What would she sound like as he took her? He conjured the timbre of her voice, always warm and musical, now canting to a whine as the ridges at his base slammed against her with each thrust.

Pressure coiled rapid and hot at his loins. Rolan slid off the mattress with legs braced, the pillow cast aside, and tugged frantically at his stiff length again. His tail arched and flicked behind him.

Through clenched eyelids he saw Tav laid at the foot of his bed, hair splayed in a messy crown against his sheets as she cried out his name. Her legs crossed behind his flanks to hold him deep inside her tight wet heat—

‘Rolan—’ She moaned louder, her heels digging into his lower back as he took her. Tav gripped two handfuls of the bedding underneath as he thrust relentlessly, chasing more of her heat around his cock, more of the delicious scent at her throat and between her legs—

“Rolan!”

“Fuck—” With a strangled gasp, Rolan’s hips stuttered one last time as his come spilled in ropes to the floor. Panting and shaking, he caught hold of the bed post with one hand as he frantically worked out the rest of his finish with the other. His head spun with the force of it.

But as he opened his eyes and his vision cleared, so did that cottony feeling in his ears. Someone was rapping insistently on the door to his room.

“Rolan, we need to talk—” Even muffled by the heavy wood, Tav’s voice was unmistakable.

“Fuck,” Rolan hissed again, this time with enough wits about him to panic. How much of that last performance could she hear through the door? He snatched up the nearest towel to wipe himself, then tripped away toward the pile of clothes on the floor that had lain untouched since yesterday.

“Go away,” he called tersely, nevertheless yanking the trousers up over his hips. Thank hells that last round had left him soft enough he could do up the laces for now.

On the other side of the door, she was undeterred. “I’m not leaving till I’ve seen you.”

Rolan cursed as one of his horns snagged the ties at the neck of his shirt. Once the fabric dropped over his torso, he whirled around to take in the state of his room. 

Bedsheets pulled sideways from the mattress; pillows strewn across the floorboards; air thick with the smell of him. Absolute filthy shambles.

Using a rush of energy he couldn't afford, he cast a mass prestidigitation spell on the space. The improvement in the air was immediate. But the resulting light-headedness caused him to stumble forward; he caught himself with a hand braced on the door frame.

“I'm not joking,” Tav called loudly, unaware he was now much closer.

He could have yelled at her to wait outside for another week, then, if he wasn't so sure she was stubborn enough to actually do so. After all, this was the person who’d defeated an Elder Brain and taken on several gods in the process.

That…and he found he badly wanted to see Tav in the flesh. Hearing her voice from just beyond his bedroom door only increased that desire. Rolan’s tail lashed behind him in helpless frustration.

“What do you want?” He asked instead, lowering his voice. No use broadcasting any more of this conversation to the whole Tower.

There was a pause on the other side of the oak paneling. “I’ve barely seen you since I got here,” Tav’s voice replied, matching his volume.

“And?” 

“And I'm worried about you…obviously,” she added. “Cal and Lia said you’re sick. But I’d feel better if we could talk face to face.” Even through the barrier between them, he could hear a strain in her voice. She wasn't lying. 

Rolan rested his horns against his braced forearm with a sigh. “Tav, I swear I'm perfectly fine.”

“Then just open the door a moment. Please, Rolan?”

It was far too pleasant to hear her say his name outside of his own imaginings. Rolan glanced down at himself. Barefoot, shirt untucked, but technically presentable. And not pitching a tent for once in the past twenty-four hours. 

“If I do, will you leave?” 

There was another pause. “If you want me to,” came the reply. He unbolted the latch and drew it open to shoulder width.

The wave of Tav’s scent hit him almost before he registered her face in front of him. The sweetness of it overwhelmed his other senses for a moment. It tested all Rolan’s limited reserves of sanity not to grab her by the waist and pull her body against him.

Unaware of the silent struggle raging in his chest, Tav stood with face tilted up toward his. Her eyes had traveled over his figure immediately, checking him over with a worried little crease between her brows. Something at the side of his head caught her eye; Rolan realized his hair hung loose and rather sweaty, exposing the slender tips of his ears.

Her demeanor changed at the sight. Tav sighed, leaning her head against the flat of the door.

“You’re even handsome with a fever,” she told him softly.

Rolan blinked at her. Perhaps exhaustion and hormones were driving him to hallucinations. “What are you—”

Faster than he could react, her palms landed on either side of his face, and Tav pulled his mouth down to hers.

A burst of colors exploded behind his eyes; the sensation of her lips moving on his kindled the dormant heat in his body to wild blaze. She notched her hands upward as she kissed him, and her fingers slid up along the sensitive tapers of both his ears.

Rolan let out a hungry, animal sound against her mouth. Both hands landed on her back and crushed the line of her body forward into his, leaving no space between them. He could feel the soft hills of her breasts pressing against his chest through clothing. The warm scent rolling off her skin and hair surrounded him with dizzying force.

The higher part of his mind was screaming at him. Rolan desperately tried to focus on what it was saying; as he did, he caught the tang of wine on her lips. The discovery gave him just enough will to pull back from her.

And he did, with one jerking step back into his chambers. “You can’t be here.”

Tav stood panting through parted lips, eyes half-lidded as they traveled over him. Rolan felt flames lick his skin everywhere they moved.

“Why not?” She breathed. “I wanted to see you.”

“You’re drunk,” he told her. He rather felt that way himself, still reeling from the electricity of kissing her.

Tav pouted at that, and Rolan wished to bite that lower lip firmly between his teeth. “I’m not drunk,” she corrected. “I’ve had a drink. There’s a difference.”

“You wouldn’t be here if—”

“If what?” Tav watched him as she took a step closer. Rolan stepped back in tandem, reflexive. She was well over the threshold now. “If I knew what was really happening to you?”

Those words sounded much more knowing than he liked. Rolan stared at her, trying to read into her face. He swallowed against the dry lump of his tongue and went out on a limb. “Which one of them told you?”

Tav shook her head. “Cal and Lia have been nothing but discreet.” 

“Then how could you possibly understand?” He demanded. The very recent discovery of how soft Tav’s lips were was making it very difficult to maintain this conversation. He could still feel the way her body had pressed into him.

One corner of her mouth twitched. “Rolan, I’d like to think I’m not completely oblivious. There have been…signs. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about them. I’ve been at the Elfsong all afternoon, just—thinking.”

At that, Rolan felt his tail twitching nervously behind him. “I see,” he replied. Pivoting, like an idiot, trying to pretend this was a perfectly acceptable conversation to have with the woman who occupied most of his thoughts when he was pleasuring himself. “And you think that I—that my—”

Tav made a quick twisting motion to get around the door. She latched it and drew the bolt closed behind them, then turned back to him.

“A lot of humans have heard rumors about Tieflings,” she confessed. “Some stupid, but some credible. I’m saying this is maybe not the secret that you think it is.” As he watched, a much deeper blush spread over Tav’s cheeks. She glanced away to the side. 

“Rolan…I grew up in the Dales, remember? Around rabbits, and cattle, and oxen. Half my friends lived on farms.”

Her analogy couldn’t be clearer. To hear her lay it out so plainly—Rolan felt the last dregs of his pride shrivel up and die. He gripped two palms over his eyes and let out a groan of abject humiliation, turning away to the middle of the room. 

How early had she connected the dots? The moment she felt him brazenly place a hand around her? Had she known all along that he was locked up here, rutting into every one of his pillows?

“Look, Rolan, I’m sorry—I didn’t know how else to say it—” 

Completely overwhelmed by his embarrassment, he hadn’t heard her follow. When Rolan finally dropped his hands from his face, he turned to find Tav standing very close to his chest.

“And I’m sorry for kissing you before,” she blurted out. “I mean, I’m not sorry for it…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, to be honest. But it wasn’t fair. I just…wanted to know how you’d react.”

Rolan watched as her chest rose and fell heavily where she stood. The look in her eyes made his blood pound through his veins. He felt an urge to reach out and smooth back her hair to bring her in for another kiss, one he resisted.

“I care about you,” Rolan told her, before he could lose his nerve. “Our friendship. I respect you, Tav, it’s not worth—muddying things with this.” 

He felt fingers lacing through the ones that hung at his side, and despite his words Rolan tightened his grip automatically. Her hand was so pleasantly cool against the heat of his skin.

“Why do you think I’m here?” Tav answered earnestly. “I care about you, too. If I can help, I want to. Please—”

She was so close to him; Rolan breathed shallowly, but the warm scent rolling off her skin and hair nevertheless swept past him with dizzying force.

“You don’t know what you’re offering,” he managed hoarsely.

She didn’t falter. “Then tell me what else you think I should know.”

His senses were growing clouded with her; the offer that had tumbled so easily from her rang in his ears. It made the thread of Rolan’s control stretch dangerously taut.

“I won’t be gentle,” he warned. 

His inadvertent shift in tone changed something in the air between them. There was a crackling energy that hadn't been there a second before.

Tav licked her lips as she watched him. “Good.”

Rolan thought he might melt from the heat that spread across his skin. His tail snapped against the mattress behind him. If she moved a step closer, she’d feel how hard he was in his pants.

“Mating bites,” he went on hoarsely. “I’ll mark you. Quite a lot. I’ll try not to draw blood, but…I can’t promise it.”

Tav nodded. “What else?” She asked, encouraging him to go on. 

Rolan swallowed against the embarrassment. But this was important for her to know. “This time for us, it’s all about…reproduction. We become quite virile.” He nearly choked, but there was simply no other way to put it. “For the urges to pass quicker, I need to come in you.”

Tav let out a throaty hum of approval. His cock twitched in his pants at the sound. “That’s fine, I take preventatives—it’s safe.”

They stood looking at each other for another moment. That shivery, electric feeling buzzed in the air around them. Rolan wondered if she could hear the way his heart drummed against his ribs.

Tav leaned in slightly. “Well…” She said, and her wet tongue passed nervously between her lips again.

That taut thread in his chest snapped in two. Rolan crushed her up against him with a whimper. Arms circling around her waist, he nudged a thigh between her legs and firmly ground their hips together.

Tav matched his eagerness. Their lips crashed together; at the back of his mind, he felt her grip cradling under each of his ears. Her fingertips licked like flame against his scalp.

Even through layers of clothing, he could feel the heat of her. Rolan jerked her hips forward harder against his thigh; the swelling length of his cock pressed against her soft, yielding center. Tav dipped her head back from the kiss, arching into him with a moan, and her fingertips laced at the nape of his neck. 

It offered an irresistible angle at the column of her throat. Rolan’s claws raked back in her hair, pulling it to a tight ponytail. Then he tugged firmly, holding her open as his mouth descended on her neck.

He kissed and sucked along the band of muscle from her ear to the curve of her shoulder, then parted his lips to bite down firmly on her soft flesh. 

“Yes,” Tav moaned in approval above him. Her hips rolled into his, grinding herself against the hard cock straining in his pants. Rolan felt her pulse skip against his mouth. Only when he tasted sweet copper did he pull away, laving his tongue over the crimson pin-pricks of his teeth into her skin.

He took only a moment to admire the trail of marks blooming along her neck. Tav was already pulling him in for another kiss. Their lips crashed together with bruising force; her tongue explored, tasting, searching for proof of her blood against his tongue and moaning against him when she found it.

Her scent filled his mind. Without breaking from her mouth, he plucked open the laces of her pants. Rolan slipped his hand under the waistband, beneath her smalls, and slid two fingers to dip down between her legs. Her folds were shining-slick; as he nudged her in circles, a trickle of her arousal rolled down his fingers. She shivered prettily under his touch.

“You’re soaked,” Rolan groaned against her neck. 

“All because of you,” she breathed without hesitation. “Been wanting this, gods, wanting you for months. Your hands on me—cock in me—”

At the words he withdrew his fingers from her impatiently, then sucked them clean. Her sweet taste on his tongue made his cock ache. She scarcely had time to curse at the sight before Rolan gripped both arms around her waist to lift her into him.

With one quick pivot, he landed her down on the bed with his frame pressed into her. Her legs hung off the edge from the hip down, and he used the position to grind the stiff length in his pants against her cleft.

Even fully clothed, it was maddening. He could feel the wet patch between her legs, and when she arched further into him, a primal growl rumbled in his chest. 

Tav’s fingers were brushing at his sides, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Off,” she panted impatiently.

Rolan tilted back to rip the garment up over his horns, immediately reaching for her own once his was free. He stripped her frantically, ripping her smallclothes in two before he could work them down her thighs.

