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kookygranger · 5 months

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Top five, most memorable kisses of all time

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Corroded Coffin move to Chicago and find their people. Eddie finds you behind the counter at Championship Records. He thinks you're cool. You think he's gorgeous. Life outside of Hawkins might just be worth fighting for.

Warnings: swearing, kissing (obvs), fluff, fem!reader, mostly Eddie's POV, our boy has no rizz, alcohol consumption, I don't think anything else, too many high fidelity references?

Word count: 4k

Author's note: This is a one-shot, that has been sitting in my drafts since last Halloween and thanks to a wip game has finally seen the light of day! Find the playlist that inspired the fic below.

Masterlist

One pill makes you larger,

And one pill makes you small

The bell above the door jingles as Eddie steps through the threshold, his shoulders relaxing as the warmth seeps back into him and he scans the racks of records before him. Perking up as he notices the music playing over the speakers, he was still getting used to how much cooler things were in Chicago than back home – and shit, how much cooler people were.

Eddie clocks you sitting on top of the counter with one leg crossed under you, the other swinging down the side as you sticker a stack of vinyl. You mouth along with the music, not even noticing him slip through the aisles as he stops in a random section with a perfect view of you across the small store.

He’d only come in here to kill some time between soundcheck and the gig tonight at a venue down the street. The rest of the band had gone to find some food, but Eddie wanted to check out the record store they passed on the drive in. And boy, was he glad he did.

He mindlessly flicks through the records in front of him, trying to come up with a good conversation starter. It wasn’t that often that he missed Steve Harrington, but he could sure use one of the boy’s famous pep talks right about now. Fuck, what was it about pretty girls that got him so tongue-tied? Probably the pretty part.

But you weren’t just pretty, you were obviously very cool, and he certainly wasn’t used to girls sharing the same interests as him – but he’d met a lot of them since he’d moved to Chicago a couple of months ago.

Just as he’s thinking about what albums he could pick out to impress you, the bell above the door jingles again. A guy around his age walks in, his short hair spiked, nose and ears pierced and tattoos peeking out from a crisp white t-shirt. He walks with confidence to where you sit and makes you jump slightly as he greets you boisterously.

“Shit, you scared me.”

He snickers and starts rummaging through a crate of cassettes by the counter.

“Yeah, you look like you were in the zone. Did you even notice you had a customer?”

You turn your head in Eddie’s direction just as he ducks his down, continuing to flick through the disco section. Wait, shit where’s the metal?

“Shit.” You whisper under your breath and turn your attention back to the other guy, not quite lowering your voice enough so Eddie couldn’t eavesdrop. “No, but in my defence this song is a banger.”

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly

Severin, down on your bended knee

“What the fuck are you listening to anyway?”

“I made a pre-Halloween mix. Music that led to goth before goth was a thing.” You frown as you try to unstick a bright red sticker from the price gun you’d been tapping on the pile of vinyl.

Eddie smiles to himself as he continues to pretend he’s browsing and not tuning into your conversation.

“Are you coming to The Allied tonight? There’s some new band from Indiana or something playing. Apparently, they do a sick cover of Master of Puppets.”

Eddie pauses in his faux perusing for a second as he awaits your reply.

“I wasn’t really planning on it, no.”

The guy huffs, “No? What was your plan, going home to sulk to The Velvet Underground?”

“I don’t sulk–“

“You do when you listen to The Velvet Underground.”

“What do you want me to do? Pogo to Heroin? Anyway, I was gonna work on an article actually.”

“Why don’t you write about this band tonight? Tim says they’re pretty good. He saw them a couple of weeks ago at the Metro.”

“Tim said that about that god-awful noise band that played at De Salle’s. It was the worst four hours of my life. I thought my ears were actually going to bleed.”

“Whatever, you say that like you’re not currently playing the most depressing German synth music that nobody in their right mind would listen to.” He points his hand in the air, drawing your attention to the new song playing from the speakers behind you.

“First of all, this is David Bowie’s Low. And if you knew as much about music as you claim to, you’d know that this was his seminal work in his Berlin era and an ambient soundscape masterpiece. Secondly–“

“I like it.”

Both of your heads shoot up at Eddie’s interruption. He blushes and clears his throat as you catch his eye and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry, I just–it’s a good mixtape. I like the theme.” He frowns and shakes his head at himself, he doesn’t know what came over him. Who is this guy that’s bothering you, anyway? You have amazing taste and he’s now sure you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. You gesture in his direction and look back at the guy that’s teasing you.

“The customer is always right, Simon.”

Eddie moves quickly to the B section and finds the album you were talking about before heading over to you.

“Did you find everything you need?” You smile at him sweetly as you hop off the counter and take the record from him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before. Customer service isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

The guy, Simon, snorts. Eddie can’t take his eyes off the way your face lights up quietly when you realise what album he picked.

“What are your strongest skills?” That was such a weird question Munson, what the hell?

You look up at him a little taken aback, before a small smile creeps up on you.

“Talking about music…or” you shake your head in contemplation, “writing about it actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not so much a skill, more like an obsession.”

“She’s actually kind of good.” Simon butts in with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“Such a high compliment cuz.”

You were cousins. He still had a shot.

“You write for magazines?”

“Zines mostly,” you point to a stack of xeroxed pamphlets on the counter, “but I’ve published a few reviews with Spin and The Face.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That’s pretty cool.”

You breathe out a laugh and take the cash he hands you, collecting his change. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you're Eddie, right?” He turns to Simon, almost forgetting he was there. “Your band’s playing at The Allied tonight? I met your drummer Gareth at a show last week.”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. We’re called Corroded Coffin.”

“Cool name.” You smirk and hand him his record wrapped in paper. Eddie tucks it under his arm, his dimples showing as he smiles back at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re from Indiana then?” You call back to Simon’s earlier statement, as Eddie doesn’t make a move to immediately leave.

He rubs the back of his neck as he nods, “Yeah. Just moved here a couple of months ago with my band.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Eddie.” You smile and introduce yourself, “Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you…vinyl wise I mean.”

“Thanks,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw before stepping away from the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight at the show?” He tries to keep his voice casual, but there’s a hint of hope in there.

You bite your lip and shrug, “Yeah, maybe you will.”

Eddie nods and takes his queue to leave, the bell jingling again as he steps back out into the cold.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Simon mocks you in a breathy imitation and you roll your eyes. “So now that you know the singer is cute are you coming?”

“Obviously! You better get me on the door list, or I swear to god I’m telling Aunt Carol about the stash in your underwear drawer.”

***

“Hey, Carlos.” You greet your friend at the door of The Allied, who waves you in without payment. “That Darondo record came in, I put it aside for you.” You call back on your way in, hearing a muffled thanks as the music from inside hits your eardrums.

There’s a decent crowd tonight, and you have to push past a few people to reach the sticky top bar.

