#enjoyyyyy!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blindmagdalena · 9 months

Text

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language. “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols.

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression..

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think.

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away.

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns.

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe.

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

#i have no self control ENJOYYYYY #praise me it's shocking i finished this so quickly #although it's not really finished bc i'm stretching it into 3 parts but #couldn't help myself i needed him to be a little weirdo #next chapter is already started tho and shouldn't take long!#ALSO I MADE THIS GIF #i'm so happy lol #my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #plus size reader

997 notes · View notes

fleuraimer · 11 days

Note

neeeed more boxer!Carmy!!! can we please have boyfriend hcs for him 💖💖💖

AHHHH we lovvvvveeeee boxer!carmy sm that i’m making it a series, i’d be happy to supply 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

tw!! our carmy went thru it as a kid. some suggestive content.

bf boxer!carmy hcs coming right up!!

concept 1. concept 2.

bf boxer!carmy, me thinks, likes the calm of being around his pretty broad.

he’s a fighter (has been since the name calling turned into swirlies and books knocked out of hands and bodies shoved into lockers and heads smashed through glass and—

oh well)

so he’s used to calamity (devours it, to satiate that inherent ache in his belly, descended from generations upon generations of misplaced, misguided hurt), harnesses its power, the adrenaline, in every fight, focuses it. it’s why he’s so damn good at what he does.

but even he, carmen ‘carmy’ berzatto, the beast, the bear, needs his moments of solitude.

which is wear she comes in, polished and pretty in pink, just as always. her soft hand slips into his calloused palm like a puzzle piece, her silken lips settle into his own chapped ones like a key in a lock, and her body…

carmy’s never been good with words, but trying to describe the beauty of his girlfriend never fails to leave him speechless.

her supple figure, her delicate being, it fits to him, both literally and figuratively, unassumingly and forcibly, in ways he could never even begin to describe, can hardly begin to fathom. all he knows is that she makes everything… quiet. calm (when she wants to. sometimes, she’s gives him a bigger headache than any concussion ever could).

bf boxer!carmy fs pays for everything. like, hands down, every purchase his girl makes, from the day they start the talking stage to the dreadful day he fucks up their whole relationship and she leaves him (like he’d ever let her go), is paid for by him.

he will genuinely get upset if she even walks around with her wallet in her purse, let alone buys something with her own money; made her delete all her cards—debit and credit—from her phone and put all of his there instead.

he's not trying to buy her love (though maybe her forgiveness, nothing says ‘i'm sorry’ like a new pair of jimmy choo's and a westwood purse), fuck no—nor is he trying to place authority over her, stake some fucked up claim that twistedly means he now owns her—he only wants to spoil her, keep her safe and secure, offer her comfortability.

it used to be an issue, she couldn’t get it through that pretty, thick fucking skull of hers that the money she made was not to be touched, not unless it’s an emergency (like a literal emergency, cannot stress that enough).

once, still in the fairly early stages of their relationship, he took her out to a quaint little cafe down the road from his press conference for his upcoming fight, and she tried to pay for their coffee. he, sadly, broke one of her acrylics in the process of slamming the hand with her card against the chasier counter and snatching said card away (tears were surely shed, but after profuse apologies and a few—appeasing on his end, begrudging on her end—kisses, she was softly, sweetly reprimanded for being dumb enough to think she was ever paying for anything with him around). needless to say, she doesn’t pay for anything, and never even thinks to anymore unless she’s trying to get on his nerves.

speaking of acrylics, bf boxer!carmy definitely makes her match ‘em to the tip. he reads as a head scratch, back scratch kinda guy, too, so honestly the longer and pointier the better. he also lovessss her signature baby pink toes (can’t take his eyes off ‘em when he’s got her on her back with her feet pressed to his pecs, soft strokes, teasing, ‘til those baby pink toes curl ‘cause he hit that spot. then, he’s pounding—).

