#give the cat boy a sticker

[tropixal]

Big brother Reki

[vurelly]

YIPPEE ITS ARRIVED!! Can’t wait to put in on my bag! :D💕💖 and ty for the two among us stickers ahdjsjusuahja

YIPPEE YIPPEE YIPPEE YIPPEE YIPPEE IM SO GLAD HE CAME IN SAFE

[tofuhoon]

enhypen’s dating habits

genre: fluff warnings: none (i think)

masterlist

heeseung can’t help but keep his hands off of you. it’s not to say he’s always wanting something from you, but he just loves having that assurance that you’re by his side. he realizes this fact again every single morning when you wake up with your body pressed against his. whether it’s having you sat on his lap or fiddling with your hair, he enjoys having your presence in his.

jay’s love language is gift giving. he can’t help that whenever he sees anything beautiful in the slightest, it reminds him of you. he never gets tired of the glowing beam on your face when you receive your gifts. though you tell him to “stop buying me stuff, save your money,” the blush on your cheeks is enough to encourage his spending.

jake loves spending time with you. of course, all the boys do. but the way jake schedules out all his dates on his personalized calendar with pictures of you, decorating those days with hearts and stickers makes you truly know he cares. whether he’s walking layla or finishing up his work, there’s nothing that he wouldn’t rather do with you right next to him.

if there’s one thing about sunghoon, it’s that he’s always looking for you. whether it’s in a sea of people or a small gathering of friends, you are the only one in his viewpoint at all times. he doesn’t mean it to necessarily keep an eye on you, but his body just naturally gravitates to your direction. whenever he cracks a joke or does something cute, his eyes are laser-focused on your reaction only. 

sunoo doesn’t think he can go a day without resting his head on your shoulder. “it’s the perfect pillow!” he says, even when you try to convince him that a neck pillow might be a good investment. he will do this when he’s tired, when he’s having some chill time with you, or when he laughs and allows his body to ragdoll onto yours.

jungwon’s friends are tired of hearing of you. you’re great and all, but is there really nothing else going on in his life? that’s not true of course, but the way your name is stuck to his tongue, his friends are sure they know every detail about you. but jungwon can’t help that the dress in the store looks just like the one you wore on your last date, or that cat over there looks just like you. you’re constantly on his mind, and he doesn’t mind a bit.

niki’s playful side is one you’re very familiar with. still, he tends to shrink it down whenever you come near. it’s not that he thinks you’ll get annoyed (will you? he hopes not.), but that he wants to become someone you can rely on. his gentlemanly nature can be surprising for the others to see after he just threatened to dropkick jake, but your rosy cheeks make it all worth it.

[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

[mochinek0]

Daminette December 2023: 16-Pet Store

Marinette thanked the kwamis for giving her an advantages around animals. She had moved to Gotham and was working part time at a pet store. Her new apartment still didn't allow animals, but she could still play with them.

Marinette looked up from her desk as an owner and his dog walked up to the counter.

"This is Titus." the boy announced.

"I can take him from here." Mari spoke.

"I insist that I take him to the back." he stated, "You look new. Titus has specific taste."

Marinette rolled her eyes and grabbed the leash out of his hand.

"Come on, Titus." she smiled, "Think you can prove your owner wrong and go by yourself like a good boy?"

Marinette turned and Titus willingly walked along side her to the back. Neither saw Damian's shocked expression. Damian had trained Titus himself. He knew Titus wouldn't trust anyone so easily.

'Something is wrong here.'

When Damian returned, his anger only grew. The same girl had brought Titus back out for him. Titus stood towering over her and licked her cheek. She had smiled and reached behind the counter and handed him a sealed dog biscuit shaped like a bone.

"The ingredients are written down on the back." the girl declared.

Damian turned it over and sure enough there was a sticker on the back.

"The font is misleading." Damian spoke, "It appears to be handwritten."

"It is." Marinette replied, "I made them. I make all the treats."

Damian looked at it again and shoved the treat in his pocket.

"Titus. Come." He spoke.

Titus followed obediently.

'I'll just run analysis on this and see what kind of underground network she is apart of.'

Damian had found no hidden agenda through the biscuit. All ingredients were perfectly healthy for Titus or any dog. He had handed it over to Titus in disappointment. Titus ate it happily.

'Traitor, but I know who won't betray me.'

Oh how wrong he was. Marinette carried a happily purring Alfred the cat in her arms.

'I should bring Goliath. She'd likely be frightened. I would win and she would no longer have power over my pets. I could do that, but then Father would be upset. He already doesn't like Goliath and finds him to be dangerous. This would only further his thinking.'

"Cupcake!" a voice shouted from behind him.

"Uncle Jagged!" Marinette smiled, placing Alfred in his carrier.

Damian turned to see Jagged Stone and his famous pet crocodile walk in. He watched in surprise as she disregarded the reptile and hugged the Rockstar. After, she turned towards the croc. Damian was ready to pull her away, but the croc rolled over and she scratched his stomach as if it as a dog. He was speechless.

'Maybe bringing Goliath would be a mistake. I need to learn her secrets.'

Marinette looked at Damian as he handed over his resume.

"You don't need the money." She spoke, "So why?"

"I prefer animals to human company." He answered honestly.

Mari smiled, "I say anyone who doesn't is a liar."

Marinette turned away and took the resume to the back. Damian realized he had smirked when she left. He quickly brought him emotions under control.

"I don't think there would be a problem, but I'm sure my boss would want to cover her ass, if you somehow got hurt on the job." She declared, coming back.

"Explain." Damian insisted.

Marinette sighed, "Make sure that if you got injured, while on the job, that she isn't sued by a Wayne."

"I would be fine." he growled out.

"And your father?" she asked.

The Wayne heir sighed, "I think his only concern is that I don't bring more animals home." making her giggle.

'Did I pass?'

Damian was called back to the boss' office. He knew they wanted to know his angle; why he wanted to work there. His siblings ad gone through it before when they got jobs. Damian took out an envelope and slid it over the desk.

"Inside is a viable check worth $10,000." Damian stated, "Pair me with Marinette Dupain-Cheng as my mentor. If I am not paired with her, I'll report the check as fake."

The vet just looked at the signed check and nodded, absent-minded. As Damian went looking for Marinette, he heard the boss call out that they had a quick errand to run.

Damian observed how careful she was with the animals. There were times he thought she was trying to flirt, by acting clumsy, but he quickly learned that wasn't the case. Other workers would ask if she had fallen that day or if she needed a bandaid.

Marinette waved off the concern, "It'll just be another bruise. I probably wouldn't notice. I can't keep count."

If he caught her, she'd say thank you and continue ignoring him. Damian had learned from the other workers that Marinette fixated only on the animals. They invited her many times to hang out or even grab a bite to eat after work. Some offered to pay, but the answer was always no. They had later learned that in the past, Marinette's friends had backstabbed her. As a result, she was friendly at work, but once she was off the clock, she didn't give them a chance to get to know her.

"I would like for you to come to my home." Damian declared.

"No. Thank you." Marinette answered, getting ready to leave for the day.

"I have animals." he spoke.

"I've seen them." She replied, "Titus and Alfred, correct?"

"You haven't seen Jerry or Batcow." he remarked.

Marinette froze as she was tying her shoe.

"As in-" she began.

'Gotcha.'

Damian smirked, "Batcow is an actual cow and just so you are aware, Jerry is a turkey."