“Oh, she showed up! Surprise, surprise.” Simon makes his way over to you, ignoring the calls of indignance as he passes other customers. He slings a rag over his shoulder, which makes you bite your lip, attempting to hold in a laugh, remembering how he’d practised that move in the mirror when he turned twenty-one and landed the second most coveted job of your teenage selves.

You shrug nonchalantly, despite your cousin knowing the exact reason you’re here. “I ended up doing inventory ‘till late. Thought I may as well drop by before catching the L.”

Simon flicks your nose, your retaliating slap missing him as he moves to pour your drink. You thank him with a forced smile when he slides it across the bar, picking it up and turning to find a spot in the crowd.

“No tip?”

You call over your shoulder, “Yeah, take it easy on the cologne.” You smirk, not even having to turn around to know he’s probably sniffing his shirt.

You take your usual spot leaning against the wall, up the back and away from most of the crowd. Your rule was front row or back. None of that squished in the middle, view blocked by the tallest guy you’d ever seen crap. Either it was front and centre, immersed in the moment, or your own space with a view of it all.

You’d never be up front for a band you didn’t know, and tonight was no exception, no matter how large the butterflies in your stomach at the prospect of seeing him again.

You don’t know what it was about Eddie, apart from the obvious fact that he was gorgeous. Maybe it was something in his presence. But when he walked up to the counter earlier with a record you’d just been talking about and a shy smile on his face – you were a goner.

The murmurs of the crowd quieten when the house lights are switched off, a yellow glow on the stage and above the bar now the only sources of light.

There are a few enthusiastic cheers when the band appear from a door behind the stage and a smattering of applause as they take their place. You take a sip of your drink, ignoring the feeling in your chest when Eddie steps up to the mic and adjusts his red Warlock guitar. He smiles and you duck your head, trying not to look too much like the girl who’s just fallen for a lead singer when he addresses the crowd.

“Evening. Hope you brought your earplugs, this one’s new.” The quiet, reservedness of his introduction and the boy you’d met earlier is undone with the first crashing of cymbals and thrash of power chords.

Stage Eddie isn’t what you were expecting, but still somehow makes total sense. He’s more comfortable, more himself up there as he thrashes back and forth, hair whipping wildly. And they’re good. Really good.

Maybe you’d write about them after all.

The band are almost through their set when he spots you. Your back straightens as his eyes lock onto yours. Normally you hate making eye contact with someone on stage, but you can’t seem to look away when his chocolate-brown gaze twinkles over the heads of the rest of the crowd. In between songs, he gives you a wave, and you nod, returning his small smile.

When they finish, you move back to the bar. Waiting for the lingering fans to clear over a rum and coke. You’re only on your second sip when you feel a burning hot presence behind you.

“You made it.”

You turn around, and Eddie leans an arm on the bar beside you, moving in closer as the growing line pushes him forward.

“I did.” You nod, taking another sip of your drink.

He clears his throat, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

“So, uh, what did you think?”

You smile, “I think you’re going to fit in very well here.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” he chuckles.

“Oh, it is. You’re one of us now. Welcome to the dark side, Eddie.”

His eyebrows raise, the ghost of a smirk kicking up when you’re interrupted by your cousin.

“Man, that was sick! What can I get ya?”

Eddie thanks Simon, then looks back at you, “What are you having?” He holds up two fingers when you answer, signalling for another round, then starts playing with a beermat while you wait. Your eyes are trained to the glint of silver on his fingers.

“How are you liking Chicago so far?”

Eddie looks back at you and puffs his cheeks up as he exhales. “Honestly?... I didn’t know life could be this good.”

You feel a sharp tingling in your nose as your eyes well up a little for the boy standing in front of you, his cheeks dusted with pink as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Trust me, things are only gonna get better from here.”

“Yeah?” He beams at you then and you inhale deeply as you fight the urge to reach out and wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah.”

***

Eddie had seen you a few times since the gig at The Allied. Dropping into the record store when he could. In small crowds at gigs in the city. You’d greet him with a hug or a squeeze to the arm that never failed to get his heart rate going.

Today, he’d gotten off early from his temporary new gig at the auto shop and he found himself parked outside the record store.

It was overcast, but there was no bite to the air. A balmy wind tousling his hair as he ran across the street to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, avoiding the fat drops of rain that had begun to fall sporadically.

He spots you through the window when he makes his back to the store, bobbing your head along to whatever’s playing as you fill the racks. The now familiar bell jingles and he smiles when he recognises Joy Division over the speakers. He’d seen you in their shirt on more than one occasion.

He meets you as you're walking back to the counter.

“Oh, hey Eddie.” You smile and do a double take, taking in his greasy coveralls, and suddenly he’s wishing he’d gone home and showered. Even if it was an hour out of his way.

“Hey.” He places a coffee on the counter along with a white paper bag. “Thought you might like a mid-afternoon pick me up. I’ve uh, I’ve seen you with one of those cinnamon things before.”

Your eyes light up as you inspect the inside of the bag. “Oh my god, you’re my hero! Thank you, that’s so sweet.”

He shrugs, taking a step back from the counter, his own black coffee still clutched in his hands.

“So, this is the day job then huh?” You gesture to his outfit.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah for now. Until the music starts paying off. If the music starts paying off.”

You nod, taking a bite of your cinnamon scroll and he can’t help but smirk at the way your eyes quickly roll to the back of your head. “It will.”

His free hand goes to his pocket, face hidden slightly by his hair as he tucks into himself at your confident statement.

“Thanks.” He turns around to start perusing the aisles.

“Oh, we will be getting the new Metallica album on the day of release by the way. I’ll put a tape aside for you.”

“Thank you.” He offers you a smile over his shoulder, and you tip your coffee to him.

He takes his time flicking through the rows, a few customers coming and going as he does, although he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Once the store is quiet again, he walks back over to you, selection in hand.

“Lee Hazelwood?” You take the record from him with a look of surprise.

He nods, “Yeah, I liked that song on that pre-goth mixtape you gave me. It’s like the kind of thing my uncle would listen to but…”

“Sinister.”

“Yeah.”

You smile, “It’s cool isn’t it? You know he actually wrote These Boots Are Made For Walkin’. Helped save Nancy Sinatra’s career after the teeny-bopper thing didn’t work out. They made a couple of albums together actually, and you know the first time he retired from the music industry was because the success of The Beatles’ made him depressed.”

He leans his arms on the counter as you talk. “Wow, you really are a wealth of knowledge for this stuff huh?”

You shrug, “What else is there?”

“Apart from books.”

You nod, “Good movies.”

He smiles, “Pizza.”

“Dumplings.”

“DnD”

You frown, “That nerdy board game?”

“No, uh d–dumplings like you said, and uh– dough–doughnuts?”

You scrunch up your face, “Okay,” and giggle at Eddie’s strained smile.

“So uh, what–would you–“ Not screwing this up at all Munson. “Would you maybe wanna do that together sometime? The pizza and dumplings, or probably one or the other I guess, and a movie, good music–“ he blows out a puff of air, scrunching up his face.

“Are you asking if I wanna go see a movie?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, “that and dinner. If you want.”