bf boxer!carmy likes coming home to food. doesn’t really care if it’s take out or home cooked, always appreciates the love his girl puts into her cooking though. but if there’s not enough for two (at least for six, he always has three helpings, if not more) this man will throw a FIT. what’s his baby gonna eat? and she best not get smart and say some dumb shit like ‘girl dinner’ bc he will shut her tf up (don’t threaten us w a good time bear 🤭).

any time she neglects to make or order food for herself, he leaves her standing at the kitchen island to go get her favorite from either the three michelin star restaurant down on 39th street or the bodega on the corner of their block.

sometimes, she does it on purpose:

“where’s yours, cub?” carmy huffs, duffle slipping onto his polished wood floors with a dull thud. his hair is matted with sweat and he stinks, he knows—can’t fucking wait to get in the shower—but he’s got a more pressing matter at hand right now.

his girl, scrubbing the dirty dishes in a ballet pink baby doll and silk bonnet to match, raises a perfectly plucked brow, and lifts her eyes to address him with a soft, conniving cadence.

“where’s m’wha’, bear?”

and god it’s so difficult to call her out when she’s looking at him like… like that.

he could knock her tf out right now (more like choke her tf out but).

he rolls his eyes, doesn’t miss her pleased smile as he turns on his heel, keys and wallet in hand, and walks right back out the front door.

bf boxer!carmy who can’t sleep without his girl in their bed, cradled in his arms, bundled between their satin sheets, fuzzy blankets, and a hefty comforter. keeps the AC on high all night long so he has an excuse to keep her close. he usually sticks to big spoon, though he’s certainly not opposed to being held (makes back and head scratches that much easier), he’d never pass up on the chance to stuff his face in his pretty broad’s pretty chest.

he drools and snores when he’s had a rough day or falls into the deepest sleep, and he always gets this cute scrunch to his face when he’s dreaming about something sad (sad, is her decided word, because that’s all she can feel when she kisses the furrow between his brows away).

when she can’t make it to one of his fights (which is few and far between) he spends as much of the night as he can on the phone with her just to stall the inevitable tossing and turning that’s waiting for him when the line goes dead (it’s the familiarity that gets to him, haunts him. it’s so easy to remember what it’s like, those restless nights, the constant noise).

and lastly (for now) bf boxer!carmy is suchhhh a control freak. as much as he loves his pretty broad, she irks him to NO END with the way she does the exact fucking opposite of what he so sweetly asks of her, too often to be good for his general mental health and wellbeing. he may push her buttons, but 8 out of 10 times it’s never fucking deliberate. she, the little fucking magenta devil, does that shit like it’s her only source of entertainment.

though, he can hardly complain. she may never learn her lesson, but at least she knows how to take a punishment like a good girl—

—

a/n: KEEP THE REQUESTS COMING PLS WRITING THJS EAS LOKE HEROINE INMY VEINSXHSHAHDGWJA

im fine. 😁.

not proofread!!

138 notes · View notes

webstersdiary · 1 month

Text

band of brothers + textposts i have saved 4/?

#band of brothers #ahhhh #winnix #webgott #diary entry #ron speirs #dick winters #lewis nixon #uhhh #david webster #okay that's all i have patience for tagging enjoyyyyy #finally collected enough new posts to make a new one of these lollll #bobcheesecloth

149 notes · View notes

kamalemons · 4 months

Text

The second Kirby adaptation of the Onion's In The Know series, this time over "Are We Giving Robots Too Much Power?", with a black & white halftone-filled color scheme!

#kirby #magolor #zan partizanne #queen kirby #taranza #susie kirby #susie haltmann #kamalemonsart #golly this took a while. hope you enjoyyyyy #also sorry to the taranza fans. this is what i meant by that!

195 notes · View notes

eddiesghxst · 1 year

Text

PRICE OF FAME (PART 6/12)

HIII this ones a bit spicy, but buckle in, decided to take a little turn in this part so don't hate me <3

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie realizes his true feelings for you just a little too late

contains: enemies to lovers trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, more jealous!eddie, masturbation (m), mentions of oral (f receiving), and eddie being a dick <3

word count: 4.2k

| previous part | next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

A 4/4 kick drum is beating in Eddie’s head when he wakes up.