When she lay bare beneath him, moaning and arching into everywhere he touched, he was overcome with hunger for more of her taste. 

Rolan gripped her hips, dragging her with a jerk to the edge of the bed. With her glistening folds displayed before him, all he could do was drop to his knees and bury his tongue between them.

The sounds she made were like sweet music as he explored her. He sucked and massaged her slit with his tongue, then plunged it as deep within her walls as he could. His eyes rolled back in his head. Her taste surrounded him; his nose brushed her clit as he ate her, further overwhelming his senses with the scent of her arousal.

“Gods, yes, Rolan—” Tav moaned above him as her hands flew to grip each of his horns. She alternately tugged them and arched into his mouth, grinding her clit against his face.

He wanted to hear her say his name like that another thousand times. Rolan curled his tongue against her walls, determined to taste her even deeper, but to no avail. Without his sharp nails, he would have sunk two fingers into her.

Instead, as his mouth left her, the ridged end of his tail looped around to brush over her slit.

“Ah—” Tav gasped from the bed. One of her hands left him to prop up on an elbow to look. 

He watched her face in adoration as his tail slid between her soaked lips, coating itself in a mixture of her arousal and his saliva. Once it was thoroughly wet, he let the heart-shaped tip push experimentally into her.

Whatever hesitation he had evaporated at the way she arched and keened. He pushed in further, inch by inch, hissing in breath at how tight and wet her walls squeezed around him. Rolan felt his cock leaking between his legs at the sight of his tail disappearing into her plush cunt.

“Taking my tail so well,” Rolan praised without thinking, then groaned. “Fuck, Tav, you’re so tight—”

“Don’t stop,” she demanded, breathless.

When he felt the tip brush the limits of her insides, he held it steady as she panted down at him. Her mouth hung open in anticipation as she watched him lean in again for her center.

But instead of landing on her clit, his mouth met with the soft skin of her inner thigh and sucked it firmly between his teeth.

Tav gave a little yelp of pain, but her walls constricted around his tail so hard he moaned against her flesh. He left two more lovely red marks against her thigh before withdrawing his tail from her, leaving only the tip inside her silk.

Then he thrust back into her and took up a forceful rhythm of stretching her open on his tail.

“Fucking gods,” she gasped, gripping both his horns again. He felt her use them as leverage as she bounced her hips down to meet him. 

“Like this, don’t you?” Rolan urged her on, drunk off her desire. “Fucking yourself on my tail—” He leaned down to take another taste of her clit, swirling and sucking as the ridges on his tail dragged more wetness out of her with each thrust.

“Yes,” Tav moaned, shaking under him as his tongue worked over her clit. “Feels so perfect in me, so—ngh—!”

When he flicked the tip of it up inside her, Tav’s words stuttered to incoherence. He felt her inner walls clench and flutter, and repeated the motion over and over with each thrust.

“I’m—oh, oh ohohoh—”

She dissolved into soft cries. The muscles at her core tensed and shuddered as she climaxed against his tongue. Rolan withdrew his tail from her with a slick release, instead clasping his mouth over her to lap down the sweet taste that poured from her. His pants were so wet he was nearly convinced he’d already come, but he felt his cock straining against the fabric just as firmly.

When her thighs collapsed limp to either side, Rolan pushed himself to his feet for a look at her. Tav’s eyes were bright, cheeks flushed with arousal, her hair coiled out in wild tendrils that framed her like a crown. Their eyes met; with both hands on his arms, she pulled him down for a kiss.

Rolan landed braced on his forearms. Their tongues slid and pushed together, trading the taste of her release. When he felt her reaching between them to undo his laces, he pulled away to loose them and strip off the rest of his clothes. 

Tav reached for his erection, and before he’d steadied himself, she gripped his length to drag the generous droplets of precum around his tip with her thumb. His hips bucked into her.

“Eager, aren’t you?” She teased softly.

“Yes,” Rolan groaned. Tav’s soft hand was around his cock for the first time; it was all he could do to locate words. He knew his face was flushed and tense with arousal, but Tav only looked up at him with appreciation from where she lay back on his bed. 

When she guided his length across the wet of her core, he rocked his hips to drag his ridges across her. She shivered slightly, still sensitive, but rolled into him.

“Need you,” Rolan panted, not sure whether he was asking her or begging. “Tav—please—”

Tav’s hand lined him up with her entrance. When his leaking tip nudged inside her, Rolan pushed forward with one slow, determined cant of his hips.

The cool slick of her walls clutched each inch of him so perfectly. A low groan rose in Rolan’s throat—this was the closest thing to real satisfaction that he’d gotten in days, and he hadn't even started moving yet.

“So good,” Tav said under him, voice sweet and husky. “Keep going—”

Rolan braced his hands against her hips. He pulled out slowly, legs shaking beneath him, then pushed back into the tight plush of her. 

His hips took up a firm pace, and Rolan couldn't bite back his whines as he plunged his cock inside her. Whatever his fevered imagination had conjured, it was nothing compared to this—he fell over her again, fangs skating against her breast as her body rocked under him with each thrust.

“Yes, yes, fuck—” Tav was just as breathless as her fingers gripped the infernal ridges on his shoulder blades. She tugged, egging him on.

Rolan took the invitation with enthusiasm. He nipped and sucked around the swell of her breast, breathing in lungfuls of the sweetness rolling off her skin.

“Harder,” Tav begged, the words vibrating against his lips. The hunger inside him surged in agreement.

Rolan’s lips fastened over one nipple. He sucked, hard, letting his tongue roll her against his teeth. Tav let out a whimper, but he felt her legs crossing around his hips as he continued to bury himself in her.

Rolan pulled away to look at her face. A mist of sweat dusted her brow; Tav’s lips were parted and twitching with silent words. 

“Look at me,” Rolan ordered, still filling her with his cock in a steady rhythm.

Tav obeyed, her eyes shining and pupils blown wide. He straightened away from her, never breaking, and laid a hand each on her calves. Then he pushed up, folding her legs to her chest and opening up her cunt even deeper for him.

“You look so beautiful like this, Tav,” he told her, thighs trembling with the effort of keeping his pace slow and steady. “Folded in half in my bed. Stretched around my cock so perfectly.”

In response, Tav’s hands grabbed her knees, pulling herself open even further to each side. “Is this how you imagined it?” She asked wickedly. “All alone—wishing it was me and not your own hand—”

Heat prickled across his neck and shoulders, but Rolan was too far gone to feel shame. He couldn't resist breaking eye contact, however, watching the way his cock stretched open her dripping cunt.

“Just like this,” he panted in answer. She took in breath to respond, but he was already slamming back into her at a reckless pace.

The lewd, wet sounds of his thrusts filled the room, layered with their chorus of whines and moans. Rolan shuddered at how slick and tight she was around him, perfectly gripping each inch of his needy length. His cock throbbed in anticipation of a satisfying release, finally, after all these times of not quite enough—

“I’m close,” he panted, gripping her hips to pull her down deeper onto his cock. The tip of him nudged against the limits of her walls. “Where should—”

“Inside,” Tav insisted, still holding herself wide for him. “Only inside, Rolan, want you to fill me up—fuck—”

The imagery pushed him over the edge, and he did just that. With a throb of release, he felt his cock pulsing and filling her deepest walls with his seed. His hips stuttered into her as he pushed his spend as far into her as he could reach.

Tav clutched his shoulders as he came, humming and moaning out praises for him. Their hips rocked together, nudging his coated length back against her deep center. 

Tav went tense under him. He forced his eyes open and saw her lips parted in surprise.

“I’m—oh—!” 

She gasped in shock as her own climax gripped her. Rolan hissed in breath at the way she clenched and fluttered so suddenly around him. His length was still hard, and his ridges pulsed against her.

As she drifted back down, Tav’s eyes finally lit on him in a daze. “What…what was that?”

Rolan was abruptly reminded of how many ruts he’d spent without a partner. “I'm sorry, I should've warned you,” he confessed. It was hard to form his thoughts while still inside her. “During the cycle…infernal traits get stronger. Like incubi. Helps attract a partner.” Somehow this explanation was more embarrassing than any of the other filth he’d just spoken to her.

Tav stared up at him. “You're saying your come is going to make me come?”

“Essentially.” Rolan shifted inside her slightly, still not confident he was done. “I apologize—I didn't think to tell you. Is that a problem?”

“Rolan—” Tav let out a breathless laugh, and the sound went straight to his chest. “This is the exact opposite of a problem. Just a bit of a shock, that's all.”

The lovely sight of her happy and satisfied under him was too much to resist. Rolan leaned forward on his arms to kiss her, trapping her legs between their chests.

As her hand stroked softly under his jaw, Rolan felt a second ache settling in his loins. He released her lips for just long enough to push her legs out over his hips, then ducked back down for her mouth.

He rolled his hips into her slower this time, but it was somehow more intense. Their lips stayed connected as he drove into her deep. Her walls were slippery with arousal and his own seed, and they gripped like pure silk around his cock. Her opening slid over the sensitive ridges at his base with each thrust.

When he dipped a thumb between their bodies to rub circles over her clit, Tav broke away with a little gasp.

“I can’t again,” she said, panting.

“You can,” he told her simply. “Hold on to me—” 

She did, wrapping both arms and legs firmly around him as if he was her anchor. Rolan dipped his head to her neck as he doubled his pace, their hips slotting together with each brisk slide into her. He breathed deep against the curve of her shoulder.

Still so hungry for release, it wasn't long before he came again hard. This time he just barely pumped his spend into her before he pulled out to look down.

Sticky white seed dribbled out of her slit, running down toward her hole. He dipped the thumb circling her clit down to swipe it back up across her cunt, painting his come across the bundle of nerves at her peak.

Tav’s thighs twitched under him, and she gripped his arm tight with one hand. She swore as he continued flicking across her clit with the wet pad of his thumb, then whined out his name.

While her next orgasm nearly doubled her in half, Rolan tilted his head to watch the sight between her legs. She was soaked, twitching, utterly intoxicating. Her contracting walls pushed more of his spend out of her; it flowed generously from her slit and soaked down into the bedding below.

Finding himself now utterly spent, Rolan collapsed on his back next to her. As he did, he realized his legs had grown fatigued to the point of buckling from the exertions. He let his body sink heavy into the mattress. 

“I made a mess on your sheets,” Tav panted from beside him. 

Rolan groaned at her descriptive language. The fact that his length continued softening was a sign his urges were finally giving him a reprieve, however. “It was mostly my fault.”

She only let out a weak breath of laughter.

Too tired to trust his shaking legs, he reached an arm blind over the side of the bed and snatched up the first fabric it touched. His discarded shirt.

Pushing himself seated, he gently reached to dry between Tav’s legs. One of her hands traced the ridges on his back as he quietly tended to her.

“How long before the next?” She asked him.

“An hour or two.” Rolan didn't look at her. “Tav, you've done more than enough for m—”

The mattress shifted as she sat up and turned his face into a waiting kiss. It was soft, just a chorus of little presses across his lips.

When Tav pulled away, she tucked the damp curtain of his hair behind one ear. “Rolan, unless you want me to go, I'm staying until it’s over.”

Rolan cast a glance over her. Despite the fact that she was naked in his bed and covered in blooming bruises from his mouth, she was very much the same Tav as ever. “Thank you,” he told her quietly.

She pushed him onto his back with a sudden laugh, landing with her chest pressed to his. “What an utterly Rolan thing to say,” she mused. “Need I remind you I just came three times?”

Tav was teasing him, and was of a mind to put her in her place—only he found that none of his limbs wanted to move at the moment. Instead, his only response was a deep hum as his eyelids drooped shut.

He felt the mattress shift as she rose and wished he could reach out to stop her. But a moment later she curled up next to him again, dragging a soft quilt over their bodies. 

Rolan turned inward to rest his head on Tav’s chest—and fell into his first real slumber in days.

[anantaru]

DIFFERENT KIND OF FINE

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — being kaveh‘s younger sibling can be quite jarring yet you‘re eternally grateful for his hot room mate keeping you company while you wait for him.