“I do like both those things.” You smile. “How about Thursday? I finish closing up at six.”

“Yeah. Cool. Thursday sounds good.” The guys and their weekly standing appointment for band practice would not agree.

***

Thursday rolls around faster than Eddie’s prepared for. Predictably, his bandmates all made fun of him for cancelling practice for you. But he just ignored the high-pitched ooohs and went to make sure his lucky Sabbath shirt was washed before he needed it.

He’s wearing it now as he paces outside the movie theatre, twisting his rings, oblivious to you sneaking up behind him until it’s too late.

“Boo!”

“Jesus Christ.” He jumps and twists around, your hands that had reached out to scare him still on his hips, his arms float in the air for a second before landing on your shoulders.

“You’re on edge,” you tease before your face sets a little more seriously. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, just uh, you wanna head in? It starts in like five minutes.”

You nod, your hands leaving his waist as his fall back to his sides. “What are we seeing anyway?” You look up at the black lettering above you, smiling just as Eddie reveals your viewing choice for the night.

“Thought we could see Young Frankenstein. Saw they were doing an old-school horror weekend here in the paper.”

“That sounds great.”

He lets out a breath of relief when you bump his shoulder affectionately, and you begin walking into the theatre side by side.

“Now the real important question Eddie Munson. What are your go-to movie snacks?”

His hand twitches when it accidentally brushes the back of yours.

“Well, popcorn obviously.”

“Obviously.” You nod.

“Sour Patch Kids and you gotta add a packet of Reese’s Pieces in there too.”

“Wait, in there as in–?”

“In the popcorn bucket. All of it. Like a good version of a trail mix.”

You grin, “Very interesting.”

“Just wait till you try it, sweetheart, you’ll never do it any other way.”

You laugh, “Okay, lead the way.”

He bows, gesturing his hand towards the confection stand. “After you m’lady.”

Your giggle, Eddie quickly finds out is his new favourite sound. When it appears again in the movie theatre, he can’t seem to keep his eyes on Gene Wilder, only watching you light up with laughter.

He can’t quite believe how well it’s all going. That is until you’re sharing a large pepperoni, on the bench outside the place you insisted served the best “pies” in all of Chicago, and your confusion stops his heart for a second.

He groans when he takes the first bite of cheesy dough.

“Good right?”

He nods, chewing and swallowing quickly. “My uncle told me pizza wasn’t a first date kind of meal, but we don’t have anything like this back in Hawkins.”

You’re sitting so close that he notices you still right away.

“Wait, this is a date?”

“Oh,” he swears his heart drops to his stomach as he sees the surprise on your face. “Oh well, yeah I thought it was but I guess I–it doesn’t have to be, sorry.”

You reach out to grab his arm when he instinctively moves away, “No! I just didn’t realise you were asking me out, out. You kinda just kept listing food.” He scoffs, shaking his head at himself. “I want it to be a date.”

He bites his lip, looking back at you with eyebrows raised, “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, squeezing the arm still in your hold. “Of course. I would love to…be on a date with you right now.”

He beams, “Well, it’s your lucky night sweetheart.”

***

The date (once it’s established as one), goes so well Eddie finds himself back at your apartment, admiring your wall lined with records while you find the both of you a drink.

His eyebrows marry together when he notices Dusty Springfield next to the Sex Pistols.

“What’s the system here?” You hand him a beer when you reappear by his side. “Not by genre?”

“No. Autobiographical.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How–?”

“Well,” you step forward, reaching out to pick a plastic sleeve as if from memory, “if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983 but didn’t give it to them…for personal reasons.” You show him the white cover of the album.

“That sounds…”

“Comforting.”

He nods slowly, “Yes.”

“It is.”

God, you’re weird. And cute. And cool. And, shit he was going for it, you said you wanted to be on a date with him. You invited him back to your place. No one’s ever done that before. He should go for it. He’s going for it–

Your lips feel even softer than he imagined, and he can’t help but give himself a mental high-five when you immediately move closer to him, face melting into the hand that cradles your cheek. You taste almost vanilla-y with the combo of rum and coke still sitting on your tongue when his meets yours. He places his beer down on the coffee table, and your lips follow him when he has to dip down slightly before his free hand comes to sit on your waist.

You part for a breath, “Didn’t realise vinyl categorisation would get you so hot.” You tease him, lips plump and eyes slightly glazed over, and he’s never wanted anything more in his life than to keep you looking at him like this.

“Yeah uh, really love that Dewey Decimal system.” He leans close to capture your lips again, but you pull back, leaving him to chase you.

“The Dewey Decimal system is for books.” You shake your head.

Eddie huffs, “I really don’t care.” He finally finds your lips again and he swears they taste even sweeter the second time, despite being tainted by his own.

You guide him back to slowly sit on the couch, bodies falling a little clumsily together before you situate yourself in his lap, legs straddling his. You both stay like that for what could be hours for all Eddie cares, lips clicking in the silence.

“Fuck, I could kiss you all night.” He leans his forehead against yours, heavy breathing synced with your own, as you finally come up for air.

You shake your head, eyes soft and reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eddie.”

God dammit, is he glad he left Hawkins.

Tagging: @storiesbyrhi (I hope you like the coffee shop across from the record store 😉), @bettyfrommars (I finished it!)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things au #she writes #Spotify

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robsheridan · 3 days

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Nine Inch Nails The Fragile released 25 years ago today. Here’s a 1999 digital camera photodump from the months surrounding the album’s release; a surreal, transformative time in my young life. Words can’t describe what it was like, but these photos and textures bring back the strangest hazy memories that feel like a dream: Not even a year out of high school, moving to New Orleans to work for my heroes as they were in the final year of recording a dense, challenging masterpiece of an album. Not everyone was ready for The Fragile at the time, but it now stands as one of the seminal works of pre-millennium art. If you’ve never experienced it, or haven’t in a while, it deserves a focused, solitary beginning-to-end listening in the highest fidelity, on your best sound system, at the loudest volume.

1: Recording The Fragile, Nothing Studios. 2: Various Fragile concept art by David Carson, Nothing Studios. 3: Gear, Nothing Studios. 4: Early NIN website concept screenshot. 5: Control Room A, Nothing Studios. 6: Live room, Nothing Studios. 7: The Fragile printer proofs, David Carson’s office, NYC. 8: Meeting with David Carson in his office, NYC. 9: Mixes, Nothing Studios. 10: Recording journals, Nothing Studios. 11: Filming the “We’re In This Together” video, Guadalajara, Mexico. 12: Band rehearsals, Bahamas. 13: Gear, Nothing Studios. 14: Robin Finck, Nothing Studios. 15: Charlie Clouser and Danny Lohner, band rehearsals, Nothing Studios. 16: The Day The World Went Away artwork, Nothing Studios. 17: MTV Awards rehearsals, NYC. 18: Skull, Nothing Studios. 19: Control Room B, Nothing Studios. 20: Various images posted to nin dot com teasing The Fragile in the months prior to its release.