Eddie still hasn’t learned his lesson when trying to outdrink Jeff, so he fails every time, no matter what, because Jeff is a fucking canteen of a human. Eddie does stupid things when he gets as drunk as last night, but the good thing about being blackout drunk is you remember nothing, so there’s not much to regret and cringe about.

There’s a show tonight, and Eddie has to take Wayne to the airport, so unfortunately, Eddie can’t spend the day recovering in his bed, and he’s forced to drag himself out of bed and rinse off the sour smell of alcohol and sex from his skin.

Breakfast has definitely passed, and Eddie curses the crew for not waking him up because his stomach growls as he turns the shower on. As Eddie prepares to hop in the shower, he thinks over what little events he can remember from yesterday because why not torture himself with the embarrassment?

A particular memory doesn’t hit Eddie until he’s halfway through his shower, but god, when it does, Eddie can’t stop thinking about it. Kissing you and pressing into you so close he could’ve sworn he felt the racing beat of your heart against his chest. The feeling of you beneath his fingertips, your hips grinding down onto his with those sinful and pretty sounds falling from your lips and onto his. The taste of your skin bursting in every inch of Eddie’s mouth and the overwhelming desire for more, more, more.

Eddie can’t help it with his head pounding and spinning with the lustful memory of you. He can’t help it when his hands stop doing the job of washing his body and start roaming instead. Can’t help it when his mind starts making up all these different scenarios of him fucking you as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, stroking up once and running his thumb over the head.

He hisses at the sensitive touch, eyes fluttering as he adjusts his grip and begins stroking himself. The shower wall is cool against his back when he shifts to lean against it, the sharp contrast of the cold wall and steaming hot water hitting his chest and rolling onto his cock, sending shivers up his spine.

Eddie lets his mind wander. He thinks about you and how he wants to pull more of those pretty sounds from you. He wants to lick into your mouth and sink his fingers into you so he can taste your moans as he plays with you. He wants to see how wet he can get you with just his fingers before you’re asking for more. He wants to unwrap you like a present and lay you down to part your thighs and sink to his knees, part your folds, and marvel at the way you drip and throb for him. And Eddie wonders if you would let him taste you. He wonders if you would let him suck pretty marks into your thighs until you’re whining and begging him to give you something.

“What do you want, princess? Gotta tell me what you want first.”

Eddie doesn’t even get far enough to think about sinking his cock into you before he’s cumming in spurts, white sticky ropes of cum splattering onto the shower floor as he curses and moans, chest heaving and wet hair sticking to his flushed cheeks. And Eddie’s cock is always sensitive in the morning, but he can’t seem to stop stroking himself with the image of you in his mind because fuck, he wants you, even if it’s almost painful.

And he hates that.

He hates that he wants you. Hates that he thinks about you all the way through his second orgasm— hates that he doesn’t stop thinking about you even after the fact. He hates that he thinks about you as he finishes showering and gets dressed for the day. He hates Jeff for barging in and ruining whatever could’ve happened between you two yesterday. He hates that he remembers thinking about you when he was fucking Lany into his hotel bed last night. And he hates that he can still smell her on his sheets because all Eddie wants to smell, see, hear, and touch is you. And he fucking hates it.

Yet, his chest blooms when he sees you at rehearsal. He gets that weird feeling in his chest where warmth spreads like a firework and bounces around his insides— and he gets so distracted that he fucks up a chord on the riff he was playing. No one seems to notice, so he pays no mind and keeps watching you.

And Eddie thinks about what Wayne told him this morning as they shared a quick hug before final departure, “Don’t chase that girl away, son. She’s good.”

Eddie chose not to think too hard about what Wayne meant by that.

He’s thankful he decided to wear sunglasses today because Eddie can’t seem to take his eyes off you. You look good, the way you styled your hair is different, and you’re wearing flared jeans that wrap around your ass and thighs perfectly with a fitted white top that hugs you in all the right places; Eddie, for some selfish reason, wants to believe you wore that to grab his attention. Mission accomplished.

You wander off somewhere near the end, and Eddie tries not to seem too eager when rehearsal wraps up, but he makes a beeline toward Richie and asks where you went.