— ꒰ word count ꒱ — 4.3k

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — [ns]fw, fem! reader, reader is in their 20s + kaveh‘s step sibling, kaveh is both older than you and alhaitham, perv alhaitham ??, he's calling you a 'good girl', he's a tease

by now, how many times in your life did you have to run after your careless, irresponsible brother?

had to make sure he isn't doing anything reckless again, despite him being an akademiya graduate. Or that one time when he had visited your home only to forget half of his belongings, requiring you to carry them all over to his place.

well, not to his place to be exact.

after yet another foolish decision in kaveh's life, your step brother even got himself caught up in heavy debt, being in need of a place to stay.

however at first, he had asked you, but ever since you had gotten adopted you had already spent the majority of your life with him.

to say you were tired was an understatement.

as a matter of fact kaveh did find a place to stay in the end, one you were quite surprised to hear of, bewildered even, you just couldn't wrap your head around how on earth that was supposed to work out in the long run.

you had heard of his roommate, the akademiya's scribe, or how most people were referring to him, as alhaitham, from kaveh himself, aside of the very detailed stories about how ill mannered and ignorant he could become, especially to your brother in question.

in all honesty, it made you laugh, you mean to tell him that yes, sometimes messing with him, taking a lot out of him could be fun in all aspects but maybe it was due to the fact that you were practicing those methods from your childhood days on.

as life went on, you found yourself at his new settling every once in a while, more often when the scribe himself wasn't there, almost as if kaveh was trying his utmost best to never have you both meet each other.

once you had asked him as to why, feeling insulted that he even thought you wouldn't realize when he was making it painfully conspicuous, more whenever your brother would panic that *now* he was usually coming home from his work, you had to leave right now.

all he had to say about it was that he was certain you wouldn't like him anyways, would actually loath him too and wasn't it a part of nature to protect your younger sibling from each major plague in life?

to that, you couldn't respond with anything meaningful, suffocating the conversation right then and there because truthfully, though it may seem strange, you didn't think your brother would lie to you in that precise set of circumstances because maybe he was right, perhaps you really would hold a hostile environment towards the scribe.

even now, as you were strolling through an appealing, warm evening in sumeru city, you not once had met alhaitham, at this being slightly hopeful that you wouldn't cross paths with him today either.

because you see, it was that time of the month again, the: your brother has, again, forgotten something at home after visiting you, putting on the responsibility on your shoulders to fetch and transport it back to his place.

ordinarily you concluded that at this time of the day kaveh surely must've gotten home by now, you knew his schedule by heart and were quite confident to meet him there right away, knocking on the door as you at last, found your way to the huge place he resided in.

knock, knocking once more, silence ... knock again?

after knocking a total of three times, with no one opening the door for you, your expression slightly changed from normal, to confused, to that of being utterly annoyed.

it's not like you didn't have anything better to do other than being your brothers little assistant or however you wanted to frame it.

since you had been to his place numerous amounts of times before, in addition that you determined that he surely must've fallen asleep again, you decided to check the door handle to see if it was open all along, which it then, was.

(you put an important mental note in the deepest ends of your brain to scold him afterwards for carelessly leaving the door to his home open like this.)

you carefully cradled your fingers around the door handle to pull it down, pushing the door open to let yourself in.

okay, well, maybe it wasn't a smart idea to just straight up enter a home from someone you didn't know, but kaveh was living there for a good amount of time already so you didn't think too much of it.

the second you had entered you swiftly closed the door behind you, the faint breeze from outside scampering around your body as you tightly held onto the two books he forgot at your place, walking towards the living room.

"kaveh?" you spoke, rolling your eyes and deciding to get a bit louder, already being done with this whole, bloody situation, "kaveh!"

once reaching the living room you with, might i add, a bit too much applied strength, violently thumped the books onto the wooden coffee table and huffed out, distressfully folding your arms in front of your body.

"what has that poor table done to you?" you helplessly shrieked the moment you had perceived an unfamiliar, deep voice, the little hairs on the back of your neck standing straight while you were slowly turning around in horror.

"who are you?!" you could say you spoke before actually bringing the whole situation to your mind to thoroughly think about it, leaving the unacquainted man in front of you with a confused look on his face.

"I think i could ask you the same." he was quick to gather a response, flawlessly bringing himself a step closer towards your frame but still leaving enough space between your bodies.

"because you see, this is my house." instead of kindly introducing himself to you, like any other person would, he swiftly walked past your body to plop himself onto the massive couch.

but never keeping his gaze off you, carefully sliding his eyes from your lips, to your exposed collarbones and glissading them over your body until reaching your legs.

it seemed as if he was waiting for a response from you, after all you had now rapidly deducted that this had to be none other than the scribe, alhaitham, himself.

you turned around to slightly lower your gaze to where he was sitting at, nonchalantly sipping on his cup before placing it on the coffee table right next to kaveh's books.

"so .. you must be?" warily, you allocated a question into the room, anxiously swaying in your footing from left to right.

"the owner of this house."

seriously?

the least he could do now was approach you back in kindness instead of making it a dozen amount more difficult for you, as well as embarrassing.

"that's not what i meant." how rude, okay, to give him the benefit of the doubt you were the one who broke into his house but clearly he must've known who you were.

or maybe he actually didn't when you take into account that all kaveh and alhaitham would do was bicker with each other day on day, play pranks or make it as difficult as possible for one another without actually exchanging a normal sounding sentence, once.

"what did you mean then?" casually, he settled back into the couch to withhold the long overdo smirk on his lips, leaning one hand over the frame, his eyes being currently fascinated by your cute lips, pretty eyes, attractive thighs and in confusion, scrunched up face.

or what about the skirt you were wearing, it neatly fit you and magnified your alluring curves, as if it was tailored just for your body to dress in.

what if you were to bend down right now, would the garment expose your cute panties underneath or was it just right, situated under your plump ass? keeping everything hidden from his hungry eyes.

your expression was being somewhat amusing, the hilarity of it all barely being able to be hidden.

"you know what? I'm leaving." attempting to stressfully remove the books off the wooden table, he quickly rose up to confidently sit upright, "wait."

"i assume you're kaveh's sibling?" the worst thing of it all was the tone in his voice, as if he wasn't actually asking you, just proving his own thesis. "yes."

you slowly pulled your shoulders back to appear more poised in your mannerism, standing upright when he suddenly shifted in his seat, scooting as to try to make some space for you.

"i'm alhaitham, though i don't think you've heard many good things about me." at the tip of his sentence, he gently tapped the now empty area next to him with his hand, beckoning you to take a seat.

what harm was there in doing that, right? it appeared as if kaveh wasn't home yet so you could spare some time to wait for him, with alhaitham, of all people.

his voice reverberated a deep, gentle timbre, as well as a controlling chime trussed around it.

you've quietly settled on the couch and exchanged names with him, you were wholly surprised to find such a man, that was for one, in all aspects different from what your brother had originally told you about and second, although he shared a couple intimidating peculiarities— which might be a natural revealing trait from his work, alhaitham was a clever, pleasant person to have a conversation with.

"kaveh is getting held back at the akademiya." he was idly finishing his drink, inconspicuously scurrying a couple inches closer to you.

"you can wait here if you want." you smile at his proposal, situating yourself within reach to better listen to him, "thank you so much, i will."

alhaitham hummed at your sense of utterance, his choice of words was well thought after, his body language too, turning it altogether more clear.

"who knew kaveh's sibling would be so well mannered." he added, understandably focusing on your lips or how they held a glint of sparkly lipgloss on top, "it's so different from him."

how would you taste like? the lipgloss he means.

would it be sticky on his lips? if he kisses you, or taste artificial, maybe a small amount of strawberries, the gloss faded in a translucent tone after all so all he could do was guess.

you're finding yourself awkwardly laughing at his words, "he's not always like that." nodding along, you decided to not dwell on it any longer, it was polite to bring forth your well mannered approach, after all he did open his doors for you ..

.. or you actually did, but he let you stay.

"i don't think kaveh is as polite as you?" he was lingering a bit closer now and for some reason you found the warmth his body set free pacifying.

you're able to fully glance over his facial features, focusing on the small dimples dwindling around the corners of his lips, his multicolored irises or the enticing cologne hanging in midst the air.

your nostrils were slightly flaring, involuntarily memorizing his scent, archons, you couldn't stop yourself from traveling into your thoughts, fighting every square in your body to halter yourself from drifting off into your daydreams.

"uh-" at first, you had no clue he was staring at you the whole, damn time, his hair strands were effortlessly falling around his porcelain skin, intently watching you through his thick lashes, "it depends on the person, i think."

"on the person you say." he trails off before smiling at you, a little coy and intriguing, the right corner of his lips being tucked back into a smirk.

you didn't even realize how close you two have been sitting next to each other by now, only being brought back to reality when you accidentally nudged your knee against his own, pulling in a sharp breath through your nose.

his scent was now heavily falling down on you, much more violent than before. A tease actually, that's what he was and you fell into it head first, your embarrassment cushioning your sweet cheeks with immense warmth as you disconcertingly pushed your thighs together.

so sweet, you never questioned yourself, and what about your brother? would he want you to fuck his roommate, or maybe, try and kiss him right now? and you know you shouldn't, obviously.

you could just fantasize about it after getting your ass up to leave this place, or this suffocating heat he effortlessly inflicted on you with nothing more than his pretty eyes delving daggers into your sweet skin.

but you wanted to taste it, the actual thing, his plump lips, you weren't this captivated by a person in a long time and it somehow scared you away, almost that is, because right now you were still sitting next to him, your knees playfully rubbing and nudging together.

his hand suddenly moves from his side to yours, gently being placed on top of your swaying thigh, massaging the soft skin when he noticed your slight shaking.

you returned his call, attempting to close the distance when he suddenly spoke again, "what would your brother say to this?" you only realize his hand wandering down more close when he rubbed painfully slow circles into the insides of your warm thigh, "would he be surprised, mad or furious?"

you're whining, he didn't even touch you on your burning little sensation and you were already helplessly heaving out, soft cries prickling from your throat to escape your lips.

"he doesn't have to know— please." this whole situation had your body tear each square of control off you and you were wondering what you were begging for in the first place.

perhaps to alhaitham— to keep his mouth shut in front of your brother, or maybe, you were additionally begging him to finally touch your clothed pussy with the flimsy material of your panties being drenched with nothing but your slick.

"Mm, please?" he's acting innocent, gently tipping his head to the side as his hand delved deeper, carefully pushing past your skirt, cupping your wet heat at once. "ah— there we go."

a single finger worked against you as you silently cried out, resting your forehead against his own while spreading your legs a little farther away.

it's only his middle finger but it still felt big, his build was remarkable and you could perceive a couple veins accentuating the back of his muscular arm rubbing circles on your clothed clit.

"you're wet there." he notes almost immediately, "what were you thinking about this whole time?" oh how sweet you were, the ticklish sensation of his knuckles ghosting on your skin had you giddy on the inside, your toes curling in your shoes. "n-nothing."

you deny whatever he thought about yet alhaitham knew better than this, way better, the amount of essence that coated his fingertips was too much evidence for you to blatantly repudiate his questions.

"pull up your shirt." he's fast, whispering against your neck when he instantaneously planted wet, open mouthed kisses on the thin skin, roughly slithering his tongue over it.

you do as he commands, quickly discarding your shirt but not completely, only letting the garment clutch over your breasts that were covered by your bra.

"good girl." you're trembling at the nickname, in your seat greedily burying your hands into his soft hair to pull him closer to your neck, letting him plant gentle bites and nips on you while simultaneously skimming his finger over your shielded folds.

"can you—" before you could finish, you stopped yourself from speaking, your attention being redirected by your sensitive little clit being pinched on.

you're throwing your head back at the slightly painful, yet fiery touch on you, "ah, please, more!" the anticipation in you to finally have his fingers deep inside your pussy, stirred up the adrenaline in your blood, yanking one of your legs over his own as alhaitham pulled you closer.

"more?" you clearly caught his interest, he lightly taps your clit with his middle finger before adding another one, your thighs instantly jolting up at the applied friction of another digit. "like this?"

"yeah— like this." you weakly responded, your voice a tone higher, alhaitham huffed out his warm breath on your damp neck that was wholly and sloppily glazed with his saliva when you smiled airily at him, resting your head against his comforting shoulder.

you're suddenly crying out, biting back a delicate whine when he gingerly hooked his fingers into the garment to at last, meet your exposed cunt, licking his lips at the sight.

if only your face wasn't so mesmerizing to look at while he's scissoring your tiny hole, alhaitham wanted to map it all out, your little pussy, every single inch, embed it into his perverted mind and jerk himself off at the thought of it afterwards.

he's greedily pulling your panties down, letting the flimsy material loosely dangle around your ankle as he positioned your leg back up on his own, watching your fluttering hole clench down on his curled up fingers.

if it wasn't for his other hand holding you open you were sure you would've suffocated the blood in his other arm by the way you wanted to push your thighs together around him, messily riding his digits with your bare cunt.