He could see her trying to figure out how to answer him. Ignore him or see animals she had never seen before.

"I'd like to see the cow." Marinette whispered, embarrassed, "This doesn't mean were friends, all of a sudden!"

"Of course not." Damian agreed, "Just colleges, who share a love of animals."

Marinette smiled as she walked out the door.

TAGLIST: @maribat-calendar-events @animeweebgirl@a-star-with-a-human-name@meme991001@vixen-uchiha@abrx2002@alysrose-starchild@fandom-trapped-03@dood-space@moonlightstar64@saltymiraculer@marveldcedits20@09shell-sea09@icerosecrystal@animegirlweeb@insane-fangirl-of-everything@blueblossombliss@nickristus-dreamer@megawhitleycalderonpaganus@missmadwoman@meira-3919@princessdaisysolosyourfaves@blep-23@fangirlingfanatic@darkhinauniverse@ravenr22@im-a-satanic-ritual@ravennm84@bianca-hooks123@a-slytherinish-gryffindor@starling218

[areislol]

this goes towards my current wip with al haitham so

child al haitham x child reader // cute moments :)

some moments on angst (mentions of his parents seperating, this is just a hc of mine for some angst don't bash me pls) not proofread. short

a/n: this was for funsies, honestly i just needed to write something cute and fluffy after writing an angsty wip, i can't write this all in my current wip hence, this!

when he was reading a book to you

when you were rolling on the ground trying to get his attenton as he read a book

when al haitham was trying his best to console you with awkward pats on the back after having tripped and cried

al haitham's mother making him hold your hand when crossing the street.

when you had a sleep over at his place and fell asleep on his bed, both of your tiny hands just barely touching each other

al haitham trying to stop you from touching a stray cat saying that it was "dirty and mommy said not to touch a cat outside, you can get hurt and even die!!" poor boy was scared for you

you laughing at him as he falls, when he cries and puts the blame on you, you both get time out and somehow you manage to run away, dragging al haitham with you as your mother chases you

building a sand castle with him, it's very sloppy looking but you were proud of it, and so was al haitham. so when a random child that was getting chased by their friends and run over your sandcastle he is furious, swearing to find them when his older and destory their sandcastle as pay back. and when he notices that you're sobbing uncontrollably? he might just even have a talk with them.

al haitham who helps you steal the cookie jar that was ONLY meant to be eaten after dinner, and when your grubby tiny hands reach for it and break it, he takes the blame.

al haitham who lets you put stickers and bows on his face as he reads a book, as long as you aren't in the way of course (he doesn't mind if you do or don't) and refuses to take them off when he needs to shower.

al haitham who is always there to help you get up when you trip and fall, even asking his mother to buy him a small hang bag so he can stuff bandaids in there.

al haitham gets really, seriously mad when someone picks on you for being "too loud" or "running around too much", he doesn't outright say anything but the glares...? even for a young child like him, whew.

he's always with you, before school, during school, after school and even during the holidays! (no wonder you're so close) and he doesn't mind, his mother is always tearing up as she watches her son watch you hold the crayon whole and scribble on a paper, and when you invite him to draw with you? ack! two cuties trying their best to draw each other.

(turns out to look like human blobs, one with grey hair with green streaks and one with [h/c]!! the eyes are disproportional but what can you expect from 5/6 year olds..)

al haitham who stays silent and listens as you yell at him out of anger when he accidentally loses a doll you gave him, he's clearly upset that you're mad at him but now he's mad at you, why are you yelling at him he did nothing wrong!!

this results in you ignoring him (it was a pain) and of course, al haitham hates it when you ignore him. so as usual, he asks his mother to give you a bag full of your favourite candies. you forgive him in less than a minute.

al haitham doesn't own much toys and likes books, any book. even if he can't read them he finds the pictures interesting. so he's more than elated when he sees that you got him new books on his birthday or even as a surprise gift!!

sometimes you lend him your toys so that you two could play together, you were taught to share of course. you often force him to play barbie dolls with you, not that he minds, it's just... does he really have to put on a girly voice for raquelle?

he swears that he won't ever play this game with you ever again after his friends caught him playing with you. (but secretly he continues to do so after making sure no one is around)

!!! playing family!!! you're always the mother who works hard by playing soccer and earning no money whatsoever while al haitham is the father who stays home and reads books. for some odd reason he feels this tingly feeling in his heart when he plays this game with you. what if one day when you're both older and live together with 5 exotic cats and wolves? what a dream.

al haitham who recieves a paper from his teacher that states "what is your dream?" for a class activity and immediately you pop up in his mind. his dream... is to make you happy. other than reading all the books in the world and making his mama and papa proud!

he gets upset when you aren't here with him for a day or more, say, you're on a holiday in another country or state, boy is he gonna be pestering and begging his mother to see you!! please, he needs to go there right now!!! (ever heard of face time?)

later in the years al haitham's always embarrassed when his mother brings that up, saying that it's "not true" but then completely freezes when his mother takes out her phone, saying "oh no worries, i have a video recording!!" and turns to face you, smiling. the way the colors drain from his face.

who is afraid to lose you after his mother came into his room and sat by the edge of his bed, her hand caressing his soft hair. "my dear boy," she would say softly, her gaze so soft and gentle.

"is it okay it mama comes in?" al haitham nods his head, how could he ever deny his mother's request?

"thank you baby, now, mama has something to say. don't be too scared now, okay?" al haitham nods, continung to lie down on his best tucked in nicely.

"people come and go, al, you will understand one day but... sigh, mommy and daddy have to tell you something."

ever since then he's sure to do whatever it takes to make you happy, he doesn't want you to leave him, ever. not like you would ever!!

[cherry-flavoured-thot]

i just know the boys were all comparing the chocolates they got.

"I had more chocolates in my box." Mammon's gloats proudly while showing off the varying Grimm shaped chocolates off to his brothers. All of which scoff. Except Beel, who is murmuring about how delicious his chocolates from mc were.

"I'm going to savor that taste forever." Beel is ignored.

"Yeah but yours are glorified chocolate coins mine look way cooler." Levi's showing off pictures of his chocolates, because mc's gift had been placed in a glass display box. Various faces for anime characters, of which he names in the order they appear in the box. Various scoffs again.

"Neither of you can beat cat paw shaped chocolates." Satan almost couldn't bring himself to try any of the chocolates. But considering so much work had been put in just to make giving them possible he managed.

"Well mine are strawberry flavoured, and my box is hand decorated." Asmo's box had cute stickers placed all over, nearly matching the same sticker decorations he had put on his chocolate box for mc.

"Only strawberry flavoured? mc made different flavours for me." Belphie's words make a few heads turn, as arguments break out that more isn't better. (Mammon is the one who says it despite the hypocrisy.)

It's all fun and games until when Lucifer is questioned about the chocolates he got, he dodges the question. "I recall hearing Luke in awe of how much detail went into Simeon's chocolates from mc." Now they're all off to see if Simeon's chocolates are better then theirs.

[thecattishdragon]

I'm just gonna... -dumps all of my N headcanons-

- Pansexual

- Adhd & Autism

- 20 years old

- Born/created on April 22nd

- Height: 6’6

- Ptsd, scared of loud noises

- Likes carrying Uzi around. Mostly does it when she’s tired or feeling sad.