Richie is too busy to ask why Eddie’s asking about you, but his questioning tone isn’t hidden when he tells Eddie you went to the snack room.

Eddie’s chest does that weird thing again when he walks into the room, fingers itching at the memory of how it felt to hold your hand. You’re standing over the snack table with your back facing Eddie when he walks up, clearing his throat to grab your attention. He frowns when you don’t turn around, but then Eddie realizes you have headphones covering your ears, so he gently taps your shoulder.

You seem startled when you turn to him, wide and pretty eyes blinking in realization as you remove your headset. “Were you saying something?” You ask.

Eddie says the first thing that comes to mind, “What are you listening to?”

“Oh,” you blink, “Um, Cass Elliot.”

Hippie shit.

You turn around to grab water from the table, and Eddie thinks this may be a bad idea because he doesn’t even know what he wants to say to you. Usually, Eddie is the one to give short and dead responses because he can’t stand you, but for the first time since he’s met you, the roles are reversed.

“Think we can finish that interview? Before the show, maybe?” Eddie asks. And god, this is embarrassing— he needs a smoke.

You turn to him again and shrug, “Nah, I think I've got enough on everyone now. I really only need the group interview now. See you tonight!”

And then you’re gone.

And Eddie thinks, what the fuck?

This isn’t how things are supposed to go. Eddie is the snippy one, and you’re the sweet one that’s way too nice to Eddie despite his disgusting attitude and bitchy personality.

Eddie’s bothered for the entire day, catching glimpses of you talking to band and crew members and James— fucking James.

Eddie wants to believe what you said yesterday, “No, nothing is going on between me and James.” but does James know nothing is going on between the two of you? Because it doesn’t fucking look like he does. Not when he keeps leaning in to talk to you, or when he shares a bag of chips with you, or when he’s practically attached to your hip for the entire day.

It’s pathetic, really, the way James is fiending for every second of your attention, and it pisses Eddie off that you’re buying into it. Showtime rolls around, and Eddie does a few lines with the band to get himself amped up before stepping on stage and playing like hell. Eddie keeps his eye on you throughout the show, and he pays the price when he sees James teaching you how to use his camera, wrapping his arms around your frame and whispering instructions in your ear as you test out taking pictures of the stage. Eddie’s chest stirs with something he doesn’t quite enjoy, and it only intensifies when he sees James drop a hand to gently rest against your hip, watching as a smile stretches across your lips in excitement when you show him the picture you’d captured.

Eddie pops a string when he sees it happen, cursing into his mic, shoving his guitar pick between his lips, and angrily removing the guitar to quickly swap it out with the spare one handed to him from the side stage. Eddie plays the rest of the show with an angry heat running through his body, and he thinks you might be doing this on purpose. Flirting around with James right in his face to make him jealous, and Eddie swears he won’t fall for whatever shitty plan this is, but fuck, do you play dirty.

You never join the band in their post-show shenanigans, but tonight, you decide to tag along for some reason— or rather, someone.

Fucking James.

Eddie thinks he should just fire him at this rate. Get rid of the problem at the root and burn the stem so it never returns because fuck James. He makes you laugh, he’s gentle with you, and he can sweet talk like a motherfucker, and Eddie knows that because he’s been on the receiving end before— he’s well aware of James and his undeniable charm. And he can’t believe you’re falling for it.

Eddie takes endless shots, trying to blur out the distasteful sight of you pressed against James’ side in the booth, talking about god knows what. The night ends relatively early since everyone is a bit tired from the day and the longer day they have planned for tomorrow, so everybody is in their respective rooms by the time the clock strikes one in the morning. But Eddie can’t seem to fall asleep— especially not with the knowledge that James definitely didn’t go to his room but instead followed you into your room. Eddie doesn’t like that.

Eddie paces his room for some time before he breaks and finds himself knocking on your door. You don’t answer for a moment, and Eddie suddenly thinks he might be strong enough to knock down a heavy oak wood door. Maybe Eddie shouldn’t have smoked before coming here. He always swears the weed will take the edge off, but in reality, it makes him dumber and more impulsive than before, as seen a few days ago when he was right in the same position— knocking on your door at an ungodly hour of the night.