"i love how you feel down there." he shamelessly threw into the room, as if he didn't even care how shameful this situation was in its entirety, "you feel so good clamping down on me like that."

he smiles when he caught you yank your hips up a bit, meeting his pace midway, the raw squelching sounds of his fingers selfishly digging into your squishy walls rang through the big living room, your eyes squiring a glassy expression by the force alhaitham was going for.

"what if your brother comes in now?" at this, you reasonably gasped, desiring to actually smack that stupid grin off his face, "d-don't say that!" you mutter inaudibly as you're tucking him closer, your breasts cramming onto his chest when he looked at you, "really now?"

"imagine poor kaveh sitting on this couch afterwards." alhaitham heaved, abruptly pecking your lips when you deducted that this was the first time he had kissed you, at all, "the same couch I'm finger fucking his sibling on, right now."

you're moaning out screaming when he added a third and final finger, splitting your tiny hole with his thick digits and curling up, nudging the hammering spots deep within in your creamy walls.

his inappropriate choice of words had your mind turn hazy, liquifying all the rational thoughts in your body and turning them to nothing at all, dissolving them and replacing them with filthy, perverted things.

you could name it a carnal desire when you decided to hungrily kiss him, capture his plump lips with teeth colliding against each other.

it wasn't as tasteful as you thought it would be at first, the built up tension made it quite difficult to focus on two tasks at the same time, in addition to how hard alhaitham was fucking your tingling cunt.

yet alhaitham didn't mind, he wholly welcomed you, circling his wet muscle over your own as he pushed you deeper into the couch, adoring how your thighs began to vibrate from the sense of overstimulation he was capable to inflict on you throughout seconds.

how was it possible for him to be so good at this, so fucking skilled at pleasuring you senseless?

really, he only had met you today and you couldn't even remember another time when you were this needy, this wet and filthy minded because of another person.

"I think I'm close." you mewl out, your eyes being low lidded and beginning to strain from merely holding them open. Alhaitham snickered at your words, desperately suckling on your lips as he further amplified the tempo on your pussy. "close you say?"

he worked like magic, truly, it was addicting to be with him, the pleasure in you was heavily boiling, more so when your sensitive nipples began to roughly rub over the edge of your bra, your areolae being half exposed for his hungry, desiring eyes.

he was quick to pull himself away from your swollen lips, instead drawing himself to one of your nipples to encircle it in his warm mouth, greedily suckling in his breath to nibble on your tit while carrying on with his relentless pace on your cunt.

your lips twitch when you clasped them together, his finger pads grazing through the squishy flesh when your body tensed up, your hands having no other choice than to cradle around his neck, finally letting your orgasm wash over you.

"come on." his voice was raspy, "we're running out of time, you can do it, pretty." at his words you were helplessly scrunching your eyes shut, to half of his sentence you didn't even listen to, it was clear that the brutality of his touch alone would leave you sore, painfully sore but also yearning for him to do it once again.

you're limply grinding your hips into his hand a couple more times when you vehemently released into him, his palm being utterly drenched in your filthy slick while his thumb was carrying on to roll over your overstimulated clit.

you're moaning out his name, it felt silly to do it, to say it like that as if you were actually familiar with each other, contradicting the reality which was that you had just met him, not even hours ago.

"would you look at yourself." he purrs, alhaitham was lazily digging his fingers into your swollen cunt, captivated by your exhausted body listlessly leaning back, your chest heaving up and down and your thighs tightly clamping around his arm.

it was far too humiliating to look at him, to even speak back or say something.

because why, the moment you'd be brought back to reality, after a good fucking orgasm, all the problems would scrub over you in an instant, not even giving you additional time to bath in your deserved afterglow.

you noisily peaked between your legs with your loose cunt being still filled by his thick digits, noticing a dampened splotch underneath.

"you ruined my couch." he's noting before messily pulling out of you, his fingers being drenched in your sticky mess and quietly connecting to your cunt with a string of your essence holding you together.

"i— i didn't do it on purpose." you panic, not catching on that he was actually being sarcastic with you.

alhaitham for once, broke off the attention from your body, locating it to his soaked fingers before slowly opening his mouth, placing them on top of his tongue and closing his lips around it.

your eyes grew wide, the downright sinful look on his face had you hypnotized, another rush of excitement pistoling into you.

you find yourself staring without shame, drooling over the fact that alhaitham began to groan around his fingers, slurping them clean while searching for your gaze to hold them close to his own.

you were sure you were never going to get rid of this picture in your memories, you'll have it installed in your deepest depths forever.

when he was done, he carefully slid them off his lips, attempting to say something if it wasn't for a sudden noisy sound echoing through the heavy, of intimacy smelling, room.

you turned around in horror as you watched the door handle of the front door get pulled down, immediately alhaitham grabbed onto your shirt to drag it down your breasts, hiding your bare skin as he searched for a pillow to cover the obvious, painful erection in his pants.

"hey idiot, i'm home." the voice was sadly, very familiar, kaveh was now home.

kaveh? your brother! the one you were actually seeking out in the first place.

in a strive to look for your panties you lowered your gaze, yet being unable to spot them all over the floor when your brother walked into the living room at last.

"why is it so hot in here? oh—" his words instantly died in his throat the moment he had seen you sit next to his roommate, his eyes dramatically twitching, "what are you doing here?"

"what have you done?!" kaveh was quick to point whatever blame he could find on alhaitham, thankfully being oblivious to the fact that he rearranged your guts just a few moments ago.

"he did nothing, i promise!" you awkwardly laughed at the silence while clumsily getting up, innocently pushing your skirt down, "i was here to bring you your books and bumped into al— alhaitham!"

"no need to worry kaveh, i was only trying to make conversation." alhaitham sheepishly explained with an overly pleased smile on his face, yet not getting up, the big pillow resting on top of his pulsing crotch.

"whatever." kaveh rolled his eyes, being slightly irritated by the way you were so out of breath, deducting that alhaitham must've been a pain in the ass, overwhelming his poor, little sibling. "come on, lets get to my room."

as he went on to grab the books on the coffee table, you awkwardly ventured your gaze to alhaitham, just one last time, catching him stare at you before he playfully winked, darting his eyes away.

"lets go." kaveh was angry, cursing himself that he should've come home sooner, lightly pulling your arm so you'd follow him.

the moment alhaitham had heard the door of kaveh's bedroom close, he quickly disposed of the pillow on his lap, exposing your damp panties sticking to his pants.

you don't mind, do you?

you probably have a quite remarkable collection of underwear he has to see one day, until then, he'll give it his all to make good use of your panties ..

.. maybe even now, to fuck his stiff cock into the cloth while you're in your brother's room, without underwear, sore with your pussy still memorizing his slender, calloused fingers rubbing on your flesh.

yes, he might as well do it now.

©2023 anantaru do not share, copy, translate any of my work

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

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. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie. 

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative. 

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little. 

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you. 

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?" 

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers. 

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of. 

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious. 

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years." 

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?" 

He blinks at you. "You know the scene." 

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life. 

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away." 

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you." 

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music. 

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case. 

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour. 

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–" 

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart." 

— 

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute." 

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying." 

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya. 

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience. 

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses. 

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed. 

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year. 

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks. 

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks. 

She's multi-faceted. 

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to. 

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them." 

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice. 

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up. 

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now." 

"That's dramatic." 

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow. 

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice. 

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick." 

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem. 

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says. 

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke. 

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late." 

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events. 

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion." 

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed. 

"Do we know those guys?" you ask. 

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters." 

Ananya turns off the TV. 

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone. 

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part. 

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance. 

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?" 

"I don't need practice," Morgan says. 

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–" 

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks. 

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold. 

— 

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away. 

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches. 

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead." 

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth. 

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks. 

"You'll sneak out." 

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly. 

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist. 

"You know this is stupid." 

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson." 

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now. 

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say. 

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded." 

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light. 

"What are you losers doing?" 

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole." 

"You're disgusting," Eddie says. 

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy." 

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image. 

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar. 

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles. 

"I can't shower, I'm watching him." 

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot. 

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space. 

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats. 

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside. 

"Jame," he protests. 

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?" 

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move." 

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly. 

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?" 

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?" 

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears. 

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this. 

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs. 

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.  

“Whose house are we in?” you ask. 

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else. 

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back. 

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her. 

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody. 

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card. 

I need to get paid. 

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate. 

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn. 

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose. 

You blow it away from her. 

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers. 

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession. 

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her. 

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly. 

You find you aren’t asking Morgan. 

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty. 

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart." 

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun. 

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from. 

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?" 

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?" 

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says. 

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?" 

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you. 

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame. 

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly. 

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot. 

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain? 

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here. 

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe. 

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in. 

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely. 

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone. 

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection. 

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks 

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance. 

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at. 

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…" 

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that." 

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?" 

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?" 

"No, that one passed me by." 

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand. 

You take it. You tell him your name. 

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets. 

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks. 

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so. 

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation. 

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it. 

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here." 

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics. 

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever. 

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it. 

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room. 

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up. 

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home." 

"Why's she so upset?" you ask. 

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing. 

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably. 

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing. 

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it. 

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough. 

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go. 

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me. 

The subtext isn't important. 

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions. 

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone. 

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing. 

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target. 

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks. 

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you. 

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?" 

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day. 

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me." 

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night. 

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things. 

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short. 

"This tastes awful." 

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie. 

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable. 

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue. 

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin." 

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?" 

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist." 

"The loud one." 

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him." 

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible." 

"Can you get me something from the minibar?" 

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems. 

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse." 

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine. 

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing. 

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones. 

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles. 

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got." 

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes. 

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight. 

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume. 

A familiar scent pricks your attention. 

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown. 

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way. 

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters. 

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently. 

"Hey, sweetheart." 

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time. 

"Have we met before?" you ask. 

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle. 

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick. 

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?" 

"You look exactly the same," you say. 

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you. 

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment. 

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front. 

"You'll catch flies." 

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend. 

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek. 

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror. 

His lightness fades. "Nice." 

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it." 

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually. 

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow. 

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh. 

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily. 

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments. 

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise. 

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet. 

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go. 

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch. 

"Can I help you?" he whispers. 

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you. 

"Fucking move," she says. 

His expression flickers. 

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy. 

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle. 

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day. 

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh. 

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs. 

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good. 

"She's hot," he furthers. 

"Jesus, Gareth." 

"What? She's fucking hot." 

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time. 

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything. 

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin. 

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot. 

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?" 

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser." 

"I was just asking." 

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about. 

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline. 

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?" 

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange. 

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given." 

"I did." 

"And only that." 

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds. 

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that." 

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise. 

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence. 

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say. 

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green. 

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you. 

Fuck it, he thinks. 

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder. 

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him. 

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory. 

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure. 

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired. 

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers. 

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks." 

"Yeah." 

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice. 

"She's a piece of work." 

You shift uneasily. 

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart." 

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?" 

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that. 

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks. 

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?" 

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog." 

"Fuck you, I do not." 

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue. 

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit." 

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve. 

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?" 

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too. 

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options." 

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk. 

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out. 

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start." 

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it. 

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift." 

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe. 

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you. 

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen." 

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast. 

"You don't know anything," you murmur. 

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else. 

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel. 

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all." 

"They're hardly desperate." 

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares." 

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now. 

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile. 

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads. 

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless. 

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?" 

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?" 

"It doesn't." 

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him. 

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone." 

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up. 

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath. 

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon." 

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column. 

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows: 

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see? 

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror. 

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off? 

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad. 

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him. 

"And Cindy." 

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously." 

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs." 

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks. 

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave." 

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks. 

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up. 

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet. 

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks. 

"Because she was jealous of my success." 

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out." 

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands. 

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy. 

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious. 

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue. 

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right? 

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and— 

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely. 

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself. 

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room. 

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it. 

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch. 

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly. 

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face. 

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted. 

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end. 

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes. 

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly. 

"Sorry." 

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?" 

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID." 

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips. 

"You're American?" the cashier asks. 

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say. 

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card. 