- Knows a lot about many animals, not just dogs. Often randomly brings up facts about animals during conversation. 

- Has dents and scratches from J and V. Most of them are covered by his coat, so nearly nobody knows.

- Collects random things he finds interesting. Stickers, Books, Rocks he finds cool, and various shiny things are some of the things he collects the most. He gives shiny things, cool rocks, etc. to Uzi :>

- Rubs his claws together and taps them on things to stim

- Curls his tail around himself holds it in his hands when uncomfortable/nervous/scared

- Launches self into the air like a cat whenever startled

- Pets Uzi’s tail like a dog whenever it’s around (It LOVES him for this)

- VERY fluffy and soft hair. 

- likes headpats and scritchies ^^

- Sometimes chases tail when bored (Did this A LOT before the events of Episode One)

- Defensive of Uzi when J is around, Curls tail around her, pulls her closer, etc.

- Gets VERY flustered VERY easily. He can go from chill to a blushing mess just with a small kiss or a flirtatious remark

- His hair is just long enough to be pulled into a little ponytail. Uzi finds this absolutely adorable but TELLS NOBODY

- Often eats things he’s not supposed to. Chalk, wood, dirt, etc. His thought process is “I wonder what this tastes like.. Nothing bad will happen if I eat this, right? 

Ehhh it’ll be fine” Most of the time it’s fine. *most*

- His voice can go veeerry deep.

- Just as oilthirsty as J and V are, he’s just most excited about the HUNT, not the killing itself. He has single-handedly contributed to around 2/4 of the corpse spire

due to him wanting to be seen as somewhat useful

- Does like most anime, even the violent and gory ones.

- Sometimes has flashback episodes or nightmares where he vividly relives all the traumatic stuff that’s happened to him. Completely silent most of the time, tail curled around himself, trembling, sometimes wings covering himself, eyes closed tightly or just staring into the void

- He loves reading. He can read BIG WORDS like DISCOMBOBULATE and ABOMINATION

- Freaks out whenever he’s near a cute animal. Which, to him, is EVERY animal. Tessa has had to stop him from petting a crocodile before.

- Gets spooked and hides under the nearest bed, table, chair, couch, blanket, pillow, etc. or behind Uzi like a dog whenever there’s fireworks or lightning. He does 

think that fireworks are pretty when he doesn’t hear them

- Carries Uzi when she’s tired on long flights

- Separation anxiety

- Has the urge to touch EVERYTHING. Whether it be a cute animal or weird thing he found on the ground, he wants to touch it.

- You know this boi gives the best hugs and cuddles <3

- Clings to Uzi in his sleep and covers her with his wings. Most of the time he doesn’t even do it consciously, he just automatically does it.

- Frequent :3 :0 :D :) :( D: XD :3c etc. user

- Extremely skilled in making/preparing all kinds of drinks

- Was never really the same after the events of the show. He’s recovered well, but he’s not exactly the same. More easily saddened/angered, jumpier, anxiety levels higher, etc. 

[simonrillleyyysss]

do you have any other headcanons for any of the cod boys (ghost, soap, price, gaz) just curious!❤️

༉‧₊˚.GENERAL HC

most of these r taken from my tiktok, so pls don’t expect them to be very fancy :(

;;’GAZ

this guy is a football fanatic! supports manunited with his life(ick) suprisingly good at footie too!!

he’s really good at baking and cooking, his best(and really only) delicacy are his fucking BOMB omelettes. and scones. he’s really good at baking scones.

listens to uk drill and rave, stereotypical roadman, hip hop too

likes turtlenecks but they annoy him

skincare routine! it has almost 10 steps, spends so much on his care items

had/HAS his ear pierced, doesn’t admit it

first job was at a sports direct.

says innit unironically

could be an olympic swimmer

;;’PRICE

carries a worlds best teacher mug aroujd the lunchroom, doesn’t know why or how he got it

he really likes the airplane neck comforter things; the guys buy him some for christmas :)

sandals and socks are his goto summer combo! dresses like a dad ;p

if it’s not him driving, he’ll hang onto the lil handle things and complain they can’t drive

rlly good at making toast??? it’s never burned. always made perfectly.

favourite show is call the midwife (if he’s feeling cheeky, he’ll watch the office)

if you use a vape near him, he’ll loudly declare ‘that’s for wussies!’

listens to nickleback

maths nerd

;;’SOAP

punk teen phase

big rock nerd, likes punkrock and punk pop, sum41,dead kennedys, blink-182,good charlotte etc

lactose intolerant(punishes himself and eats dairy anyways)

had a bowlcut phase as a kid…

really good at linedancing for some reason??

had an eyebrow slit during his edgy phase, suits him

really good at tree climbing! is like a squirrel sometimes lol

often needs floortime, just holds your hand and lays on the carpet; letting you brush his hawk back

scared of golemn from LOTR

his laptop is covered in doggy stickers, will help and let you choose and pick new stickers out to cover the free spaces

love language is quality time, elaboration; he loves being around u, always holding your hand, going shopping?? bring him along! jog?? bring him along!! if HES going somewhere?? go along with him! it makes him feel giddy knowing that he has someone there with him

he really likes spicy food

has a bull terrier dog named setanta

;;’GHOST

checks behind the showercurtain when he goes into a bathroom, very paranoid

he complains that redbull tastes like piss, but will drink it anyways

i think that he has a buzzcut, easy to manage and doesn’t think it makes him look any less appealing, pretty intimidating look

isn’t buff, is athletic but beefy—keeps his weight and just bulks himself out

he’s really good at chess, he’s like young sheldon but for a bunch of figures on a board, very calculated

very superstitious, if you open an umbrella inside the house ur literally getting kicked out or scolded for a while

paranoid AAFFFFF, covers mirrors at night and has to keep his eyes open when he washes his face

has a black cat even though he’s superstitious

gets u socks for christmas.

METALLHEADDD but likes dad music too.cannibal corpse, goregasm, clittorape also oasis,ac/dc, wheatus

gives u a goodluck card for ur birthday with £10 inside :))

doesn’t wear his mask outside of work, he separates his home life and work life, wouldn’t like to bring work issues home

love language is acts of service, need to grab something? he’ll get it, can’t reach the cabinet? sure, he’ll do it. ohh, need ur shirt ironed?? consider it done!

everything for now, was gonna include nsfw but maybe next time 😜

[iceman-soup]

Price giving out stickers to the 141. Colourful little circles saying "well done!", "good job!" or with a smiley face, and the team gets REALLY competitive for them.

The sticker pack was bought months ago when Price was on leave. He saw it in a small crafts shop and remembered an ex of his - a primary school teacher - had said it worked wonders for their class. With a grin, he paid, packing the stickers safely in his bag to take back to base and thinking himself the funniest man alive.

It took a while for him to reveal the stickers to his team. To be honest, by the time he'd dealt with all the inevitable chaos that happened whilst he was away, he was too tired to care about the stickers when he finally got round to unpacking his bag again. It wasn't until several weeks later that he brought them, smuggled under his jacket, into a briefing room, ready to congratulate the boys on another successful mission and showcase his little joke.

"Fuck me, Cap." Ghost had, of course, been the first to notice when Price placed the sticker pack on the briefing room table. The latter had chosen a moment when everyone was nattering with each other about the mission - or about something, anyway; he drowned out Soap and Gaz's playful arguments most of the time.