#nine inch nails #the fragile #1999 #y2k aesthetic #nothing records #nin #trent reznor #nothing studios #rob sheridan #behind the scenes #90s music #David carson #Danny lohner #robin finck #Charlie clouser #Jerome dillon

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miraclewoozi · 7 months

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HIGH FIDELITY, PT 1. -c.hs

getting back on the horse is hard, and failing to hit it off with the cute gamer guy you went for a drink with last night has the potential to be your love life’s last straw. but when up and coming rockstar VERNON unexpectedly canters into your life, you find yourself asking one very important question: do you have it in you to saddle up, one more time?

pair ; vernon x fem!reader. content ; strangers to lovers. up-and-coming musician!vernon x record store owner!reader. fluff, angst, parts two and three will contain suggestive themes and smut. (MINORS DNI). warnings ; drinking + alcohol is a big theme pretty much throughout. mentions of past relationship breakdowns. reader experiences a lot of stress, anxiety and feelings of doubt, reflected in self sabotage. wc ; 13.5k ( ~35k total. ) disclaimer ; this fic was inspired by rob + liam in the series high fidelity and is therefore pretty influenced by the show. if you’ve watched it, you’ll probably see a lot of similarities! i just felt so drawn to vernon in this kind of role that i really wanted to try and put a spin on it. i do not claim that every idea behind this is original. notes ; been working on this one for a while. hope you enjoy it.<3

“What do you mean, no?”

Your best friend and longest standing employee Seungkwan turns his head away from the customer he’s serving to look at you with filth in his eyes. Unsurprisingly, his features don’t soften when you double down on your response to him.

“I mean, no,” you laugh. “I’m running on fumes, dude. I’m not going. No way.”

“But…” he whines, putting down the record in his hands. “No, come on. I told you about this weeks ago. You’re really gonna make me go on my own?”

“You won’t be on your own. Chan’s still going.”

Your younger friend, upon hearing his own name, whirls around from where he’s been rearranging the wall of cassettes and lifts an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“You’re still going to that guy’s show tonight, right?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I am. Why?” Chan eyeballs your guilt-adjacent expression for a second before his face falls and he looks at Seungkwan with a curled lip. “What did you do? Why’s she not coming anymore?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Seungkwan barks. The customer he’s still not finished ringing up flinches at the lift in his voice, but he doesn’t notice. “Why is that always your first–”

“Shut up, don’t start this right n–”

“I’m not starting anything! You started–”

“Guys!” You interrupt, looking between the two of them and doing your best to smile apologetically at the poor lady fumbling through the cash in her fingers like it’s an Olympic sport. “Can we park this one? For five minutes? Please?”

The bickering pair fall quickly into silence and Chan sends one last glare at Seungkwan before he turns back to the cassettes, grumbling something under his breath.

With a clearing of his throat the only giveaway, Seungkwan drops seamlessly back into his customer service voice and plasters a charming smile onto his lips. He checks the register and warmly tells the young woman her total, holding out his palm for her to place the money into. Even knowing him as well as you do, the switch-up gives you a little bit of whiplash.

The customer passes over her cash and accepts her change from Seungkwan’s hands before making perhaps the swiftest exit you’ve ever seen anyone make. No sooner has the bell above the entry to OFF BEAT Vinyl rung and the door has clicked shut, the two men turn once again.

But not on each other.

On you. And it’s the more gentle of them that pipes up first.

“Why aren’t you coming?” Chan asks, abandoning his little project and hurrying over to the desk with a frown. You’re sure it’s supposed to look sympathetic to whatever issue it is that’s changed your mind, supposed to fool you into believing that this has nothing to do with him still blaming Seungkwan entirely. But… you know him better than that. You know them both better. If Chan and Seungkwan weren’t both employed by you, you don’t doubt that they would have ripped each other to shreds within the first hour of meeting. Their dynamic is fascinating to watch — one minute, the best of friends, the next just seconds away from throwing fists; you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve had to send them to different rooms to avoid having to clean blood and tears off your shop (and sometimes your apartment) floor.

“I didn’t sleep so well last night, I just want to go to bed early. Is that… okay?”

(This is an embellishment of the truth, but what they don’t know can’t hurt them.)

“No,” they both exclaim at the same time, but Seungkwan goes one step further and slams his hands down on the counter for good measure. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him, but he keeps his palms flat and doesn’t give any indication that he’s about to apologise, so…

“Okay — God.” You turn away from them, heading towards the little office out the back of the store to try and get a few minutes’ respite. “Whatever. Fight with the wall, you guys – I’m not going. Check in with me before you head out, okay?”

Behind you, Seungkwan dramatically calls you a traitor and says he’ll never forgive you for this, but you just shake your head and continue on your way. The world falls into silence as you shut the door after yourself and you lean back against it, letting out a deep exhale and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Now, you did have an awful night’s sleep last night, and after how on-and-off busy the store has been all day today, the headache you woke up with this morning has only slowly gotten worse. But there are reasons for those things outside of what you’re going to admit to out in the main storefront. As close as the three of you are, there are some things that you’ve always thought it wise to keep… a little bit hushed. Especially at work.

When Chan and Seungkwan start an inquisition into your private life, it feels like it may never end. And so sue you, you’d actually like to make it home at a reasonable time, today.

True to your parting request, the two men close down the store for you while you sit out the back in your ‘office’, lights dimmed, pouring over both a new store playlist you’re trying to compile and a few less exciting — but actually important — tasks. Chan heads out first, all puppy-dog eyed when he pokes his head through the door and asking if you’re really not coming out. You shake your head, telling him to have fun and tell you all about it on Monday when he’s next penned in.

Seungkwan is slightly less easily brushed away. A few minutes after Chan says his final goodbye, your other employee slides into your office and shuts the door, sitting down in the armchair opposite you with his eyebrows scrunched together.

He doesn’t speak for almost a full thirty seconds, at which point, you look up at him from the small mountain of receipts you’re trying to organise and click your tongue.

“What?” you ask, leaning back in your own chair and crossing your arms. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know why.” Seungkwan shifts forward on the cushion until he’s sat almost entirely on the edge of the seat. “You might think you’re really good at hiding your shit, okay? But you’re not. Not from me.”

“Please,” you sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m telling you, I’m just tired today.”

“And I’m telling you that I know you better than that. Come on, talk to me.”

This is, unfortunately, something you can’t deny. It also seems to be his unfailing last line of defence every single time you’re stubborn over discussing your problems. One of these days, you’ll be ready for it — you’ll have a response sitting on the tip of your tongue ready to shut the conversation down, and he’ll be the one on the spot, and you’ll treat yourself to a pint of ice cream or something when you get home as a victory snack. But today? Isn’t that day; Seungkwan stumps you, once again, so you groan in defeat, cradling your head in your hands.

“I went on a date last night,” you say under your breath.

“What?”

Clearing your throat, you look up at him. You say, louder, “I went on a date last night.”