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie. 

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together." 

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now." 

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that. 

"I thought you didn't know who I was?" 

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said." 

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till. 

"What were you really gonna say?" 

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean." 

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown. 

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway. 

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess." 

"You can't be serious." 

"I'm so serious," he says. 

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it. 

"You're hot when you're mad." 

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same." 

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?" 

"I thought that too," you say. 

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice." 

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter. 

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival." 

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor. 

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention. 

"Seriously, come on." 

"No." 

"No?" he asks. 

"No. I don't have to listen to you." 

"You're being stupid." 

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care." 

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?" 

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?" 

"Tormenting me." 

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other." 

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–" 

"You started it." 

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his. 

"Don't touch me," you say quietly. 

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea." 

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car." 

You're infuriating. 

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…" 

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd." 

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that." 

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people. 

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt. 

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his. 

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl. 

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him. 

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats. 

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has. 

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second. 

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson. 

You don't do that. 

You wave. 

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat. 

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do. 

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face. 

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left. 

A wooden board creaks. 

You look up. 

"Hey, you–" 

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat. 

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view. 

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest. 

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You want to mess with me, is that it?" 

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart. 

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson." 

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation. 

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft. 

You lift your chin. 

I dare you. 

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in. 

"Are you going to–" 

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours. 

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you. 

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away. 

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much. 

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth. 

"Don't play games," he says. 

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist. 

"You like games," you argue. 

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once. 

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt. 

"Stay still." 

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own. 

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?" 

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it. 

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now." 

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan. 

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks. 

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding. 

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice." 

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again. 

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart." 

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance. 

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game. 

You'll have to be better. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

[7waystreet]

legacies | ch.8

synopsis — a fiery (y/n) newly enters a university campus dominated by the three trust fund brats. she’s not going to take their shit and they’re not going to let her off so easily either. will this rivalry evolve into friendship, lust or love?

genre — college, angst, friendship, love, slow burn

disclaimer — 18+ strong language & sexual content

chapter index:

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | coming soon

ch.8

"You both probably have no idea why I've called you in here this evening."

Well...

You do have a strong suspicion, especially knowing who's sitting next to you in that moment, this situation only likely sparking up as a result of your secret dealings outside the campus grounds this past week. But you just sit there quietly not voicing any opinions, letting professor Jung navigate the conversation instead, which is taking place in his small office at the back of the dance studio. Jimin, however, who's sitting upright in the chair adjacent to you, seems completely clueless and even slightly worried based on his tense demeanor, his widened eyes cautiously inspecting the dance teacher with bated breath.

"I received a call from Mr. Park this afternoon..." professor Jung continues explaining, a conspicuous smile now gleaming on his face. "... And he's given his permission to let Jimin participate in the annual intercollegiate dance competition!"

"Wait... WHAT?! NO WAY!" Jimin promptly yelps as he jerks up in his chair, his palm slapping up to his mouth in utter shock before a happy chuckle trots out of him. "How did you even convince my dad, professor Jung?!"

"I didn't have to do any convincing. The decision came straight from him" the dance teacher beams brilliantly with his dimples, his attention now gradually shifting from Jimin to you.

It's right then when Jimin seems to realize you're also present in the room, the expressions on his overjoyed face swiftly deviating from happiness back to puzzlement. "So why is she here?" he points at you with a fluster, indeed a valid question on his part, but you still endure the burning silence, not wanting to reveal too much about anything.

"Mr. Park's agreed to let Jimin participate only if his grades remain unaffected. And he specifically requested for you, (y/n), to help Jimin with his studies. I apologize... I do understand this is a lot to ask from you" professor Jung speaks directly to you this time, a remorseful undertone laced with a plea in his inquiring voice.

He has nothing to be sorry for though as you're the one who'd brought this upon yourself, your fortuitous conversation with Mr. Park still freshly etched in your mind. The prominent man had already grown a liking towards you during your first week at the part-time job, surprisingly developing a respect for you and your ideas while you worked closely together with his secretary. It was just yesterday when you'd kindly asked him if you could leave the office an hour early to study for an upcoming exam, explaining in detail how your late night dance team practices were cutting into your time for school work, pressuring you into making some adjustments to your schedule.

"Of course you can take off early, (y/n). Exams come first! If only my son gave the same level of importance to his education" Mr. Park had hung his head with shaken disappointment, only to look up at you in a glimmer when you'd challenged him to view things a bit differently.

"If you don't mind, Sir... I don't think you give Jimin enough credit for his accomplishments."

"And what accomplishments would these be?" Mr. Park had posed, not offended by your brash statement at all, instead appearing attentive to hear your praise for his son, who he clearly thought was a failure for not following in his own business-minded footsteps.

"It's because of Jimin's impressive ability to dance that our university's won the intercollegiate competition 3 years in a row, a milestone no one's ever achieved in the past. Isn't that what every parent wants in their child? For them to actually be passionate about something and excel at it? You might not approve of Jimin's love for dance, but that doesn't make him any less amazing at it. He's the best at what he does... There's nobody better than him."

"But how far can he even get in life with dance? It all sounds exciting at your age, but the real world doesn't work that way. I thought a smart girl like you would surely have understood this."

"Sir, have you considered how much further Jimin will be able to go if you just once show him a hint of support for his passion? It will mean a lot to him coming from his father. At least give him a chance to try achieving his dreams."

Mr. Park had placed his hand on his chin, frivolously rubbing it as he took a while to think, finally meeting your eyes with shocking humility. "Can you ensure Jimin's doing well in his classes if I allow him to dance?" Mr. Park had suddenly sprung the unexpected assignment.

"It's not a lot to ask, professor Jung. I can help Jimin with his studies if that means he can be on the team" you respond similarly to the request in present time, the dance teacher's face muscles instantly relaxing at the sound of your willingness.

"Why the hell would dad put her up to this when he knows we're not even in the same classes, let alone in the same school year? I mean, she's two years younger than me! This doesn't make any sense at all."

"But I'm not complaining, am I? Why are you getting so worked up over it?"

"Because it's unfair to you. You're already busy with your own school work, the dance team practices at night, and you're also interning at my dad's company..." Jimin's voice trails off as if he's hitting an unanticipated realization, his shimmering eyes now sharply turning in your direction to search your face for the truth.

"I told you I can handle it. Would that be all then, professor Jung?" you sternly stand up to leave, not granting Jimin the time to even open his mouth in retaliation, or worse, precisely question you about your involvement in the matter, which he's seemingly recognizing by the minute.

"Yes. I just want to thank you again for committing your time to this, (y/n). We really need Jimin on our team to ensure that win, and now our chances of bringing home the trophy are looking solid. If you ever need assistance with anything, I'm always happy to help. And so will your other professors, I'm sure."

Flashing a faint smile at the elated teacher and totally ignoring Jimin, you hastily exit the office and pace across the dance studio two steps at a time, forcing the metal doors open with all your strength, then deciding to take the longer route back to your dormitory instead of the usual shortcut. However, Jimin eventually catches up to you by the end of the hallway in a breathless sprint. "(y/n)! Hey, stop! WAIT!"

"I really have to get to the library, Jimin. I need to study for—"

But the way Jimin swoops up in front of you compels you to stop short in your rambling sentences, your body banging into his chest from his sudden presence up ahead. It's quite apparent you're hiding something by how your eyes fail to meet his penetrative ones, all while he refuses to move out of your way, your faces just inches from one another in the lonely hallway.

"How did you convince my dad? I know you must've said something to him at work... Why would you do that for me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about..."

You certainly feel cornered as Jimin coarsely sighs with a hint of agitation while you fidget with your feet in an awkward silence, but you figure you've got no choice now but to delve into the discussion the way he's standing his ground with arms crossed across his chest, successfully trapping you with no way to back out of this instance.

"I just had a brief conversation with Mr. Park about your passion for dance and how he should try giving you a chance to pursue this career—"

"But how are you okay with the way he's basically forcing you to be my tutor in exchange for that? It's so not fair to you! You barely know him and what a manipulative bastard he can be. You shouldn't have accepted the deal and you still have time to change your mind. Why are you even doing this for me?"

"I'm doing this for you the same reason you're pissed at him for doing this to me" you blurt out, instantly wishing you'd thought a little before coming up with this response but it's too late, now covertly hoping Jimin catches on by putting some thought into your words.

"I don't understand..."

You're not even sure why you're feeling embarrassed at the thought of having to explicitly say it out loud, a tinge of pink blossoming your cheeks as you nervously lock eyes with Jimin's twinkling ones. Why do you have to spell it all out for him? How can boys be so emotionally incompetent sometimes?

"The Jimin I met when I started school wouldn't have felt angry for any inconveniences I'd have to experience for him. So let me ask you this — Why do you feel pissed that I have to pile on more work in exchange for you getting back on the dance team? The one thing you so desperately wanted over everything? It's a win-win for you. The trophy and a tutor. So why are you even bothered?"

Jimin's clearly lost in thought now, his wavering eyes searching the wall behind you as if the answers are somehow painted on there. The way his cheeks kick up in a red heat all of a sudden makes your heart skip a beat, an indication that he's coming close to working out his feelings for you by detangling the web of questions you'd so distinctly spun on him.

"Because it's unfair. And well... because I guess I care about you" his plump rosy lips press together, his entire body tensing up as he's unknowingly holding his breath.

"I guess I care about you too."

Despite the palpable embarrassment in the lone night's silence, your smiling eyes meet one another for a fleeting second of shared acknowledgement before you begin making your way back to your dormitory weaving the winding corridors. The truth was that through this tumultuous time being at the university, you'd both somewhere, deep down, grown to care about each other. Something had subconsciously changed between you both after you'd spent those vulnerable moments holding hands at the basketball court late that night, battling your personal failures together in quiet company.

The way you'd leaped up to defend Jimin in front of his father, and the way Jimin had felt angered by the unfair way you'd been treated spoke volumes about how you'd evolved in your relationship for the better, even before you both could come to your senses about these harboring feelings.

Tap.

The rustle of a crumpled up sheet of paper landing on your desk catches your attention as you're packing up your bag after your music theory class's dismissal. Upon scanning your eyes across the emptying lecture hall for the source of the mischief, you notice Jungkook leaning against the back wall intently observing you. He playfully points at the ball of paper as if urging you to take a look at it, so you roll your eyes and turn around to open it and sneak a peek.

"My birthday party's this weekend. Invite only."

"I see..." you briefly skim through the flyer which lists out the date, time and outfit expectations, amongst some other event related details.

"Am I allowed to come near you? Or is the invisible restraining order still in action?" Jungkook jokes in an attempt to gage your mood, carefully throwing no direct insults your way, which doesn't go unnoticed and makes you smile to yourself.

"The invite doesn't mention the location. Where are you hosting it?" you quickly hide your smile and turn around to face Jungkook again, giving him permission to come closer with a wave of your hand.

"Have you ever even gone to a college party, (y/n)? We're underaged so I'm not gonna go sharing the address on a flyer in case we get busted" Jungkook laughs, clearly happy you're allowing this conversation to happen in the first place, the pep in his step apparent as he makes his way over to your desk. "It's at Taehyung hyung and Jimin hyung's suite in the upperclassmen boys tower."

"Oh..."

Jungkook observes the sudden frown weighing down your lips, the boy astonishing you with his newfound attentiveness next. "Still fighting with Taehyung hyung?"

"I haven't spoken to him since I went off on him about his evil ways. How's he doing?" you steal the chance to check up on Taehyung.

Despite his cruel betrayal, Taehyung hadn't left your mind since you last saw him, the confrontation you'd planned in your dormitory replaying over and over again in your head at odd times, much to your dislike. Even if Taehyung seemingly hadn't given a fuck about you and had pretended to be your friend, you did care for him that entire time and still missed having that naive version of him around, as much as you hated to admit it. It was just going to be very difficult to trust him again if the opportunity to become real friends ever popped up in the future.

"Oh, he's not really been himself, that's for sure. He's begun acting the way he did after his dad died, withdrawn mostly. What did you even say to him? Jimin hyung and I've been getting a bit concerned. Maybe you could try talking to him? I don't know, he always seemed cheerful around you."

"He was pretending to be cheerful around me, Jeon. That was the whole point of his plan.. to fool me into believing we were friends. I don't even know what he's really like, now that I think about it."

"I know, but he's been scary lately. He clearly needs some type of intervention so I just thought maybe he'd be willing to speak with you. I don't think he feels like opening up to Jimin hyung or me about whatever this is."