Ghost's lighthearted exasperation caught the others' attention, and to say the three sergeants' eyes lit up would be an understatement. Roach was the first to lunge towards Price - eyes fixed on the stickers as if they were prey - quickly followed by Soap and Gaz. The Captain had to snatch the little booklet off the table and hold it above his head at lightning speed to avoid a catfight over it.

"It's only if you're good!" He scolded, attempting to push off a very fixated Gaz from practically climbing up his gear to get to the stickers.

The boys start doing counterproductive shit to try and get stickers. Soap blows up considerably more stuff than before in attempts to impress Price; Ghost brings him more tea than he is physically capable of drinking; and he swears Gaz and Roach have mentally transformed into two needy cats that are constantly under his feet.

From day two of the Curse of the Stickers (TM), Price is instantly regretting his actions. His team's pestering is only making him give out less stickers, which in turn makes the pestering worse. It got to the point where he awarded Roach a sticker for falling asleep just because it meant that he wasn't bothering him.

(This all continued for years btw. Every time the novelty of the stickers started to fade, someone would get one for doing particularly well on a mission and suddenly the competition would pipe back up again. Price never forgot about the stickers because their faces when he gave them one was so innocently happy. He loved seeing his men be boys again even just for a moment)

[fifis-cosmos]

Peaches and Musk

Minho x Jisung

Plot: No real plot… Minho smells Jisung’s heat during a concert and then they fuck.

Warnings: A/B/O, BxB, male on male, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, swearing, semi-public sex, nicknames (Hyung, daddy, baby, mutt, omega, alpha, jagi, slut), idol AU, Jisung rambles a lot, jerking off, almost sort of subspace, mention of heat, anal fingering, thigh grinding/riding (I think that’s everything?)

Author’s note: This is a satire post, sort of? It’s something my friends and I wrote a while ago as a joke. Inspired by my peach scented chapstick because it smells soooo good… Usually I won’t do BxB but I got bored and writing something with a more unusual topic is fun. Also! I think I may have a memory of reading something like this before? I don’t remember what it was, but if I got a bit close to somebody else’s idea, I’m not claiming it as mine. And one last thing… I had no idea how to end this… so apologies for the shitty finish.

Also, this is unedited, and not proofread.

Minho knows he must be mistaken.

That light, peachy smell can’t be his boyfriend, standing a few steps away, who is bobbing his head to the rhythm of the music while he walks around the stage, waving.

It has to be something else. A body product, maybe Jeongin’s sweet smelling shampoo, but that’s not really realistic, is it?

When he inhales more deeply, he catches the giveaway. That telltale hint of spice behind the sweet scent, almost like nutmeg.

He turns to Jisung, sharp features accentuated by the concert lights, scanning the body of the man before him. He’s playing with his microphone, picking at the tacky jewels that surround the circumference of it.

Minho’s eyes narrow into a cat-like expression, the sweat on his forehead trickling down his temple in a glittery streak. He takes another whiff of the air.

It’s him.

His fingers find the little gadget in his ear and pops it out, covering the mic with the palm of his hand while he approaches his boyfriend.

He has to be discreet. There are too many fans. Prying eyes that are too eager and attentive. Endless cameras to catch a slip-up.

He taps Jisung’s thigh gently, and leans in to talk in his ear.

“…Jisung. I can smell you,”

Jisung offers nothing but a skeptical glance.

“That’s stupid, Hyung,” The boy says, eyes getting wider, almost comically. “I shouldn’t be in heat yet,”

He waves his hand, dismissing Minho, and turns to give a charming, gummy smile to the crowds. Minho grabs his wrist and speaks again.

“I’m serious, Jagi,”

Jisung looks at him sideways and rolls his brown eyes. His expression is almost pouty. He holds up his hand.

Minho wastes no time pressing the sharp tip of his nose to the soft flesh on the inside of his wrist, where his scent gland is.

Immediately his nose fills with the fruity, sweet smell of peaches. It’s delectable, makes Jisung’s soft, mochi cheeks look edible. It makes everything about him look edible.

Minho has to smack his boyfriend’s wrist away before he does something stupid in front of all these people.

“It’s you,”

Jisung’s pretty boba eyes get all big and wide, and he covers his wrist, as if it will help anything at all.

In a moment of reaction and panic, he holds his microphone up to his mouth and speaks.

“STAY! STAY, I’m so sorry… but I really, really have to go pee,”

He turns off the mic and runs backstage, laughs from the crowd filling the auditorium.

Minho just hopes Jisung can get it sorted quickly.

Jisung stumbles into the dressing room, and Minho follows right after, locking the door. They both smell like sweat, covered in it from preforming, and the heat of the stage. The adrenaline lingers, as well.

As soon as the door is shut, Minho latches his lips onto Han’s, clawing into his hips and licking at his mouth recklessly.

“Can’t even wait until we get home,” He growls, biting down on the boy’s pouty lips. “So impatient, Jagi. Not even that patch can satiate you, can it?”

At the thought of the little sticker, Minho’s hands start searching his boyfriend’s body, as if he will be able to find it through his clothes. His hands land mindlessly on Jisung’s ass, kneading it while he kisses even deeper.

“I put it on my back…,” He mutters in a whiny tone, pulling away to cross his arms in front of his body so he can peel off the shirt obscuring his access.

Minho’s eyes scan his body, cute little tummy exposed by the rising hem. His thin waist, the shadow of hair growing up to his belly-button. He tries to pull the shirt off, but it catches on his chin, and his nose, popping off of his head and leaving his fluffy brown hair a mess.

His stretches his arms back and tries to reach the little paw-shaped patch between his shoulder blades, the exact thing that is preventing his body from releasing pheromones. His chest flexes, and Minho can’t help but stare at the rounded, honey-toned expanses of skin.

After watching him struggle for a bit too long, Minho grabs him by the hips and spins him around so his ass is facing him.

“Pathetic. Let me get it, Jagi,”

His fingers grip the edge of the little tab, and he tears it away from the skin, fine hairs getting caught in the sticky residue meant to last a whole day. As soon as it’s off, he leans over Jisung’s shoulder and grabs him by the waist, pulling him closer, mouthing hungrily at the scent glad that rests above the dip of his collarbone.

“Wanna smell you,”

He grumbles against the hot, flushed section of chest, lips wet and darkened from rough kisses earlier. The patch is still stuck to the pads of his fingers, and he tries to shake it off.

His runs his teeth over Jisung’s glad. That tasty, peachy smell returns, starting to flood the room. It makes his mouth water, his eyes roll back. It’s filling his senses. He moans and nips at the skin, trying to stimulate more of that delicious satisfaction.

The patch unsticks from Minho’s finger, and flitters to the ground, forgotten as soon as it left his body. He’s already moved on to better things by now, like sucking a nice mark into his boyfriend’s flesh.

“A-ah… Hyung… mm,” Jisung whimpers, eyes squeezed shut, grinding his ass against the crotch of Minho’s leather pants. “N-no marks… you know we’ll get in trouble,”

At the comment, Minho laves his tongue over the spot, and detaches with a pop. A string of saliva connects his lower lip to the reddened spot.

“You know I don’t care about that…”

He growls, licking over the skin and inhaling the sweet scent. Jisung is starting to catch onto a familiar musk, almost resembling a pine tree, wafting from his boyfriend. He lets a particularly slow drag roll against Minho’s hard dick.