His eyes blow wide and if he could get any closer to you without actually sitting on top of your coffee-stained worktop, you think he would. Which is strange, if you really let yourself think about it, because Seungkwan is sort of an ex-thing, and talking so openly to someone who has quite literally been inside you about going out with other people… shouldn’t come as easily as it does.

But that was quite some time ago, and for three long months, you drove each other nuts. The two of you are way better off as friends. (Whether you’re better as colleagues is still up for review.)

“You what?” he whisper-shouts. It feels almost like he’s hinting to an invisible audience that this piece of information is extremely scandalous: all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Which would be fine, except it’s not really that scandalous at all, and neither should it be a surprise: you’re single, you have been for a while, and you have an entire sub-folder in your phone dedicated solely to dating apps — you’re at perfect liberty to go out with whoever you like. You just continue to stare at him, refusing to repeat yourself for a third time.

“You haven’t even been home, have you?” Seungkwan asks after letting the dust settle, the silence just on the brink of uncomfortable. “Oh my God. Tell me everything.”

“Shut up,” you groan. “His name’s Wonwoo. I met him on Hinge. And fuck you – yes, I went back to my own place.”

You pause for a second, taking a breath when his features cloud with the question he’s about to ask.

“It’s just-... so did he.”

Seungkwan leaps to his feet and claps loud enough that your already tender eardrums feel assaulted, adding an ‘I knew it!’ for good measure. You cringe at his volume, rubbing your temples – you should’ve known telling him this wouldn’t calm him down, but a small part of you was still hoping. This time, he actually does circle around the desk, carelessly shoving a few bits of paper out of his way before sitting on the newly cleared wood.

“Had you up all night, didn’t he?” Seungkwan asks. You shove his thigh, looking away from him, embarrassed. “What was the date?”

You just wish it was the kind of embarrassment that he thinks you’re feeling. Flustered, shy, giddy even. But it’s not any of those things.

“If I tell you, will you please turn it down a notch?” You ask, and Seungkwan nods, giddily kicking his legs over the side of the desk. With a sigh, you continue. “We just went for a drink. It wasn’t special, okay? It was bad. We had nothing to talk about, he was awkward, I didn’t even wanna be there – I took a bathroom break after like… a half hour, and I tried to bail but I’d left my phone on the table so I had to go back.”

“And how did that end up with him in your panties?” Seungkwan asks, thankfully a little quieter when he speaks this time.

“Do not talk about my panties out loud ever again,” you grunt, drumming your fingertips on the arm of your office chair. You give a dejected sigh as you answer him properly. “I guess… It felt like a sign that I was trying to give up too early. So I stayed a little longer, told him the truth about how I was feeling. I don’t know, maybe it took the pressure off or something? But we got talking a little more, we found some stuff we had in common… It just got easier and he started cracking a few jokes, so…”

“So… he laughed his way into your—?”

“He doesn’t drink alcohol,” you interject slowly, narrowing your eyes. “I asked him if he minded driving me home.”

“You devil,” Seungkwan grins, lightly prodding your calf with the side of his foot. “Was he good? Was it big?”

“Seungkwan!”

“Did he make you–”

“He was gone this morning when I woke up.”

Your friend doesn’t say ‘oh, shit’ out loud, but he doesn’t have to. The silence he suddenly falls into speaks for itself, his newly adopted slack-jawed expression the exclamation mark at the end of his unspoken sentence.

“Always the fucking ‘nice’ guys.” You push up from your desk and start to gather your things, shutting off your computer and grabbing your phone off the desk. You’re over it – you can deal with all this tomorrow.

Seungkwan hops down, biting the inside of his cheek as you pull your keys out of the pocket of your jeans. “Come with us tonight,” he tries one more time, laying a hand on your shoulder and sounding the kind of gentle that makes your skin itch. You swerve out from beneath his palm, shaking your head at him again. “Maybe it’ll take your mind off it.”

“I don’t need my mind taking off anything,” you insist softly. “I’m fine, I just don’t feel like going out. Gonna order in some food and get my ass to bed. Okay?”

Knowing he’s fighting a losing battle, your best friend finally stops pressing. He circles around you and flicks on the overnight alarm, letting you lead your way out of the office and then through the front of the store. He helps you pull the shutter down and tests the lock for you, as he so often does, before he holds both of his arms out in front of him. With a resigned roll of your eyes, you walk into his embrace for a couple of seconds.

“I’m okay, Seungkwan. Go without me. Have fun and let me know if this Vernon guy is any good, okay?”

“We’ll miss you,” he says as you pull away, and you clap him on the upper arm once before turning away, slipping your headphones on over your ears.

What you neglected to inform Seungkwan, even after allowing yourself those rare few moments of vulnerability, is who you bumped into on your way to the bar where you met Wonwoo last night. The encounter that set the tone in the first place. The reason you were so cold with the stranger who sat across from you in the booth, the reason you tried to bail, and two-thirds of the reason you’ve felt so damn out of it all day. That’s a story for another time, you tell yourself on your walk home. Maybe.

But… then again. Maybe not.

You’ve been marinating on your couch in a pair of sweatpants and a crisis hoodie for at least two hours and are currently on your second bowl of evening cereal when you hear a knock on your apartment door. You purse your lips and set the spoon back down inside the milky sludge, but you don’t set your ‘dinner’ to one side just yet. It’s probably just the old lady next door, asking if you’ve seen her cat, Houdini (you can’t help but feel like she was asking for trouble giving him a name like that) (in any case — no, you haven’t), or the middle-aged couple opposite asking you to turn your music down (you won’t) (it’s not even that loud).

You’re not getting up. All you have to do is wait for them to give up and away.

Knock, knock, knock.

They’ll leave.

Knock knock.

Any second, now.

…

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

You groan loudly as you haul yourself to your feet and skid over to the door, crossing your arms tighter over your chest to try and shield you from the chill that always lingers in the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Mrs P, I haven’t seen H—” you start on exasperated autopilot, falling quiet the moment your eyes land first on Chan’s beaming smile, and second on Seungkwan’s guilty eyes. “How… the fuck did you guys get in here?”

“We followed someone in,” Chan tells you as he slides past, inviting himself into your haven and heading through to the living room where your favourite album is spinning on your record player. “That really tall guy – I think he lives on the second floor? Crazy hairline. Like, right back h—?”

“Cool,” you interrupt, except it’s actually everything but cool. Seungkwan steps through the door too, following behind you as you stalk after your younger friend. “Next question. Why are you guys in here?”

“You’ve been in a funk all day,” Chan says, tossing himself down onto your couch and nearly tipping your cereal all over the cushions. He eyes the glass you have on the side-table, raises a brow and looks back at you. “And you can’t deny that. You’re drinking rosè and eating fruit loops at 9pm on a Saturday. You need to get out of this apartment.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” you tell him, sitting down on the armchair to Chan’s left that only ever gets used when these two idiots show up at the same time.

“One hour?” Seungkwan tries again, crouching down in front of you and taking hold of your hand. “You don’t have to be out late. And – and I’ll open tomorrow. You can stay in bed as long as you want.”