"I guess I can try meeting him this week. Thanks for letting me know and for the suggestion... By the way, are you sure you're the same Jeon Jungkook I met on my first day here? Helping me and shit? It's like I don't even know who you are anymore" you fondly chuckle at Jungkook's intuitive side shining through. It was refreshing to have a normal conversation with him, almost therapeutic, as you felt some kind of weight lifted off of your mind about the confrontation with Taehyung.

"I'm full of surprises" Jungkook smirks as you smile in return and begin walking by his side out of the classroom, the sun beaming brightly in the courtyard reflecting both of your matching happy moods. "So you coming to my party?"

"I guess I'll stop by for a bit!"

"Awesome. Also, my real birthday's the day after tomorrow, we're only celebrating it on the weekend. So I'll be expecting two presents from you" Jungkook smartly giggles, your brows immediately raising up in question.

"What do you even gift a rich brat like you who pretty much has everything in the world? Any requests that a commoner like myself can afford?"

Jungkook suddenly stops in his steps after hearing your comment and turns to face you directly, his big bambi eyes gazing deeply in yours, a hint of sorrow lingering in his cast as he mentions "Your friendship. That's all."

He waves goodbye with a sweet smile that travels up to his pretty eyes, slowly turning around and walking away from you as you remain painfully rooted to your spot. You can't help but accept Jungkook has finally begun growing on you, his sincere comment unknowingly touching your heart and leaving you wanting more.

You'd left Taehyung a couple of texts and even called him a few times, all to be ignored by him for over an entire day. It was close to 10pm the day after speaking with Jungkook about Taehyung's wellbeing, the usual time you'd start heading down to the dance studio for competition practice. But your mind's stuck on Taehyung with an uncomfortable buildup of worry, unable to stray away and focus on anything else.

With the brimming anxiousness you're feeling in your chest, you hurriedly decide to walk over to Taehyung's suite to check whether he's okay, if he's even there, before navigating your way down to the dance studio. Call it intuition or a gut feeling, but the moment you knock on his door and watch it swing open, a wave of gratitude hits you like a truck knowing you did the right thing by resolving to visit him.

"Oh... what are you- you doing he- here?"

The sight breaks your heart into a million pieces. Taehyung appears thoroughly disheveled, unlike you could've ever imagined — his unkempt hair sticking out in random places, his usual pouty lips cracked and colorless, the bags under his eyes alarming. His entire face scrunches up when the bright corridor lights swim into the pitch black apartment behind him. He's in a set of pajamas but it doesn't even look like he got ready or left his place at all today. He's clearly sloshed from the lingering stench of whiskey on his breath and from the way he'd slurred his words upon your arrival.

"I texted and called you many times since yesterday but you hadn't replied, so I came to see if you were okay."

"Oh, I'm splendid" Taehyung sloppily smiles with his eyes closed, his tongue clearly heavy and his speech impaired, his tall figure swaying to the side before he presses his forehead against the door.

Without even asking for permission, you walk straight inside with a surge of concern ripping up your chest, Taehyung not really noticing you anyways until you hold him by the shoulders and kick the door shut. Gently guiding him over to the couch and sitting him down while he incoherently grunts, you quietly get a glass of water from the kitchen behind him and turn on a dim stove light for more visibility, also to not directly irritate Taehyung's eyes. He huffs like a child when you hold the glass of water to his mouth but reluctantly gulps it down, eyes still closed and neck now resting back on the sofa as you place the empty glass on a table nearby.

Gonna miss practice. Taehyung's not doing well. I'm with him at your place. Don't worry but come straight back when you're finished at the studio.

You quickly shoot Jimin a text to inform him of your absence, and thank God for how you and Jimin are on good terms so you don't have to deal with his wrath for skipping practice. You now focus your attention back to Taehyung who's begun randomly humming, clearly way too drunk, and you suspect probably high as well based on the light waft of weed drifting through the apartment.

Scooting closer to Taehyung on the couch, you carefully lift up his heavy, lifeless arm and curl it around your shoulder, tightly wrapping both of your arms around his torso after and lightly resting your head on his chest. The overwhelming feeling of sadness seeing your once closest friend here in this condition, mixed with a pang of guilt for never checking up on him after your fight, edges you to the brink of tears, the only thing your heart wanting to do in that moment being holding him close, letting him know he's not alone.

A minute goes by, silent tears flowing down your cheeks and wetting his soft white shirt when Taehyung's motionless arm around your shoulder finally grips you and pulls you in even closer, his cheek resting on the top of your head, his lips pressed on your hair. You feel his entire body vibrating as he begins sobbing, and all you can do then is continue embracing him tightly, allowing him to get it all out, and be there for him to share his pain in those passing moments.

It feels like an hour's gone by but both you and Taehyung just sit there on the couch hugging each other, both quietly crying for different reasons with no words spoken, but certainly lessening each other's burdens. You end up pulling yourself together much before he does, but you don't move an inch until he's gradually calmed himself down, only choosing to tilt your head back a little and look up at his face once his breathing stabilizes as close to normal as you could've guessed.

"Have you eaten anything today? Want me to order jjajangmyeon for us from your favorite spot?"

"Yeah, that'd be great" Taehyung croaks, eyes still closed while pulling in a sniffle to clear his sinuses.

A burst of energy recharges you seeing Taehyung respond positively to your proposal, a relief now that his speech sounds more coherent, although you've never seen him appear so exhausted. With him accepting the idea to eat a filling meal, you're sure he'll feel a lot better after, and with that, you slowly let yourself out of the embrace and grab your phone, quickly placing 3 jjajangmyeon orders through the app, an extra one for Jimin when he returns back from dance practice.

After another couple of glasses of water, Taehyung seems much more awake, his eyes ultimately opening up and taking in your full sight for the first time since you'd arrived. You greet him with a small smile but he just blankly stares at you, his eyes empty and void of the charm they so usually radiantly carry, his gaze lowering down to the carpet as he questions "What made you come here tonight?"

"Oh, I mentioned earlier how I'd left you texts and calls but you hadn't replied for a day, so I just got worried. It's unlike you to not even respond."

"I think my phone ran out of battery so I probably didn't even get half the things you sent."

After asking Taehyung if he remembers where he left his phone and quickly locating it by the tub in the restroom, you put it on charge, crack a window open for some fresh cool night air, and settle down on the couch again. At once when you're back sitting next to him, Taehyung instantly tumbles out "Why did you even worry for me? I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you. And we don't have to talk about this right now. Let's just get you better first—"

"No. I need to know."

You can't help but sigh, your lips shaking a bit by the way Taehyung's somber eyes meet yours and helplessly wait for a reply, urging you to share your concise yet truthful feelings.

"You were always my friend, Taehyung. I never stopped caring for you. Even if you didn't feel the same things for me."

Taehyung's downturned lips quiver uncontrollably at those words, his swollen nose pulling in another sniffle before he mumbles out "I'm sorry", struggling to hold himself back from another sob.

"I know you're sorry. I don't hold any grudges against you. We'll be fine with time" you reassure him with a comforting tone of voice, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a squeeze. He presses his lips together to stop them from quivering and nods in acknowledgment, resting his head back on the sofa without letting go of your hand.

A few more soundless minutes pass you by, the only noise breaking it being Taehyung's stomach rumbling with hunger here and there. You know for a fact you're not leaving him alone until Jimin comes back, but at the same time your mind's zooming with ideas on how you can help Taehyung pull himself out of this dangerous slope he's heading towards, until a seemingly considerate idea pops up in your head and you decide to voice it.

"How'd you feel if we went to a support group meeting for grief and dealing with the loss of a loved one? We'll go together. I want you to get better, Taehyung. I'm not going to allow you to fall even harder using alcohol and drugs. I know you're better than this."

Taehyung doesn't move or say anything in response, but you're sure he's heard you, so you give him some time to process what you'd just suggested. A knock on the door breaks the silence, temporarily divulging your attention to the visitor. A quick glance at the time and you know it couldn't have been Jimin, the practice usually running longer than this, but a soothing feeling relaxes your mind when you accept the food delivery at the door and begin unpacking the containers on the kitchen counter.

What you're unaware of is how Taehyung's dull eyes are only set on you ever since you'd gotten up from the couch, admiringly following you around and gratefully observing the way you're going out of your way to take care of him, even after everything he'd put you through, only a few hushed words despairingly escaping his mouth once you bring the jjajangmyeon over to him with a smile.

"I'll go with you. Thank you for saving me tonight, (y/n)."

[devilfic]

Do you still make Batman x reader? If yes, could I request a "reader figures out Bruce Wayne is Batman"?

Thank you!

❝honeymoon❞

parts: next plot: 'til death do you part. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce. words: 760.

a/n: a little something quick that I thought of!

Recognizing that you had agreed to this, you had been prepared to accept anything. An affair, a drug addiction, secret ties to the mafia overlords like high society always suspected. That was your job as Bruce's spouse: contractually obligated to be okay with it and never let anyone find out about it. Whatever it was.

Even now, as your brain short circuits and the floor feels like you're about to sink right into it, you're looking for ways to be okay with this, and he's looking at you like he wants to kill you.

It's a fleeting look. One second there, the next vanished. Neither of you say anything but there is a world of things being felt, you're certain. One of you has to budge. "This... isn’t what I was expecting."

But Bruce doesn't laugh (and you'd never expect him to, not in your presence). He stands there, heaving slow breaths to calm himself down, the cowl still conspicuously trembling between both of his hands. He could've tossed it or let it go but it's almost like you've frozen him solid.

"Where did you get that?" Is all he demands, eyes trained on the key glimmering in your hand now. "The doormen have orders to-"

"To not let me in? I know. I had the key made myself. Your doormen are easy to persuade with the right amount of money."

Bruce's lip twitches and he scoffs. "I won't tell anyone," you assure him, about 75% convinced of it yourself, "It does me no good to have extra eyes on me, and I'm sure you've got contingency plans in place were I or anyone else to expose you. You were always very good about that. Plans."

"Of course you won't. Your mother wouldn't approve of the disruption in cash flow."

Your eyes narrow. "I am not interested in what my mother wants."

"Why not? She's a part of this marriage, too. Isn't she?"

"Can we talk about the suit?" Bruce stiffens when you bring back attention to the compromised position you'd found him in. "I have questions, and I suppose if you want me to be good at lying about your... hobby, you'll have to prep me."

"I think the less you know, the better. Personally."

"The 'my husband's just busy with work' spiel is getting old, and people are already starting to talk about us living apart. Now, when I agreed to marry you," you watch him flinch as you take a step forward, "I promised that I would be with you in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, 'til death do us part. Your business is my business. Your secret," within arm's length of his cowl, you wrench it from his grasp and he relents rather easily, "is my secret. I will take it with me to the grave so long as you keep up your end of the bargain."

Up close, you take in the black paint smeared over his eyes, a fitting backdrop for his stunning eyes so cool. The fire in the hearth flickers off of them, reflecting back at you as you stand but inches apart.

Just as you stole his cowl, Bruce steals your key. He holds it up in the palm of his glove, "You want to move in."

You hum, "It would help with appearances. And my mother would be pleased."

"I thought you weren't interested in what your mother wants."

"I'm not, but she's interested in you, and given tonight's revelation... I think you'd like someone keeping her nose out of your business."

You punctuate your point with a touch to his chest, palm laid flat over his heart and the several layers of iron-clad padding in front of it. His hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at it, then back at you. There's discomfort there but... something else. Resignation, you'd wager. Defeat. You almost sigh in relief when it dawns on you that you've—rather miraculously—won this battle going in completely blind.

Later, it will dawn on you (or plummet on you) just what you've witnessed tonight. Just what you've agreed to. Just who you've married.

Bruce peels your hand away, placing the key in your palm before releasing it like a burning stone. "There are guest rooms on the second floor." He pauses when you're not fast enough to school your expression, his mouth turning down into a scowl, "This changes nothing else." And he stalks away.

Nothing else. This changes nothing else, but if anyone were to ask, the honeymoon was going great.

[pretty-sparkle-bomb]

You are now reading Part 2 of my series!

Part 1 Part 3

The rumble of engines vibrated through your core, a familiar rhythm sending a wave of excitement. Two weeks since the cops and the car chase, and the adrenaline was back, thick in the grimy air of the deserted industrial park. A new place was chosen since the police were heavily patrolling your previous gathering ground.

Tonight's race was going to be electric, a head-to-head between Bakugo and Midoriya.