Minho ruts back instinctually, making both of their sweaty bodies jolt. All he can think of is the way Jisung smells, the way he feels and sounds.

He wants to be inside of him. The thought of claiming his boyfriend during yet another heat makes his cock twitch.

He needs release.

His clipped nails dig into the plush skin of Jisung’s torso, and he ruts a few more times. All he wants to hear is those cute sounds his baby always makes for him.

Quick thrusts turning into grinding sooner rather than later, and Jisung is already feeling a bit foggy. He whines and pushes back, trying to get any kind of friction on his hole possible. His boxers are already soaked with slick, he just needs something inside.

“H-hyung- please~ please…,”

He whimpers without thought. Minho nuzzles his nose against the now-wet gland.

“My jagi wants something in his greedy hole? Fuck yes…” His voice pushes out when Jisung moans and rolls his hips once more, gravelly and deeper than usual. “So fucking good… Your Hyung knows you so fucking good, doesn’t he?”

His hips buck, causing some of the friction Jisung needed. Just when the younger boy thinks he’s getting what he wants, Minho let’s go of him, crescent shaped marks on his skin from his boyfriend’s blunt nails.

“Hyung?”

“Shut your mouth,”

Jisung gets shoved onto the sleek leather bench at the back of the room, where he starts to climb onto it eagerly, ready to present his ass.

Instead, he feels a study arm wrap around his waist and pull him up onto his knees. His back is to Minho, and he’s facing the wall.

“Minho, what are you-“

“I told you to shut you mouth. Stop talking before I decide to leave you here. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

Minho asks, palming his erection steadily.

Jisung would hate that. His leaking cock, more than that, his hot, slicked up asshole that clenches around nothing, need attention. There’s so much arousal drooling out of him, that there’s a wet patch on his the rump of his pants.

Minho delivers a swift smack to that exact spot, the tips of his fingers grazing his boyfriends balls at the lowly aimed attack.

“I asked you a question,”

“Ah! Y-yes! Sorry Hyung… no… I wouldn’t like it… I’ll be good,”

He wiggles his hips, which Minho finds indescribably cute, in an irritating way.

“Don’t move,” He commands with authority.

Before Jisung registers the lowly spoken words, he feels a toned, leather-clad thigh slip between his own. It nudges them apart, and drags against his dick a little.

The only reaction he can muster is a moan, and the action of grinding down on the expanse of muscle. He’s stopped almost immediately.

“I said stay still,” Minho breathes out. He gives Han a little push, forcing him to lean on the back of the couch with his palms. “You’re lucky I feel generous tonight..,” Minho cages his body in, and puts a palm beside Han’s left.

His lips attach to the dewy, tanned skin again.

“I’m gonna jerk you off, baby… Jagi..,”

He groans and ruts his hips upwards again.

“Oh- fuck yes- please?”

Jisung’s words are slurred, tongue thick with desire. His mind is foggy with lust, and the waves of heat washing over him. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Minho’s wandering hand finds the bulge in his pants.

At just the first touch, he lets out a loud moan, and bucks his hip fowards.

Minho growls, something almost mistakable as a laugh. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, Jagi? Want me to touch your poor leaky little dick?”

“Yeah-! Hyung- Daddy- please… wan’ it…,”

“You’re filthy,” The whisper comes harsh against the shell of his flushed ear. Of course, it only gets him off more. Minho begins to unbutton the clasp of his jeans.

Even such slight friction has Jisung whining and canting his hips, trying to chase the feeling. Minho shucks the blue jeans down, and takes the soaked boxers along with them.

Before his focus even comes close to returning to Jisung’s dick, his eyes land on a certain spot. He runs a digit over the wetness leaking out of his boyfriends asshole, smirking at the amount of slick that gushes at such a small touch.

“Look at you… so desperate, Jagi. Tell me you want it,” He demands, slowly rubbing his rim with his thumb.

Jisung jolts and moans loudly. His hole throbs, and he pushes back, trying to rub his legs together.

“I wan’ it! Oh god, alpha, please- I want it so bad- touch me-”

Minho hooks his thumb into Jisung’s hole. The amount of slick makes it an easy task.

“I said tell me you want it, not beg. Slut,” He quips, wiggling his thumb softly. Jisung bucks his hips backwards, and tries to grind back. Minho grabs his hips.

“Dumb mutt” He snarls, other hand leaving the couch to mark a ring with his thumb and finger around the base of Jisung’s cock. He gives a quick stroke with the tiny ring, and settles back at the base. When the omega below him moans, he finds himself smiling. “That’s all you are, isn’t it? A dumb mutt? Stupid little omega begging for something in its slutty hole,”

Minho slaps Jisung’s dick, making it sway, and the younger moans and pushes back again.

“I bet you want my knot, don’t you?” He gives another slow stroke along the length of his boyfriend. Jisung nods frantically, bucking forwards. “Too bad. You get my thumb, and my hand to fuck into. That’s it. Now spit on it,”

Jisung pants and tilts his head down, trying to drool down onto his dick while Minho holds it up for him. Minho slips his hand up and palms over the pink tip, spreading the spit around while it leaks down his shaft, settling in his dark pubic hair.

“Ah! Ohmygod-,” Jisung try’s to buck forwards again, his balls dragging delectably over the leather covering Minho’s thigh. The alpha pulls his thumb out and slaps his ass.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stay fucking still?” He growls. His body pushes against the back of Jisung’s, and he crowds him flush against the back of the couch, body shadowing over him. He starts to stroke his omega’s cock steadily. “You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

“S’ good… too good,” Jisung whines, trying his hardest not to move so he can please his alpha.

“Too good,” Minho mocks in a high tone, repeating the boy’s breathy tone. He stops stroking and takes to running his fingers lightly up the underside of his cock. “I bet it is, isn’t it? Too good? You’re such a stupid little thing. Begging for my hands,”

He swaps to rubbing his fingers over Jisung’s slit. His cock jumps.

Minho latches his mouth onto his neck again, sucking gently before nipping at his skin. “Bounce on my thigh,” He demands, breath hot on the sweaty field of skin, shaking his leg that is wedged between Jisung’s as if to show him what exactly what to use.

It’s like a spell has been put over the younger as soon as those words grace his pinkened ears. He starts frantically grinding against the meaty appendage that rests below him, dragging his balls over the rough material. It hurts, but that just makes it better for him. At this point he’s been reduced to breathless moans.

Minho spits in his hand and lifts Jisung’s hips to smear it on the black leather pants, just to make the slide a bit easier. It wasn’t really all that needed, considering the mass amounts of slick pouring from the younger’s hole, dripping down his balls and making an embarrassing puddle.

“There it is… good omega,” He growls, bouncing his leg a little. He strips Jisung’s dick, the wet sounds downright sinful. With this much attention, the boy can’t last much longer.

“I-inside. Want something inside, please,” He begs in a shaky voice, grinding down just a bit harder.

“Inside? This isn’t enough for you?” He tightens his grip around his dick.

“Mm- please! Please, hyung,” His legs are shaking now, and his stomach is twitching with every breath. Minho ruts his hips against Jisung’s ass, and reaches forwards to rub his lip with his thumb. He’s delighted to find drool covering it.

“Oh… poor thing… what makes you deserve it?” His hand reaches down and collects slick, teasing the younger’s rim.

“Ah! I’ll be good! I’ll be so good, please, just put it in- please,”

Minho brings his thumb to his lips and smears slick over it.