“Do you guys ever stop?” You ask them, and in tandem, the two men shake their heads at you. “I’m staying here. You’ve gotta go, or you’re gonna be late.”

Chan whines your name loudly, stomping like an upset toddler. “You know it won’t be as fun without you.”

“It’s gonna have to be,” you shrug, picking your feet up off the floor and resting them on the coffee table. “Come on. I’m serious. Get out of here.”

Seungkwan watches you for a moment longer but when you eye him sternly, he stands up again, giving your hand a squeeze and sending a nod to tell Chan to get up and follow him. First taking a long sip from your wine glass, the younger man does as he’s instructed, concern etching a frown onto his lips as he walks towards the door.

“If you change your mind, you know where we are, okay?” Seungkwan says and you nod at him. “See you in the morning.”

The door clicks shut behind them and you feel your shoulders droop, a long sigh leaving your lungs now you’re finally back on your own again. You roll your head side-to-side, relieving a tiny bit of the tension that you’ve been holding up in your neck all day, before relaxing back against the cushions behind you.

I’m not going out tonight, you tell yourself as you try to time your breaths to the beat of your music, letting it drown out the fact that the young couple who live two doors down have started arguing just outside your front door. It’s not gonna happen.

There’s no way.

The chill of an ice-cold glass meets your palm not even an hour later.

Chan and Seungkwan had been sitting on the stairs outside your apartment building, giving you fifteen more minutes just in case you happened to change your mind. To your credit, neither man had expected you to get out of your quarter-life-crisis outfit. Each gave a whistle of approval as you stepped outside into the air in a nice pair of jeans and a cute, long-sleeved shirt.

You all set off in the direction to the Arrowhead (so-called thanks to the venue’s unconventional triangular room shape) and both of your friends managed to successfully paint a few smiles on your face along the way. Once inside, Seungkwan dragged you by the wrist up towards the main bar space. Before you even had time to process the blurred faces that you walked by and the fuzzy neon signs all the way up the stairwell, enthused cheers and applause from the room ahead and the melodic strumming of a guitar drowned out the dread you’d been feeling ever since you woke up.

“This guy is not covering U2,” Chan says almost incredulously as he thrusts the drink he paid for into your hand. You manage to work your way through the crowd a little: it’s busier in here than you’ve ever seen it before, and certainly way more full than you would have really expected, but there’s still just enough movement room.

“Yeah, he is,” you say as you weave your way into a decent spot, where you can actually see the musician whose logo has been plastered on every notice board around town for the past month and a half. You even end up with a bit of breathing space, which is a rare, but welcome, treat.

But whatever you were about to say next – about how you don’t like U2, and how you’ve never really forgiven them for putting their entire new album onto everybody’s iTunes back in 2014 – dies a magnificent death on your tongue. You pause with your drink halfway to your lips as your eyes land on the main attraction, the man up on the stage; he has a small band up there, too, but all the lights draw your focus to him. His eyes are sparkly. Both his hands are wrapped around the microphone like he’s caressing it, his rosy lips brush over the metal as they move with each word that comes out of his mouth. Watching him quickly becomes almost hypnotic.

So. This is Vernon.

Long, dark hair sits low over his temples, perfectly parted and shaped in the middle to frame his brows. The top few buttons of his emerald satin shirt are popped open, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the hem half tucked into his black jeans. He has rings on almost every finger. A silver chain around his neck. He looks good, but his voice?

I think I hated this song ten minutes ago, you think to yourself, but there’s something about Vernon’s deep, rough-edged tone that has you considering never listening to anything else. If you could stand to look away from the way he cradles his mic, and the way one of his eyes squeezes tighter closed as he lifts up into a higher note, and the way he moves on the stage like he was born to be on one, you might notice your friends (and everyone else around you) equally entranced by this gorgeous rendition of Beautiful Day as yourself. You can’t, though, so you don’t.

You keep your attention locked on the singer and instead start to wonder just what he injected the air with when he stepped out from behind that curtain.

Vernon’s eyes flutter back open right as he hits the final line of the song, a smile spreading over his lips. You realise only now that you’re hardly breathing, nor blinking — your body doesn’t remember to function in the ways it needs to survive, too caught up being immersed all the way to the last beat. You think he looks right at you from up on the stage, you swear one of his eyebrows lifts and his features twist into a satisfied smirk. You’re certain, because for half a second it feels like the world tumbles into slow motion and it’s like he’s reading every single one of your secrets, scouring every corner of your mind.

And then… he looks away. He looks across the crowd applauding and cheering and whistling for him, before crouching low and taking a sip from the water bottle sitting on the floor beside his mic-stand. Only then does he speak.

“Risky opener, I know,” he chuckles, his speaking-voice deep and smooth and wholly entrancing. The room erupts into soft laughter, a series of whoops coming from the crowd, everyone disarmed by his slightly awkward charm; the singer’s cheeks turn rosy and a gummy smile lights up his face before he continues. “Thank you guys for giving it a chance, though. If you didn’t know… I’m Vernon—…”

You’re hooked on his every word as he starts to introduce himself and the band behind him — everyone is, but you don’t care about the people around you. Despite being shoulder-to-shoulder with your two best friends and with every breath inhaling the overpowering cologne of the guy standing right behind you, it feels, in a way, like you and the singer could be the only two people in the entire room.

The set lasts just over ninety minutes and is a carefully put-together mixture of mostly original songs and a couple of crowd-pleasing covers, a few slower ballad-types to offset the higher energy rock songs that he beams the whole way through. In-between, Vernon wins over the crowd with his dry sense of humour and a natural charisma that has you feeling mortifyingly warm, despite the fact that you know he isn’t speaking directly to you when he breaks to talk. You’ve been to more than your fair share of gigs in this venue over the years, but few performers have ever made one of their shows feel so genuinely intimate; by the time he says goodnight and heads off the stage, bidding everyone a safe journey home, it feels, in a weird way, like… you know him.

Most of the more local artists who play in the Arrowhead tend to hang around after their sets – sometimes they’ll have copies of EPs, others come with pins and badges showing off their logos, various cute freebies for people to take home. A few even just stand around in the bar and talk for a while, thanking people personally for coming, sharing information about their upcoming releases and future gig schedules. Unless you’ve been really blown away, this isn’t something the three of you often stick around for, though.

It’s therefore a bit of a surprise that when Vernon re-emerges some fifteen minutes later, you don’t even have to convince your friends to work your way into the crowd already starting to form. If anything, the look exchanged between you all establishes that wanting to praise this guy and say hello is very much mutual; the time that ticks by before you’re face-to-face with him really feels like no time at all.

The people in front of you move off to the side and you catch your first actual, unobstructed glimpse of him. He takes a sip from his glass and wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand before greeting you kindly. Somehow, he’s even more handsome up close. You really didn’t think it was possible.

“Amazing set, man,” Chan says brightly, doing little by way of snapping you out of your trance. “Super fresh.”