Eddie raises a hand to knock again, but he’s relieved of the job when you swing the door open in nothing but a white robe, drops of water running down the sides of your neck and dripping between the valley of your chest. Eddie wants to drink up every last drop.

“Is James in here?” Eddie asks.

And maybe Eddie shouldn’t have started with that because now you look like you want to punch him in the throat. Your eyebrows furrow as your face twists in a look of annoyance, “You seriously have a fucking problem, Eddie.” You snap.

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you always come here in the middle of the night to ask me stupid questions?” You ask.

Eddie glances over your shoulder, scanning the room for any signs of a dark-haired and tattooed man, but he finds none and seems to find some ease in that. You step into his line of sight, raising your eyebrows questioningly, and Eddie blinks. “I thought you two weren’t a thing.” He says, and you roll your eyes.

“This again? Honestly, why do you care, Eddie?” Your tone teeters on the edge of impatience, and Eddie steps closer, the clean scent of your body wash invading his senses. “Are you?”

“No. I already told you, again, not that it’s any of your business—” “Does James know that?” He cuts you off.

You blink at Eddie in confusion, “What?”

Eddie’s getting tired of repeating himself because he knows you can hear him loud and clear, and you’re just avoiding giving him an answer. Eddie steps closer, practically inside your room and towering over you, and he can’t help it when his eyes dart to your lips and the clear view of your damp chest. “Does James know that you’re not into him?” He repeats.

You gaze up at Eddie, eyes narrowing as you repeat your question from earlier, “Why do you care?”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Eddie grumbles, fingers curling into the palms of his hands to restrain from reaching out and touching you. And you’re making it so hard, standing there and gazing up at him with these eyes that dare him to do something— reach out, touch me, feel me.

You tilt your head as you speak, a sly grin dancing across your lips, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” You mock.

Eddie laughs softly and humorlessly, “Why would I be jealous of him, princess?” He hums, stepping closer once again, forcing you to step back into the entryway of your room to make room for Eddie to step in fully. His gaze falls again, and you run the tip of your tongue along your bottom lip, “Does he know what you feel like?” Eddie asks. “What I feel like?”

Eddie mindlessly shuts the door behind him, the air thickening with tension in the room as he inches a little closer. So close and yet not close enough. “Yeah. Does he know what your pretty moans sound like? Does he know how you taste, hm?”

You’re sharing breaths now, so close to one another that your lips are brushing against his as you speak, “Do you know how I taste?” You tease. Eddie hums, “Not the best part.”

He presses his lips to yours, soft moans leaving you both at the sudden contact as he finally reaches out and lets his hands roam your body. The robe you have on is thick and soft, but it’s not what Eddie wants to touch. He wants to feel the warmth of your skin and squeeze and grab at the soft and thick parts of you until you moan for more.

You blindly stumble further into your room, lips busy moving against one another with tongues fighting for dominance. And Eddie thinks you give the most addicting kisses he’s ever had; every movement is right and sends bursts of colors behind his eyelids, sloppy and wet but so fucking good to the point where he wishes he could kiss you forever.

“The best part?” You manage to say between kisses. Eddie hums in distracted confusion, advancing to kiss you harder as you drop onto your bed. Eddie towers over you, palms sinking into the plush material of the comforter. “What’s the best part?” You ask.

Eddie’s lips curl into a smirk, smattering kisses down your neck as his fingers dance across your robe to the loose knot holding it closed. He moves back to kiss you as he tugs on the fluffy, thick string, and you gasp against his lips when his cool fingers sneak into the open robe and skim across your warm stomach. “The best part,” Eddie begins, leaning down to nip at your jaw as his hands roam your bare skin. “The best part is what’s sitting between these pretty thighs of yours, sweetheart.” He sucks at the skin of your neck, and you mewl as his fingers squeeze at your thigh, pushing your knees apart to open you up for him.