“You’ll be good? I guess that’s a pretty good reason,” He teases and reaches down. The way his finger slides in with such ease. Even better, how the second one follows, and they curve up into his prostate, is exactly what he needed to send him tumbling over the edge of his orgasm.

He doesn’t notice how he shakes. Hot white ropes of cum shoot onto the back of the couch. He can’t hear anything, all he can sense is the feeling of his orgasm, the explosion in his gut and the tingling of his body.

When he finally opens his eyes, the fullness of his boyfriend’s fingers are gone, as well as the warmth of his thigh between his legs. But his boxers are handed to him.

“You’re giving me head on the ride to the hotel. If you do good enough, maybe I’ll knot you when we get back into our room,” Minho cocks his head to the cum splattered on the couch. “Clean that up, Jagi,”

He turns to leave, but before he does, he leans over Jisung’s shoulder and plants a gentle kiss on his sweaty cheek.

“You did well. I’ll go get some fresh clothes for you. I love you, Sungie”

“I love you too, Minho,”

[stinkypeanutbutter]

img silly sbg art class headcanons for the folks !!!

Guess who’s first .

Ben , obvi . Who did you think ??? Aiden ?? Loser / j

BENNY BOY :

Actually enjoys art class the most out of his other classes

Usually turns things in on time , but forgets the little things though like those stupid papers that tell you to copy and draw a nose 3 times

likes using charcoal pencils !! It’s his favorite out of everything , but he dislikes how messy it gets because the charcoal always covers his hands and arms .

not the best at painting , but he’s well known of his complimentary colors and what looks good with what .

Usually listens to music while he’s drawing if Taylor is busy or gone from class . He likes taking instrumental recommendations from Ashlyn .

Takes a drawing class , obvi , along with Taylor because he didn’t really want to be alone . Plus , She’s a nice buddy to have !!

TAYLOR !! :

Takes a drawing class with Ben as said before !! Whenever they have to pick partners , they go for each other the most .

she’s not the BEST at drawing honestly , but she takes it so she can study in machinery , like drawing and mapping out designs .

She likes using those kids markers , whatever their called . She prefers using the marker FIRST then going over it with pencil to really pop out the design . Digital art also works out for her , it’s one of her favorites because there’s so many options ( sometimes )

uses google for inspo or to copy certain parts down cause Pinterest is blocked on the computers and drawing gears is hard to do ( real 😿 )

Draws little cats on her work when she’s bored or smiley faces on Bens work just cause she’s silly ( trademarked smiley — Aiden / j )

Doesn’t have photography , but she does join Logan after school to help out with certain camera functions or just take photos of eachother for her memory book ( she has one , cannot tell me otherwise )

Also uses highlighters just cause . I mean they’re fun so why not . Her and Aiden share a bunch of random stickers that he got on like eBay for customization 😼

A ;) DEN !!! :

I swear I won’t repeat the same “ Aiden is totally good at art “ headcanon but …….. 😅😅

Went into painting just so he can have fun with the colors and , sigh … he’s good at mixing them . ( he’s not allowed too , but he makes it work out . Sometimes )

RARELY gets things done in time , like he’ll be doing anything other then drawing in class , yet somehow turn it in . Well , after a few weeks past the due date .

becahse of that , no one really knows what he draws but the teacher is impressed so 🤷

I like to imagine he has one other hidden room in his house , filled with unfinished paintings , sketches , projects , puzzles , yadda . He hasn’t really shown anyone where it is , or let’s anyone inside but has let Ben check it out a few times cause he’s special 🫶

Always does his projects in his room . Why ? Cause it’s bigger , more room to work , duh . Also , so he can BLAST music because music just gives him ideas of what he can work on ( projection go hard 🤟🤟🤟 )

he doesn’t really care what he uses , but he hates charcoal , opposed to Ben . It gets everywhere ( in a bad way ) , it’s dull , he hates having to blend it with those stupid paper things because they sound and feel gross , yadda yadda yadda . Butttt he LOVES markers and crayons . Colored pencils work if he’s feeling slightly unmotivated .

uses giant AF canvas’s cause more room to work plus more detail . He loves detailing the most random stuff because it all had to blend correctly , right ? 😼☝️

likes pottery , but he doesn’t like the feeling of it drying on his hands . It’s gross and crusty . Plus he got in trouble once for throwing some of it around the class lol

Totally draws on his arms with sharpie ( ashlyn tells him no cause poisoning or something but pshhhh what does she know ? He’ll still doodle on his pants ) .

Probably does Rubix cube art when he’s feeling extra silly . Also glues and sticks whatever he can find onto what he’s working on for pizazz . But he doesn’t really like anything he’s made so 😿

also the reason why he has so many unfinished projects is because woopsy doo ADHD . It’s always “ oh I should work on this one “ but then there’s “ but this once looks funner to do “ but oh then there’s a “ which one would take me less time to do ? “ and “ if I do this first will I have time to do the other one ? “ and either ends up doing nothing or multitasking .

ASH TRAY !!! :

Takes painting with Aiden because she really didn’t want to go alone .

thought about pottery once , tried it , hated the feeling of it getting under her nails and it kept drying up and she had to wash her hands constantly and it kept getting in her hair and it was a bad experience . ( more projection )

painting really isn’t her favorite , but she likes the look of the colors mixing and it’s kinda like dancing to her , with the long , sometimes constant movements and new variations . Look it just puts her in a slight trance .

doesn’t do well with creativity coming into play , but she managed to find a way with turning art into dance , like referencing other dancers online and copying their moments onto a canvas to make it dramatic or something .

Prefers prismacolor pencils over most things , sometimes joins Taylor and Logan after school to try out photography .

Sometimes she and Aiden would share headphones and put on a shared playlist or a podcast on spotify . They always bicker about it though because ashlyn skips through songs often and Aiden can’t sit on a podcast unless it’s playing somewhere background ( still working on this one cause would that work ? Sharing headphones and listening to stuff or would that be too loud cause I’m not sure )

for once please can she see what Aiden has done like he’s always on his phone or playing with another puzzle from his backpack how do they fit in there anyway just Plsplslpsopls he has a good grade in this class how he’s so confusing sometimes double U - tea - eph

TIE - LER !! :

Joined because he already does baseball why not choose something to maybe help him relax

Bad choice , does not relax him ( most of the time ) , can’t understand color theory ( same ) , ended up getting put into the same class with Aiden ( remember when Aiden threw pottery ? Yeah . . Also ashlyn is there that’s cool but still )

He still likes hanging with Aiden , he just won’t admit it and it gets harder and harder too when he keeps writing and drawing on his work ( and him too 😡😡 )

Pretty fond of water coloring , it’s one of the few things that he enjoys doing in his pass time . . . But he’s not that good at keeping the water to a minimum so it ends up dripping everywhere .

He’s not that good at art either , but he’s pretty good at poses , specifically ones he can remember like the “ batter up ! “ stance in baseball or his signature “ crosses my arms and stares at you begrudgingly “ . He’s REALLY good at that one .

He teaches Ben Guitar , Ben teaches him easier ways to draw . Not a babyish style , but just a simplified way to do something without putting too much thought into it .

he and Taylor team up in art projects , but not in class , at home . Ash and Aiden usually partner up in class , and since he and Taylor have seperate classes there , who’s to say they can’t help eachother else where ? Twin telepathy ! ( I think , idk )

Just finishes quick and turns it in . He gave effort , and that’s good enough . If he really wants to try and ‘ finish ‘ finish it , he will . Trust .