“Seriously. So, so good,” Seungkwan gushes.

Vernon pushes away from where he’s leaned against the bar, pulling his other hand out of his pocket and extending it to your friends in turn.

“Thank you so much,” he says. “Glad you guys liked it.” Another one of those easy, bright smiles spreads over his face. Maybe you entertain, for a second, that it grows a little more when he holds his hand out to you, too.

You’re still stunned into silence by how breathtaking he is, but you put your drink in the other hand and wipe the condensation off your palm on the side of your jeans before shaking his hand, as well. He’s really warm, maybe even a little clammy, but when he squeezes with his fingers and looks straight into your eyes, this becomes a very negligible detail.

“Your vibe really reminds me of someone… God, what was his name-...” Chan starts to babble, clicking his fingers at lightning speed as if it’ll help him remember. “He was on that survival show-...”

“We’re sorry about him,” Seungkwan interjects after a few more seconds of nonsense and half-spoken, incorrect names, lifting a hand and covering Chan’s mouth. “He gets a little… it’s just when he’s excited.”

“No I don’t,” Chan huffs, swatting Seungkwan’s hand away. You inhale deeply, trying not to cringe as you watch Vernon’s amused eyes bounce between your two friends like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Case in point—” Seungkwan starts, at which stage you lay one palm on each of their shoulders to try and get them to stop talking.

By some miracle, it works. At least, their mouths stop moving; there’s definitely a silent conversation ongoing in the filthy looks they continue to exchange, but they stop bickering aloud and that’s good enough for you, for now.

“Come on, let’s leave the poor guy alone,” you say, and Chan shoots Seungkwan a filthy look before he nods and takes a small step back from the altercation.

Vernon’s eyes glitter under the venue’s neon lighting, wide and focused on you while you do your best to mediate. You only notice this when you look back at him, by which point it’s far, far too late to stop the eruption of butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re really good,” you compliment finally, a smile tugging your mouth up on one side.

“Thank you.” Vernon grins, briefly dipping his head in your direction, but looking for a second as if he’s about to say something else. His chest rises with a breath, his lips push forward like they’re about to separate again, but before he can, Chan finds one more thing to come out with. Of course. (Seungkwan, regretfully, was right — he does get a little…)

“Do you like records?” he asks, pulling Vernon’s gaze away from you. The singer tilts his head, questioning. “Records. Vinyl – albums? Records.”

“Shit – yeah.” Vernon nods then. “Yeah, sorry. I um-... Sure. Yeah. Totally.”

“She owns a record store,” Chan says, jerking his head towards you. You feel your eyes blow wide and you’re tapping harshly at his back in an instant, begging him to stop. “OFF BEAT Vinyl. Not too far from here – it’s a cool spot.”

“No kidding?” Vernon says, glancing back in your direction, but you’re too busy silently pleading at Chan to shut up to realise.

“Mm. You should swing by, some time,” Seungkwan agrees, and all of a sudden, you’re overcome with the urge to fight him, too. “We all work there.”

“All right, let’s go,” you cough eventually, grabbing both men by the wrist and tugging. Vernon chuckles softly at the interruption; it’s almost as sweet a sound as his singing.

“OFF BEAT Vinyl,” he repeats, tasting the store’s name on his tongue, swirling it around his mouth like a wine he’s trying to savour. “For real. I’ll look it up.”

Chan grins proudly, finally letting himself be pulled away from the singer, and you manage to make exactly two paces before Vernon’s voice rings through your eardrums one more time.

“Hey, uh – what was your name?” he asks. It’s unmistakable who the question is aimed at (your friends don’t even entertain for a moment that he could be asking them), but regardless, it takes you a moment to let yourself believe he really wants to know. Vernon doesn’t push, though – he knows you heard him and he waits for your answer, leaning a little forward.

So, you look over your shoulder and you tell him. You see his lips move silently as he repeats it to himself, just like he did with the name of the store. He tastes it. Plays with it on his tongue, remembers the way it feels. As if it’s something he really intends to remember.

“Cool,” he breathes, pushing his hair back and off his forehead and making it very difficult to feel in any way rational. “Well – it’s great to meet you guys. Thanks for coming out, again.”

Finally, you manage to get your friends away. One of them, at least – Seungkwan decides that he actually wants to grab a few copies of his EP (‘one for me, a few for the store’) and rushes back towards the singer; you tell him to just meet you back at the bar.

Then, with another round of drinks on order, you turn to Chan and land a gentle thump on his bicep.

“Dude,” you groan, and he looks at you incredulously, rubbing his upper arm with a pout. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Chan asks.

“Tell him about the store!”

“I mean – I didn’t think it was classified?” he says. “Shit’s slow right now, and he seems like the kind of guy to have a record collection. What’s the damage?”

Seungkwan appears behind you with his hands full of CDs, badges and a scrap of something that you’re reasonably sure is firstly, a napkin, and secondly, has been signed. So you rest your elbows on the bar and place your head in your hands, grumbling quietly about how you don’t know you’ve managed to survive this long knowing these two losers.

“Because you love us,” Seungkwan says, fastening a button to your t-shirt. “Stop trying to deny it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sigh, accepting the drink from the bartender and taking a long sip. “God, you better have been serious about opening up for me, tomorrow.”

(Well. You have to give it to him: he was.)

“It’s just my opinion!”

From your perch on top of the store’s counter, you raise both of your palms in a display of your innocence. Chan stands in the middle of the R&B aisle, looking personally offended, fingers curled around the top of one of the wooden crates holding your stock.

“Me saying ‘I don’t think Welcome to the Black Parade is the best track on that album’ is not me saying that it’s a bad song.”

“But how can you say that?” Chan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who’s hearing the opening note to Famous Last Words and feeling the same way as they do with the Black Parade?”

“Most iconic doesn’t mean the best,” you counter. “Besides – I never said you weren’t allowed to have it as your favourite. It’d be a boring game if we all had the same answer.”

“I cannot cope with you anymore,” Chan whines. “You know what? No. I don’t even believe you. You’re just being a contrarian.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask.

“Because it’s the best song on the goddamn albu–”

The bell above the door chimes loud and clear through the store and both of your squabbling voices fall silent. Your head turns in the direction of the entrance, an autopilot greeting already forming on your lips, but you feel them fall slack the moment you realise who it is that’s just walked in.

It’s been five days. Though it would be a mistruth to claim you hadn’t thought about the singer since the night of his gig, it’s not one to say you didn’t think he would ever actually come into your place of work.

Much less at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. On a Thursday.

He pops his wrists as he walks a little further into the store, glancing around. Barring one of your regulars who walks about with his earphones in all the time, the store is completely empty; an adrenaline spike prickles the hairs on your arms, all the tiny muscles beneath your skin pulling them to stand upright.

“Hi,” he says once he deems himself to be close enough, stopping in his tracks and kicking the toe of his shoe against the floor.

“Hey,” you greet him in return.

“I’m-... Vernon. We met at the show, the other night?”