You knew the greenette had a crush on you. The way he stammered whenever you spoke to him, the lingering glances you caught him stealing – it wasn't hard to miss. A sly smile played on your lips. Maybe you could use that to your advantage tonight.

Standing at the starting line, you felt like a perfect match for Bakugo's car – a vibrant orange that soaked up the lights from street lamps and cars, mirrored perfectly by the conspicuous shade of his new car.

He had mentioned it to you over a call the two of you shared at two in the morning... it was a Pagani Zonda R, you think, remembering the blonde's smirk as he held the phone over his head, sitting on the trunk of the car, claiming it was supposed to be a surprise for you.

You decided to give him a little surprise of your own. A daring combination of shorts and a matching orange bandeau top, something that surely caught his attention. The outfit left little to the imagination and Bakugo's thoughts were running wild.

Bakugo, with a glint in his carmine eyes, sat behind the wheel, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. Lined up next to him was Midoriya, his signature curly green hair whipping in the wind as he fidgeted with the rearview mirror of what you presumed to be a Lamborghini.

As the crowd settled, a hush falling over them in anticipation, you notice Bakugo climbed out of his car. A slow smirk spread across your face. What in the world was he up to?

He swaggered towards you, confidence radiating from him like heat waves. Your breath hitched as he reached out, his rough fingers brushing yours, interlocking your hands before he pulled you close. Before you could even think, his lips were on yours – a rough, possessive kiss that left you breathless. With your free hand in his hair and his free hand on your lower back. This was sure to make it up on social media.

It was a blatant message, scrawled across your lips in a language only Bakugo could speak: you were his.

The crowd cheered and hollered and the small whine that you let out was a symphony to Bakugo's ears, a music that drowned everything else out. He pulled away, resting his forehead on yours.

You swore you saw Midoriya turn green (well, greener). He was frozen in his car, his normally bright eyes clouded with a mix of shock and…jealousy? The thought sent a playful flutter through your stomach. Maybe this race would be more interesting than you thought.

Actually, screw that. This race is going to be more interesting than you would ever imagine.

Pulling away, Bakugo left you reeling, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Then, he climbed back into his car with a wink that had your stomach doing backflips.

Composing yourself, you grabbed the microphone and addressed the buzzing crowd. "Alright racers, listen up! Tonight's race is a special one. The winner takes home the usual prize money, sure. However, we have some special guests! Everyone, please give it up for Endeavour and All Might!"

The two mentioned males reeled in, two of the most fanciest cars you have ever seen, no doubt custom made. One a striking yellow with hints of red and blue and another a crimson read, with fire designs lining the bottom and flaring up, both vehicles heavily tinted.

To say the crowd went bonkers was an understatement. People were screaming, throwing popcorn in the air, jumping wildly and flailing their arms all over the place.

"Calm down everybody. I know this is a big moment, having Japan's two greatest racers here is an unexpected surprise, isn't it?" You inquired through the mic, laughing softly.

Bakugo's face went red. Your laugh was... what was the word shitty hair said again? Cute? No, fuck that.

Your laugh was like music to his eardrums. He never wanted it to end. And the way you scrunched your nose told him that you were genuinely laughing and not forcing it.

"Alright you two, whoever wins this race will have the opportunity to be recognized by the duo of the racing world. Now, racers... Start your engines!" you raised a flagged fist in the air as the low rumbling of Bakugo's engine started up, followed closely by the wild sound of Midoriya's.

"Okay, you guys. Ready?" you grinned, reaching into your back pocket. They revved their engines, hyping up the crowd.

"Set?" you whipped out your phone and turned on the camera, turning your back to the two cars, which Bakugo loved. Your whole ass was in his sight and he committed the picture to memory. You turned on the flash as your face formed a little pout, and you clicked the shutter, capturing the two expensive cars in the background along with a whole assemblage of people.

"Go, go, go!" you screamed while turning around and swishing the flag to the ground. The sound of tyres screeching against the muddy racetrack filled the night, and both Bakugo and Midoriya shot off the line like rockets. This time, though, the race felt different.

If there was one rule about the racing world, it was probably to never let feelings get into the way. Emotions, especially uncontrolled ones, can cause serious harm on the tracks.

And that's exactly what happened.

Bakugo drove with a controlled fury, taking every turn with calculated aggression, showcasing his raw talent. Midoriya, fueled by a mix of determination and a silent vow to prove himself, pushed his car to its limits, weaving through traffic with surprising agility. One of the parts of the race was of course, a tunnel.

"Kacchan, get the fuck off of my car!" he screeched, as Bakugo closed in on him, causing his left side to graze against the tunnel wall. Midoriya knew he could've hurt innocent people if he sped up or slowed down too fast, so he had to bear the ear-piercing sound of his new paint job filing against the rough concrete.

"Damn nerd. You think you're better than me, huh? Tryin' to get her attention, you know she prefers me." Bakugo's grin never seemed to go away, swerving his car outward and just when Midoriya was about to get out of the small corner, Bakugo collied with his car again.

Midoriya's eyes glowed in the darkness. Bakugo had pushed him to his limits and sent him over the edge. Midoriya activated his nitro, pulling the custom-built lever in his car and sped off. Bakugo took this as a challenge and did the same, pulling out behind him.

The nitro kicked in, a boost of raw power gliding through Midoriya's Lamborghini. He felt the car surge forward, pulling away from Bakugo's Pagani for a short moment. But it wasn't enough. He needed to get even, to prove himself not just to the legendary people in the crowd, but to you.

He slammed his foot on the brake, taking a sharp turn into a tight corner. This was a risky maneuver, known only to a few seasoned racers who frequented this track. It was a shortcut, a notoriously dangerous shortcut. He gritted his teeth, steering with white-knuckled accuracy, pushing the car to its absolute limit.

"Think you can outrun me, Deku?" Bakugo's voice crackled over the race's communication system, laced with a sickening amusement. "You're just a useless nobody trying to impress a girl with a fancy car."

Midoriya ignored the taunt, focusing on the road ahead. His green eyes narrowed in concentration as he navigated the narrow passage, the concrete walls a blur on either side. Bakugo wasn't wrong. The car was a gift from his mother, a way to prove himself worthy, not just to you, but to everyone who doubted him. And a part of him hoped, a foolish part, that maybe, just maybe, winning this race, getting noticed by the heroes, would get your attention.

Suddenly, a flash of orange emerged from the tunnel and bright headlights blinded Midoriya's sight momentarily, causing him to slow down.

Bakugo, with a daredevil's audacity, had followed him through the treacherous shortcut. The space was barely wide enough for one car, let alone two.

"Where the hell d'ya think you're going, Deku?" Bakugo roared, his voice distorted by all of the wind rushing past them.

Midoriya slammed on the brakes again, the tires screeching in protest as he tried to create space. But Bakugo, fueled by his own competitive fire, nudged his car closer, forcing Midoriya towards the wall.

"Don't play dirty, Kacchan!" Midoriya screamed back, his voice tight with anger. "This is about proving myself!"

Bakugo laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Proving yourself? You're a fuckin' joke, Deku. Always have been, always will be. Y/n knows who the real winner is, and it ain't you."

The taunt, the obvious and continuous disregard for his feelings, snapped something inside Midoriya. A force of raw power, possessed by anger and a desperate need to prove everyone, especially Bakugo wrong, coursed through him.

Ignoring the warning lights flashing on his dashboard, Midoriya slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car, overloaded with power, lurched forward, a blur of green against the night.

Bakugo, caught off guard by the sudden burst of speed, swerved to avoid collision with an upcoming wall. He clipped the side of a stray tire left behind by another racer, sending his own car spinning out of control.

"Fuck, Bakugo! Get yourself in control!" you screamed as you watched the swerving car from the live on your phone. Midoriya's car was long gone and when you looked up, there it was, lunging at an impossible speed towards the finish line.

Hesitantly, you waved the flag, signalling others that Midoriya Izuku, had indeed won the race.

Bakugo's car pulled up shortly after and you, Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, Mina and Jirou rushed towards the smoking piece of metal.

"Bakubro! You good?" Kirishima called out, ripping the smashed door open with pure strength and hauled the unconscious blonde out.

You dropped to your knees. '"No, no, no, no... Bakugo..." you placed his head on your lap, running your fingers through his hair as the rest of the group worked on cleaning up whatever nasty wound he had.

Your fingers brushed against his forehead and face, rubbing off whatever soot was on it. A groan pulled you out from your worries. "Bakugo!" you gasped in relief. "You're alive!"

The blonde opened his eyes, adjusting it to the lighting and was met with an orange blur above him.

"Course I am, shortcakes, why wouldn't I be?" he asked and he slowly rose, leaning on your body for support while everyone told him to take it easy.

You looked up at the huge crowd that was formed around Midoriya. Of course that asshole doesn't care. You continued rubbing soothing shapes into Bakugo's rough palm as tears welled up in your eyes.

"Don't do that again, Kugo. You scared me." you muttered to him, surprising him with the nickname. He chuckled, his body causing yours to vibrate.

Suddenly, Midoriya walked up to you, having brushed off the crowd who now watched from a distance.

"Y/n, listen-" he began but was cut short by your annoyed voice. "Stop. Don't say anything, Deku." you seethed, as the people around you began to whisper among themselves.

"Look at what you did to him! Look at what you did... to me." you looked up at him with clumps of tears in your eyes, rolling down your face and smearing your mascara, and a pang went through his heart. "You almost killed him." you continued, shaking your head.

"Y/n, I didn-" he tried again but flinched when you screamed, "Shut up!"

Shame burned in his gut, hotter than the engine of his car. He hadn't meant to cause this, hadn't meant to frighten you. He just wanted you to be impressed. You weren't.

With all of this commotion, people around you were silent. You grumbled, asking Kirishima for help with Bakugo, who was promising to take you out when he could function properly. The redhead happily complied, sending a glare to Miforiya as he lifted Bakugo onto his back and walked away. Mina tossed you one of Bakugo's hoodies and pulled your hand away when you hauled the cinnamon smelling article over your head. It landed at your thigh but it was so comfortable, giving you warmth against the coldness of the night.

Midoriya stood there, alone as the people around him continued to pester him even more.

He might have won the race, but Bakugo had won your heart and there was nothing he could do about it.

A few hours later, when he went back to his apartment and settled in bed, hoping to wake up the next day and say that it was all a bad dream, his phone blew up like crazy, messages and tags from every social media app.

He typed in his password groggily and clicked on Instagram, where some of his fans had tagged him under a couple pictures. His eyes widened when he clicked on the first one.

"Like, can I ride with you? @.Katsuki.Bakugo"

It was the picture that you had taken just before the race, your shiny lips forming into a pout as you raised the phone high enough to capture the entire background.

Swiping to the other picture, it was you, sitting next to Bakugo on a hospital bed. The carmine-eyed male sending the camera two middle fingers as you held up a peace sign. His stomach was naseous. How could you like someone like him? I mean out of all people?

"Or, let me ride on you👀 @.Katsuki.Bakugo"

Disdainfully, he swiped on the last picture, and it was one of you and Bakugo's hands intertwined. He read the last caption with anger and jealousy.

"My number one. @.Katsuki.Bakugo"

Taglist!

@effy-2000, @zmbiedoll, @lovra974, @burntlvr, @anjodedesgostoeerrossgosto

[hamliet]

Hazbin Hotel Has Better Theology Than Most Modern "Christian" Stories

As a Christian who was raised in a fundie cult and escaped to now have a far healthier and vital faith, I genuinely really like this show. The songs are bops. The characters are well crafted and interesting, and likable too. The art design is bizarre but appealing.

And, as a theology nerd who studied theology as part leaving said cult and also has since gotten papers published in theology, I'm actually fairly impressed by the show's handling of theology.

No, I'm not expecting the story to preach or even like, be explicitly Christian in a lot of ways. But it's taking a lot of the really beautiful aspects of Christian theology and re-contextualizing them in a way designed to provoke thought: by juxtaposing them with the antithesis of what you would think, by making demons heroes. In my opinion, this makes the beauty shine brighter.

Yeah, yeah, it's designed to be offensive and obscene in a lot of ways. Yet, it's never (thus far) mean-spirited. On the contrary, it seems to have a big, beating heart at its core that is perhaps best embodied by Charlie Morningstar, its protagonist and the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith.

Critique of the Church, with Caveats

The story works best with an interpretation that heaven isn't actually heaven or God (who has been conspicuously absent), but instead as a critique of the church. Specifically, the evangelical American church, and specifically, white evangelicals. (Same as She-Ra's premise, actually).