DIALOG(an)UE !! :

Literally the only one in the group who really takes pottery ( he’s lonely someone help him )

dw Barron isnt there . He got kicked out for throwing clay at people ( mostly Logan )

Actually really likes taking pottery , it’s fun !!

He makes pots for the plants back home 💪😋

pretty good at using the utensils , one of the only people the teacher can trust to use them correctly

the pottery wheel isn’t his favorite favorite because sometimes it spins to fast and clay gets splattered everywhere , but it’s better then starting from scratch , and turns out really nice when he gets into the zone or something

made mugs for his grandparents !! ( and the gang , which they all used theirs for many different things . They love it )

not that good at coming up with particular designs , so he usually asks for help . Doesn’t matter who , he’s open to everyone’s ideas 😋☝️☝️

takes a littttllleee while to turn things in on time but he’s a good student so the teacher doesn’t mind

IM DONE !!! I DID IT !!! Praise me .

WHAT SHOULD I DO NEXT ?? HIT THAT LIKE AND SURBSCRIBE BUTTON

[drowninginblox]

HideDuo HCs bc we are going through it

The March drought is getting to me y'all. I don't know about all y'all but the anniversary isn't the best thing ever, especially with the Hatsune Miku incident.

I think we deserve a little treat for being dedicated to our favorite roommates. Hence these ramblings.

The following applies to the OSMP characters, not actual streamers themselves. This is gonna be very all over the place, overall cursed, and is projecting. I hope yall enjoy-

Fit:

Can play any sport, but hates all of them (except for ice skating, he fucking loves it but he'll never admit it and he can't skate for shit)

Has read fanfiction before

Knows about dreamsmp lore but doesn't know what it all means in context, very much "Did you know a guy fucked a salmon and had a fox as a child?" "He started a country later? The fish fucker???"

Is into more fru fru coffee drinks than he lets on. Like- fuck yea 9/10 times that mother fucker be drinking that shit black, but he loves some good pumpkin spice- tooty fruity-cuchie deluci frappuccino. He'd only give in around sunny tho.

Was a smoker for a hot minute, quit tho when the ashes nearly lit a TNT. Hasn't picked it up since

Is a slut for pig step

Has read The Art of War

Had a celebrity crush on Philza. He still has it but it's defo diminished since he knows him personally.

Showers daily. I don't care that he's a war-torn mf, that man loves taking showers and will never pass up the opportunity to get one.

Has a poster of Miku Binder Jefferson. Someone gave it to him as a secret Santa present and he has no idea who or what to do with it. He's tempted to burn it but he's kind of afraid of it. It's so cursed that it shows up in his nightmares.

He thinks about Forever a lot more than he wants to admit. He's afraid of the possibility of turning into a monster since he was exposed to the black concert a lot. He understands the fear is irrational since it was long ago but the intrusive thought lingers.

He's thought about marriage in general and with Pac. He'd never admit it but he planned out everything from the venue to the music to the vows. He'd easily swipe it all away if Pac said he had an idea of what he wanted it to be like.

is fluent in Morse code

Knows sign language

Hearing aids mf

Has a family somewhere out there, one that he lost or left only to be dumped into TB2T

Loves crosswords, especially during breakfast and right after Ramon goes to bed.

His favorite smell is cinnamon and cocoa butter

Believes in Herobrine

Can't do long division to save his life

Hates the sound of Velcro

Pac:

Likes the Pacman TV show

Smells like cinnamon and cocoa butter

Has too many scars from the cats he's owned over the years.

Married Mike for tax reasons in the past. They play it up that they're bitter divorcés from time to time

Doesn't shower as often as he should, not because he hates it but because he has a long routine and enjoys baths far more

Enjoys tea and coffee equally

Was a homestuck fan (yesIFUCKINGDIDTHATTOHIMWHATAREYAGONNADO???)

Gay awakening was Rufio from Hook

watches Reading Rainbow as an adult

paints on his prosthetic all the damn time

Has a Post-it note collection. He barely uses them but he has a rainbow of them and each color represents a member of the island.

Has a sticker collection

Always carries small snacks for his pocket dude (I heard about this through the wiki, apparently Pac has a pocket boy? If not then he does now lmao) mostly gummy bears and crackers

Is afraid of the ocean. Idk why that just sounds right for him and if it is it recontextualizes the date he had w fit lol

knows Morse code

Knows some phrases in American sign language (fit is teaching him / is learning for fit, whichever is cuter)

Has hacked into a government-locked server, left lobster porn in place of any files he took. Idk which government it was or why he did it, but he did and they haven't recovered since

Is the type to listen to Jon Bellion and Talor Swift. No, i will not elaborate

Has very vivid daydreams. Aside from drugs and PTSD, he has some really nice ones all on his own. Mostly about Fit tbh.

[mamawasatesttube]

a tuppence for your bi4bi Clois thoughts 🪙... I'm luv them so much and I'd love to hear if you have any specific headcanons about them 🥺

YESSSS!!! i DO have some thoughts. i love them,

generally i think lois has her bisexuality figured out by the time she's in her mid-20s. she and cat grant have had some rage-filled makeouts on at least one occasion, but an actual relationship would never in a million years work out between them. they respect each other but do not see eye to eye nearly enough. she never bothered to come out to her father, but just knows it's one more thing about her that he'd hate.

clark, by contrast, does Not have it figured out. he has spent his entire life repressing every single thought, feeling, and ability that set him apart from the classic good all-american boy because he had to fit in. and being superman, exploring his kryptonian heritage, etc., has helped, of course, but he is still. so repressed. he has no idea that he's ever experienced attraction to guys before. he's got some internalized homophobia to work through, about himself. He Has To Be Normal. so as far as he's concerned, there was lana, and then there was lois.

to me, clark's journey toward self-acceptance is very intrinsically tied to his family. there's kara, talking about how sexuality and gender stuff on krypton wasn't like it is on earth, especially in western culture. there's kon, suffering through his own repression and depression and trying to pretend he's fine. there's chris and jon, both too young to fully grasp it all (probably), who make clark incredibly aware of every step he makes in terms of parenting them.

so one day, after kon's finally come out to the family, and kara's muddled through trying to figure out earth labels that she's comfortable with, the two of them decide they wanna go to pride, and ask lois and clark if they want to make it a family affair. lois says hell yeah, and clark says yes of course he's happy to support them! and jon says YAY, GLITTER!! CAN I GET STICKERS? and chris says if you get glitter all over my nintendo ds again i will punt you into the ocean, baby brother or not.

and there's just this innocuous moment while they're out when kon goes "here i got you these!" and hands lois and clark two simple lil heart-shaped bi flag buttons. and lois is like aw thanks squirt! and ruffles kon's hair. clark meanwhile goes oh i think there's been a misunderstanding... ... . . . .. . .. .. . or. has there?

and that night he's just sitting on the edge of the bed holding this tiny like $3 button in his hands having a whole crisis. lois hooks her chin over his shoulder and asks what's wrong? and he's like. lois i'm not. i'm. except maybe i'm not not. but i don't know, i thought i... i never thought i could think about it. clark kent is supposed to be normal. i... i'm already an alien, lois, i thought i was already set apart enough, and if i'm... if i'm this, even when i'm clark, not superman, then... then...

and lois digs her matching little $3 bi flag heart button out of her purse and bumps it against his and says, even if you are queer, you're still not alone. and then clark gives her the patented kent family big soft puppy-dog eyes. that night, he falls asleep in her arms with his head tucked snugly under her chin. it's where he feels safest.

but the next year, he lets kara get him a flag, and lets kon tie it around his shoulders like a cape. and he's here as clark kent, but it's kind of funny when he looks at his shadow. because he might not be superman right now, but the silhouette still looks the same.