And Eddie has every intention to fuck you right now. He’s been dreaming about what it’d be like to lick into your sweet cunt, to sink his cock in you and watch as every coherent thought melts from your brain, to make you cum over and over until you’re begging him to stop.

But suddenly, you’re pushing Eddie away, a shaky palm pressing into his chest as your thighs squeeze shut, “I-I can’t,” you shake your head, “You have a girlfriend.”

And well, this is news to Eddie. “I have a what now?”

Your lips are pouty and cute, and Eddie wants to go back to kissing you, but you’re wriggling your way out from beneath him and padding across the floor to your desk. Eddie sits on the edge of your messy bed, palming his neglected cock as he watches you grab a newspaper and walk back over to him. He tries his best not to stare at the sway of your breasts beneath your open robe or the cute little panties he gets a glimpse of, but he fails and throbs beneath the palm of his hand. You stand in front of him with a frown, handing the paper to Eddie as he gazes up at you with wide eyes and swollen lips.

Eddie isn’t sure what this is, and the only thing running through his mind is the incessant need to get off, but he humors you anyway and snatches the paper with a look of boredom. You adjust your robe back around your body and cinch it tighter than before, and Eddie mentally mourns the loss of his moment to finally see those pretty tits you’ve been teasing beneath those tight shirts of yours. He flips the newspaper upright and grazes over the page until he sees it— “Corroded Coffin lead singer, Eddie Munson, new girlfriend debut!”

It’s a blown-up picture of Eddie leaving the club, a drunken and sly smirk plastered across his lips with a pretty little redhead he likes to frequently fuck wrapped around his arm— Lany.

Summer of ‘87 Corroded Coffin went on their very first tour. It was three months long, only covered about four states, and was mostly a shitshow, but the boys were just happy to have booked an actual tour— something bigger than The Hideout.

Groupies didn’t come around until about halfway through the tour— and look, Eddie had his fair share of men and women by that time, but it was different when they were practically throwing themselves at Eddie, and he didn’t have to work for it.

Lany was Eddie’s first groupie. Sweet and pretty with a silky smooth voice and a wicked mouth that blew Eddie’s little inexperienced mind. Lany and her group of friends tagged along with Corroded Coffin for the rest of their tour, and when Eddie asked Lany where he could find her, Lany simply responded with a sweet, “I’m never where I should be, you know that. I’ll find you when you go big.” And a kiss.

And she did. Eddie didn’t see Lany for years until their second world tour and they were now on their fifth, so it’s safe to say, Lany is a fucking veteran of a groupie.

But Lany isn’t Eddie’s girlfriend.

Far from it, actually, and Eddie’s not sure why the paparazzi are all of a sudden interested in whatever groupies he’s fucking because they usually could care less. Nothing is interesting about Eddie Munson fucking a random girl nobody knows, so who gave them the idea that they’re not only fucking, but dating?

Despite the confusion reeling through Eddie’s mind, something else overtakes and he snickers, glancing up at you with a smug grin, “You been reading up on me, sweetheart?” He teases.

Your expression switches to one of annoyance as you snatch the newspaper out of his hands, ignoring the smirk plastered across his lips as you huff, “No, I— it came with the room service I ordered.” You fold your arms over your chest.

Eddie’s teeth dig into his lower lip as he stands up and steps toward you, tilting his head tauntingly as he speaks, “And you read it, and what? Got jealous?”

Eddie has you trapped against the edge of your desk now, and his fingers skim the warmth of your fingers as he takes the paper from your hand. “This is fake news, princess.” He says with a mocking glint in his eye. He tosses the piece onto the desk and you glance at it, a frown etched deep into your lips.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Eddie assures you, leaning forward to smear kisses across your jaw. You shift beneath him, finger coming up to dig into the flexing muscle of his arms as he snakes his hands around your hips, pulling you closer. “She’s at every show. And you go out together all the time.” You point out beneath a needy breath.

“Because she’s a groupie, sweetheart. She goes everywhere I go, that’s kind of the point.”

Eddie rucks you up against him, sucking another bruise into your skin and reeling at the noise you make. “That’s mean…” You mumble, and Eddie laughs against your skin. “It’s not mean if it’s the definition.” He argues.