God's absence therefore makes sense, because while Christians do believe God is present as a living reality among us, we also can't like, see him physically now. So, God being not even mentioned in HH makes it seem more like a mortal reality rather than an immortal one. Honestly I kinda hope God doesn't appear in the story, not only because I think it could cross some lines (which is admittedly personal), but also because I don't see that the story really needs it.

Adam in particular reminds me of every "theobro" on Twitter (I'm not calling it what you want me to, El*n). Basically a dudebro coopting his supposed salvation to flex in an often misogynistic way, who doesn't realize that he has absolutely no love in him and therefore is actually a worse human being than everyone he condemns on the regular.

(Which is kind of why I'm expecting Adam to wake up in hell next season...)

Think red hats. And Mark Driscoll. And, I have a list of pastors. Sigh. They advocate for how "simple" Christianity is, except they themselves make it ridiculously complicated and don't even examine what they suppose is "simple" if it requires them to take the planks out of their own eyes. "Shallow" is a better description of what they actually preach.

But what sends people to hell or heaven anyways?

Eschatology and Atonement Theory

Hazbin Hotel combines a lot of theories, throwing not only the idea of a physical hell (albeit mixed with Dante's idea of what hell is the Inferno, but to be fair a lot of the church has adopted that idea too) but the idea of annihilation, which HH calls "extermination."

See, in Christianity, there's a lot of debate about hell. Like, since 2000 years ago. The reason is because a lot of Bible verses seem to indicate hell, but others indicate the eventual redemption and salvation of absolutely everything in the universe, so you have Christian universalism tracing itself back just as long. But, setting aside universalism, people who do believe in hell tend to fall into one of two camps:

Physical hell, aka suffering for eternity, or annihilation: the idea that souls that aren't saved end up annihilated, or snuffed from existence. HH combines both of them, wherein everyone lives in hell but then every so often heaven "exterminates" a certain number of sinners.

And then you also have Catholic purgatory, which is also adapted in HH in that... for most Christians, physical hell doesn't offer the ability to redeem yourself. Chance over, you're dead. But, Catholic Christianity, which draws on ideas of praying for the dead, has the idea that people can improve themselves or be prayed out of it and into heaven. This seems to be somewhat similar to the idea of Charlie's hotel, in that sinners can improve, redeem themselves, and rise to heaven.

And, I mean, it's already kinda worked. Sir Pentious acted out Jesus' words: Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends (John 15:13).

But anyways, the branch of theology that deals with the afterlife is eschatology. And Hazbin Hotel takes on a related form of theology as well, a type of theology I've only seen covered in stories once before (The House in Fata Morgana): atonement theory.

Atonement theory is something I remember well from my theology 101 class, as in I remember sitting with a friend and her turning to me and being like, "okay, so we know Jesus' death and resurrection give us eternal life, but we have no idea how or why?" To which the answer was "basically, yeah."

Most of the white, American evangelical church is very "penal substitutionary atonement," but the reality is that this theory has only been popular for the past few hundred years. It's also, imo, somewhat scripturally unsound. But there are a lot of other theories, and sometimes the theories overlap. Here's a fairly decent summary. (I'm in general a believer in Christus Victor.)

So how does atonement theory tie into Hazbin Hotel? Well, essentially the scene where Charlie and Vaggie are debating with Emily, Sera, Adam, Lute, and others in heaven is them going over various atonement theories and realizing that they actually know nothing at all. How does one get to heaven? How is one saved? They don't know.

Sera criticizing Emily for asking questions was also very relatable, and I feel for Sera. She's genuinely scared but the truth will set you free, Sera. John 8:32. Anyways, the point is like... the angels are an organized religion, an evangelical church, that preaches about simplicity but mistakes shallowness for simplicity and discourages depth and discovery.

Anyways, the whole crux of theological study and atonement theories is that they should promote humility. We don't know for certain on this side of the curtain. That's okay. So what do we have to guide us?

Love. After all, God is love (1 John 4:8).

Charlie is Jesus

"Why would you endanger your immortal life for these sinners?" 

Adam, the absolute worst, says the above to Charlie in the finale.

I mean... look. That's literally the premise of Christianity. That the immortal son of God comes down to earth, lives with sinners, loves us, and dies to save us. However that happens. Charlie even responds:

"They're my family!"

In other words, she loves them. Yeah, sure, they're destined for extermination, but they are going to be exterminated over her dead body.

In a lot of branches of Christianity, and even in some creeds--though I'm going to give into my pet peeves here and state that it is NOT Scriptural and relies on the faulty assumption that God is bound by time, when I think God exists outside of it--state that Jesus descended into hell after his death and took all the souls of people who were saved prior to his coming to earth to heaven. Again, I think that's small-minded at best. But, the idea that Charlie is working among them to bring them to heaven is pretty reminiscent of this idea. And I don't hate it lol.

Charlie sees worth inherent in everyone, and no matter what they've done, thinks there's a future for them. Honestly we need people like her on this earth.

Angel Dust

Angel Dust is clearly my favorite character. Bite back your shock, I know (I have a type). But his name is also a fascinating multi-layered pun.

Angel is clearly foreshadowing his endgame. Let's be real, we all know Angel is ending up as an angel. And "angeldust" is of course a name for PCP, and considering Angel's drug habits, yeah.

But, dust also has another meaning to it. See, when Adam was created in Genesis 2:7, the words in Hebrew are "apar min ha'adamah," which is translated literally as "dust of the ground." So the dust is what creates Adam, literally "ground."

In other words, I very much expect Angel Dust to end up being foiled with Adam even more so. Adam might be the first man, but Angel is the first sinner working towards redemption. And let's be real, for all Angel's flaws, he's already a better person than Adam. And if there's any hope for Adam (not that I particularly care if there is but) it'd be through realizing that he and Angel aren't actually different after all. Conversely (and not necessarily mutually exclusively), Angel might serve as a more symbolic "adam" in that he becomes the person all sinners look to for hope. Which, y'know, since "the last Adam" is also a Scriptural term for Jesus...

And so it is written, “The first man Adam became a living being.” The last Adam became a life-giving spirit. (1 Corinthians 15:45).

I fully expect Angel's arc, alongside Charlie's, to bring life and redemption for everyone around them. Maybe, maybe even the dramatic "all" of Colossians 1:20 (which means, literally, all, everything, everywhere, in the entire universe).

Closing Thoughts

But honestly, regardless of how the story ends--besides that it will presumably end happily because HH is at its core feel-good despite being profane--season one at least has got good theology. Why? Because it's digging into the questions that theology is concerned with. It's digging into the ideas of human nature, of what it means to be a good person, of what it means to redeem oneself, of affirming how precious each individual human soul is.

It doesn't offer cheap answers, and it specifically calls out the white American evangelical church for how it purports to be simple but actually just confuses people and punishes them for things they can't help, that creates more stumbling blocks than it does shine a light. And it does it in a way that is scandalous. Offensive to many religious people.

But, y'know, Jesus was pretty scandalous too.

So I really love the story so far because it emphasizes what I find so beautiful about my religion, and criticizes the parts that have also hurt me. I don't think it's remotely aiming to be a Christian allegory or anything like that, and I don't at all think anyone has to be religious to enjoy it or gain the core message of it, but I do think that it's doing a hell of a lot more good in the world message-wise than most evangelical movies of the past 30 years.

[wingedjellyfishflight]

A Forgotten Birthday

"How old is y/n then?" The new recruit is always trying to flirt with Soap by asking him gossip and facts about the team.

"Twenty-six." He answers her so easily. It feels like a stab to your heart all over again.

"Twenty-seven." You correct, voice conspicuously devoid of emotion.

"No, your birthday isn't until May, and it's..." His face pales. He whips around to look at you. "We missed it. How did we miss it?" You shrug, not meeting his eyes.

"Some things just aren't important." Your food tastes like sawdust. You give up trying to eat and toss it in the trash on the way out. Maybe hitting the gym will help. No, you know he's going to tell everyone, and you don't want to deal with their pity-filled stares and questions about making it up to you now that they've finally remembered.

Running the trail system near the base is a favorite of yours normally. Today, it isn't relaxing, but anger-inducing. You were on a mission in a forest just like this across the world for your birthday. It was almost two weeks after the day that you got back, and you eagerly waited for the surprise party that Soap, Gaz, and Price always set up for each person's birthday, but... nothing. After three weeks, you gave up all hope for one and steeled yourself to give nothing away. Can't let them see you hurt over a stupid birthday. Can't make the team lose focus or lose your own. You're an adult, after all.

Zoned out, you don't realize how far you have run until it's nearly too dark to see the path. Sitting on a stump, you give in and have a cry about the whole thing. Self-pity taking you over for just a few minutes. Wiping your eyes, you startle when a hand touches your back. You leap up and move to a defensive crouch only to see Ghost's balaclava looming out of the darkness at you.

"Luv, what's wrong?"

"N-nothing. Just, I don't know. Needed a cry, I guess. Didn't think anyone would see me."

"You certainly didn't see anyone. I've been running behind you for nearly five minutes. I could have been anyone. You need to be more aware of things." Your hurt and confusion turns to anger at the lecture he is spouting off.

"Ya, I guess I do need to be more aware. Clearly, I am the problem." You stomp away from him, starting back to base, muttering to yourself about transfers to other teams who might care more. Ghost wraps his hand around your arm and pulls you to a stop.

"What, I make one comment, and you're just going to quit on us? What is actually going on, pet? Someone piss you off or something? Do I need to knock teeth out?"

"I... everyone forgot," you mumble. Ghost glances around to ensure you're alone and tugs you against his chest, rubbing your back. "I was in the shit and when I got back, nobody remembered my birthday." He freezes, hands cradling you.

"They forgot? How could they forget? Your birthday is always at the beginning of the mission season. I thought you guys had it when I was down range. I was gutted to have missed it. Sent you flowers as a sorry." His grip tightens to an almost painful level, and you grip back, remembering the beautiful bouquet that had been left for you without a note. "We will just have to make Soap and Captain pay for forgetting then." You glance up and see his eyes glimmering at you in the moonlight.

"We should probably find our way home first."

"Home, that sounds good." His phone suddenly goes off, making you jump. "Group text. 'SOS emergency meeting. Do not tell y/n.' They ain't even tryin' to be subtle at this point." He guides the two of you down the path, walking quick and assured. Within minutes, he is getting an avalanche of phone calls and texts to the point that he is tempted to throw it into the woods around you, but you turn it off and slip it into his pocket for him.

"Last time you threw one and broke it, Captain said he would glue the new one to your hand, and I'm pretty sure he was serious." Ghost ruffles your hair.

"That was a private meeting, Luv. How did you hear him say that?"

You scoff. "You'd be lucky if the entire fuckin' base didn't hear him tell you that with how loud he was shouting." He just chuckles and guides you both home. He drops you off at the women's barracks and storms into the team meeting, slamming the door into the wall.

"Finally you show up! We forgot y/n's birthday and we are planning a party to make up for it."

"No. You are not."

"What?! We can't just ignore it. We forgot! It's been months!"

"You're not going to force her to accept a pity party to make you feel better about what you did."

"Ghost, I know you hate parties, but she still deserves to know we care."

"So, show her. Before she makes good on transferring out. But no party. I will handle her party from now on since you fucks can't be trusted to remember." He walks out without another word, the room behind him in chaos.

"Why is he acting like he didn't forget, too?" Gaz asks incredulously.

"Because the bawbag didn't. He sent the mystery flowers that made her cry. It was right after he got back from down range. Can't believe I didn't catch it earlier."

Price stubs out his cigar. "So, no party. And she is thinking about leaving. We really cocked this one up, boys." He stands and walks to the door, pausing on the threshold. "No flowers, no gifts. Make it up to her. And Soap," he turns to look the Scottish man in the eye, "sleep with one eye open. Ghost is absolutely going to make us pay for making her cry." He walks away, no pep in his step, now.

"Cry? How does he know she cried?" Gaz seems baffled by the Captain's surety.

"Course she cried. Everyone does when they are forgotten or abandoned."

"Ghost doesn't, though. We never celebrate his birthday."

"We being the key there, mate. Remember last month when she shoved a new set of gloves and a mask at him? Told him the ones he was wearing were manky as fuck. That was his birthday gift." He runs a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I'm off. Need t'think about how I'm gonna beg forgiveness from both of 'em."