[floydsglasses]

𝗜'𝗺 𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗮𝗱 𝗗𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀

This is gonna be bad im just warning you im freaking tired and stressed, they are gonna be Sad and Happy and UNHINGED.

Bradley has a little Rooster figurine in the front of his jeep, he got as a gag joke and was gonna leave it at whatever house he got it at but now has emotional attachment to it.

Jake's go to song in Karaoke when he is sober is Queen, he will belt out We Will Rock you, but when he is drunk enough he will sing Dolly Parton's 9 to 5 with every bit of southern twang he can

When Bob is really angry he will drop his midwest accent and go full on southern, like deep south

Natasha lost a bet in high school and had to get a bad tattoo, said tattoo was something like a duck with a cowboy hat, or stupid quote, you decide

Mickey unironically sings the lyrics to Taylor Swift's Love Story, like he will sing the bridge at the top of his lungs going sixty on the highway.

Rueben is the kind of guy to say he won't rage quit a video game then will toss the controller after failing two time's.

Javy would be the kind of guy who would let a kid paint his nail's, pink purple yellow, he does not care he will flaunt it off it because it makes the kid happy.

Bradley would somehow get a cat or dog, like one of those distribution system's like on tiktok, he would say he would foster it but end up keeping it naming it something human like, Kevin or Betty

Natasha say's she dosent like country music, but wont admit she would get down to some Luke Bryan here and there because who wouldn't

Bob seems like if he was put into a situation where him and his friend's got lost, he would be the calm one but on the inside he is panicking, he will see an exit sign with a restaurant and be like. "Guy's its okay there's burgers."

Javy will pull over when he sees cows and take there picture's. No joke would even try and pet one.

Rueben and Mickey are the worst people when it comes to trivia because they are so good at it, when they get an answer right they increasingly get more competitive.

Jake cried playing RDR2 when Arthur died and he also despised Micah like the rest of us.

Rueben is great at bowling, so good that most of the time no one play's with him

Bob will doodle little drawings on sticky note or notebook's when he is bored and give them to any of the dagger's, He drew Natasha a sketch of bird, she kept it in her locker.

Bradley has a mixtape from his dad, Goose, titled "Song's You Need to Hear Once", it's all filled with songs from the Sixties to the Eighties, all classic's from Rock to Motown, after his mom died he didnt dare to touch it, after the uranium mission he starting listening again.

Natasha has bracelets from her little cousin's that she wear's for good luck, they are bright yellow and purple string's, she never take's them off ever

Jake collects stickers from each state, his dad used to bring him a sticker from each of his trips before he got too busy, so he is trying to finish them off himself.

Mickey has a tattoo to honor his family, a way to have a piece of them everywhere he goes. A small quote in Spanish on his side stating Por aquellos que amo me sacrificaré/For those I love I will sacrifice

Reuben like to sleep in a hammock sometime's under the stars, reminding him of his childhood and growing up in the south, when he would play outside with his siblings

Javy is a momma's boy, in a good way, this man will always call his mom or text her about the thing's going on his life, before a big mission or detachment he calls her, tell her he loves her.

Jake has stepped on a jellyfish on a beach, after saying "oh they dont sting'" just for him to get shocked

Bradley broke his arm doing stunts on his bike as a kid, he has permanent scars on his forearm, he did in fact do it twice till Carole told him to not do it again.

Natasha and Bob learned the Rasputin Dance from Just Dance

Mickey has argued with people that pineapple belongs on pizza, he will full on go tooth and nail to defend his claims.

Reuben has knocked the Radio off in the Rec room, and has blamed it on Hangman, it was a whole debacle

Javy has a fear of snake's, he found one once and he took of running leaving his friend's to deal with it.

OKAY THAT IS ALL SHE WROTE, I know some of these dont make sense but I dont care i needed a stress reliver before another stressful week. AND THATS ALL SHE WILL WRITE BECAUSE THIS FAILED AGAIN

[foxyafroninja]

Random MW141 thoughts 💭 🤔=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

💄 💅🏼The 141 boys get a makeover from their daughters 💅🏼💄

$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-$-

Price🧔🏻‍♂️-

This kid…. Daddy’s princess  let me tell you. All she had to do was give him those puppy dog eyes and he was done for

You walked into the house hearing your daughter giggling like crazy. You come around the corner and nearly fall over laughing.

There sits your husband, bad ass tier 1 operator, scout sniper, leader of the deadliest group of people alive, eyes closed..with purple and pink eyeshadow coloring his beard, glitter on his eyelids and eyebrows, bright red lipstick smudged over his lips.

You start to pull your phone out to take a picture and without missing a beat Price points a finger directly at you, eyes still closed. “ Love… you are my world. But so help me if you take that picture.” …….. worth it *click*

Soap 🧼-

You needed a break from the twins so you put their father in charge so you could nap. When you woke up though…it was just a little too quiet. Never a good sign

You head to the girls room and freeze in the door. There is your husband being swarmed by your daughters. One putting sparkly hair clips in his mohawk, strawberry shortcake stickers on his face, red lipstick on his nose and blue lip gloss on his lips.

The other practually painting his hand in nail polish. Constantly complaining that her father “wasn’t sitting still “ and “messing me up”

Your belly laugh gave you away and upon seeing you Soap instantly turned the two on you. “ Well girls I’m so pretty I think your mum is jealous…. Why don’ you do her next”…. You were not able to outrun your husband.

Ghost 👻 -

The poor man never even had a chance. Simon had come back from a mission sick as a dog and took some medicine to help him get some sleep…. It was too easy a target.

You had left him on the couch sleeping for only 10 minutes. That was all your daughter needed to grab her markers and “make daddy pretty”

You came back to find her finishing her masterpiece drawing cat whiskers on Simon’s light blue, green and pink face. He looked like Pablo Picasso‘s worst nightmare. 

You wanted to be mad….but god damn was it funny. Oh you are SO sending this to the boys, they owe you big time for this…. When did Simon stop snoring….😨.

Alejandro 💃🏻-

Another man that was completely wrapped around that little girls finger. He would rather walk through hell fire then say “No” to this girl.

So here we are, Alejandro on the ground his daughter placing an obscene number of bows and clips in his thick hair. Holding a hand mirror saying how good he looks now.

Then came the lime green lipstick cheek highlights, the bumblebee yellow eyeshadow and finish with all over red poke-a-dots and glittery beard.

You stood in the kitchen the whole time laughing at the two of them together. After she was done he thanked her with a kiss, sent her to go clean up for dinner and then turned to you and flip his 20 or so bows at you “ You better watch it princesa. You have competition in this house now”

}}==}}==}}==}}==}}==}}==}}

Nothing and I’m mean NOTHING is more attractive than a father spending quality time with their daughter. I had fun coming up with this. I would have done more but I thought they were getting a bit repetitive.