“So what, you got jealous of a groupie? You want a chance to be my groupie, hm? That’s why you’re upset, princess?” He noses at the skin below your ear before licking the spot and smiling when you shiver against him. Then, for the second time tonight, you’re pushing Eddie away with a disgruntled look. You shake your head, trying to collect your thoughts as your chest heaves in hidden excitement from Eddie’s teasing. “I’m not— I’m not some groupie, Eddie.”

And Eddie looks at you like you’ve just said the sky is blue, “I’m a journalist. I came here to work and you…” You pause and blink at Eddie as if thinking over your following words, “You’re just getting in the way.”

And Eddie doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the way it sounds or the way you said it or the way it makes him feel. He hates it.

“Getting in the way?”

“Yes, Eddie, you’re getting in the way,” You snap, irritation heavy within your tone. “I’ve been patient with you this entire time, but you just— you’re such a fucking asshole. I mean— none of this should be happening— this,” you gesture between the two of you, “shouldn’t be happening.”

Eddie’s face pinches in defense, “Nothing is happening here, birdie.”

And you scoff, shaking your head as you speak, “Then why are you here, Eddie?”

And this is the first time either of you has pointed out the obvious mix of feelings stirring between you both, and it makes Eddie’s skin run cold— because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t know why your words are upsetting him. He doesn’t know why he hates it when James is around you. He doesn’t know why every time he thinks of you or sees you he gets that warm rush in his chest— he just knows it’s there.

And it scares Eddie. It scares Eddie to realize that he was wrong about you, to realize that you aren’t all those mean things he said about you, to realize that maybe he likes you a lot more than he’d like to admit. It scares him.

Eddie shakes his head like the words are in there but can’t seem to say them, and he hates it. He hates feeling this way. He hates knowing that he fucked this up way worse than he’d thought because you’re looking at him like you never want to see him again. And you have every right. Because Eddie has put you through more than enough, and honestly speaking, there isn’t a single way Eddie sees this turning in his favor. He’s ruined everything before anything could even happen.

And Eddie hates that.

Your arms slink around your body to protectively shield your frame, and Eddie can visibly see you shrinking into yourself, and he can’t believe he’s the reason why. It hits Eddie like a fucking freight train. All the weeks of tormenting and mean games Eddie has played with you, it’s all bullshit. It was Eddie’s way of protecting himself, and in the end, he only ended up hurting the most delicate and kind person he thinks he’s ever met.

“I think you should go.” You softly say.

And you can’t even look Eddie in the eyes, and Eddie wants to scream. He wants to pull you in, spew out apologies, and beg for any sliver of forgiveness you can give, but you— you’re too far gone. Eddie pushed you off the ledge and watched you drift away, only to cast a rope at the last second. But Eddie’s rope is too short, and you’re gone.

Still, even though Eddie knows he’s done enough damage, his pride wins him over, and on his way out, he turns to say his last piece, “You know, everything was fine until you came along. This is exactly why I didn’t want you here.”

And you both know what he’s talking about. The mixed feelings and the drama— all of it. None of it would’ve happened if you never came along, and even if Eddie thinks he wishes you never happened, he knows he feels the opposite. You both know it.

And if Eddie sees the tiny glimpse of you wiping at your face, he doesn’t mention it. He only leaves you with his words and the slamming of the door.

————

part seven

————

a/n: HELLO U MADE IT TO THE END! I HOPE THE GIRLIES ARENT TOO MAD W ME, IK EVERYONE WANTED READER TO HAVE HER MOMENT SO WE GOT A LITTLE SNIPPET OF IT HERE BUT ITS ONLY THE BEGINNINGGG !! as always, thank u for making it to the end and i always love to hear how you feel about it !! <3

————

cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2

@mvnsonslvt @s-u-t @hereforshmut @mmunson86 @welcometohellsock @lma1986 @birdsinmywalls @animechick555 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @spideydreams00 @lorosette @prestinalove @sirensleepingsoundly @eddielives1986

612 notes · View notes