“Yeah — yeah, I remember you,” you smile. “I’m-... well. I’m still y/n.”

“Still y/n,” he says on a relieved exhale, grinning and glancing away from you. “I uh… I just had some free time. Thought I’d swing by and see what you guys had going on here.” Vernon adjusts the collar of his t-shirt, the silver of his rings glinting under the flickering yellow light overhead.

(It was definitely somewhere on your list of things to get fixed. Honest.)

“Sure, yeah,” you nod, swallowing hard and trying your best not to stare at him. It’s hard, though – in broad daylight, the way the flannel tied around his waist floats down over his hips and the way his jeans hug at his thighs is… you don't even have the words. “Let me know if you need help finding anything, okay?”

“I will.” He starts to thumb through one of the wooden boxes, offering a small smile your way. “Thank you.”

You’re holding your breath a little as he pulls a few 80’s rock albums out, his lips downturned in surprised approval at some of the records you carry. He holds onto a couple as he moves around the store and the entire time, you can feel Chan and Seungkwan staring at you. If there wasn’t a very real danger of Vernon looking your way again at a moment’s notice, you know you would be showing them your middle finger.

Really, they come away lucky.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve been trying to find some of these,” Vernon says after a few minutes, sauntering toward the desk – you’re still sitting on top of it, your legs swinging in the air beneath you. “Might have to make this my new stop.”

And displayed beside you on the counter – right by the cash register – are a few of his albums. The ones Seungkwan picked up after the show; until about two seconds ago, you had forgotten they were even there.

Vernon’s face lights up when he notices, turning to Seungkwan. “Come on, no way. I thought you were kidding about that.”

“Deadly serious,” Seungkwan laughs. Out of the corner of his eye, he must see you start to freeze up: he keeps talking instead of letting the silence settle. “It was on the speakers yesterday. Four people asked us about you.”

“For real?” Vernon asks. When all three of you nod your heads, you see the beginnings of a blush start to creep up his neck. “Wow. Thank you – um. That’s really cool of you guys.”

“It’s good music,” Chan shrugs. “You’re super talented.”

You’re not sure what it is about the onslaught of passive praise that gets so deep into Vernon’s head, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself other than repeatedly saying ‘thank you’. Relief comes in the form of another customer jingling the bell above the door and drawing the attention away from him for a few moments.

“I’ll take these,” he says breathlessly as he turns to face you again. You find yourself a tiny bit lost in the warmth of his eyes and it takes you a second to remember to swivel around and slip off the other side of the countertop. You do, though. Eventually.

“Nice,” you say softly as you shuffle through them, ringing each one through. He’s got pretty decent taste, even if less than a week ago you were actively cringing at his choice of cover song. (It’s okay. That was before you knew better.) “Do you– need sleeves, or…?”

“I’m good. Thank you, though.” Vernon rests his hands against the edge of the counter and drums a quiet rhythm out with his thumbs as you tap away at the register. “Are-... you guys busy tonight, by the way?”

You look up from placing the records into a paper bag, glancing over to your colleagues who both rush to shake their heads. Vernon looks from them, to you, and you mirror their action. Even if I was, you start to think wistfully. I’d make time.

“I’m playing at the Orchid? Uh— it starts at eight thirty; I could get you guys on the list, if-... um…”

“That’d be awesome,” Chan says, nodding so hard you’re surprised his head doesn’t roll off his shoulders and start bouncing across the floor.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Seungkwan adds.

Vernon grins at them both, humming softly, before turning back to you and fumbling with his wallet to take out his card to pay for his purchases. You turn the machine around to face him; he hovers with his hand just above it.

“Maybe… I’ll see you tonight, too?” He says.

You can’t help the delight that rises inside you, as if it’s been injected straight into your bloodstream. It’s everywhere, all of a sudden. In your brain and your heart and your bones and in your lungs.

Yet, you somehow manage to keep your composure when you say, “yeah. Maybe you will.”

The payment goes through and you slide the bag over towards Vernon, your eyes never leaving his and his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers brush over yours as he takes it from you, the bite of the cold ring on his index finger a shocking contrast to the warmth the rest of his hand radiates. You hope your little gasp isn’t too audible, but… the way Chan whirls around to face away from the scene in front of him (presumably to poorly conceal his laughter), you know you haven’t gotten away with it.

“Cool,” he says, hesitating another second before finally pulling himself away. He bows his head in the direction of your friends, sending another of those irresistibly sweet smiles at you, and then he starts off towards the door. “See you, then.”

You feel your heart finally start to slow down as you grip the counter for dear life, setting out a long, drawn-out breath. What just happened? Why do you feel all… fuzzy?

“Maybe… I’ll see you tonight, too?” Chan asks in the deepest voice he can muster, snapping you out of your own head none too pleasantly. You turn in their direction as your other favourite moron feigns tucking hair behind his ear and flutters his eyelashes across at Chan.

“Yeah… Maybe you will.” And Seungkwan’s imitation of you is a little too accurate. Creepily so, and you want to curse him out for it. Instead, you scrunch up a bag to throw towards the pair of them, grinning despite yourself as they both swerve to dodge it.

“Oh my God, shut up,” you chastise them. You don’t have any bite, though, your brain still tingly and positively reeling and seeing Vernon’s dazzling smile every time you so much as blink. And when Seungkwan takes a running start and launches himself, full-force, into Chan’s unsuspecting arms? When Chan lifts him up and spins him around, and when they start making kissy-noises at each other between unearthly cackles?

You know that the next few hours are going to be the longest of your entire life.

The rest of the afternoon goes by without much disturbance and with evening plans now in place, you make the executive decision to send the boys home half an hour early. The three of you agree to meet outside The Orchid at just after eight o’clock, giving you all a chance to eat, wash up and change before the show; your friends separate and head in the different directions to the places they call home, making a promise to text your group chat before you leave to coordinate the link-up time. You head back into the office to finish tying up your loose ends and manage to depart just an hour later.

On your way to your apartment, you plan everything out to the minute in your head. You even allocate yourself twenty minutes to sit on the couch and decompress from your working day. So, when you settle down a little further into the cushions and put your head back, resting your eyes… when you tell yourself you’ll get up in just a minute and hop into the shower…

You certainly don’t expect to be woken up two and a half hours later as your phone vibrates on the floor of your living room.

With one eye still closed, you pick it up, yawning and stretching the lingering wisps of slumber from your body. Seungkwan’s contact name shows on your screen and you swipe to answer the call; on the other end of the line, a song you’ve never heard before is audible, but it’s accompanied by a voice you most definitely do know.

Everything snaps into place at once; in an instant, you’re wide awake, and you feel physically sick.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” you hiss into the speaker, scrabbling upright, tugging the phone away from your face to see the time. How is it already past 9pm?

“Oh, hello to you, too!” Seungkwan has to half-shout to be anywhere near audible over the music. You can almost perfectly visualise the way he’ll have sandwiched himself in a corner of the venue, pinching the bridge of his nose, head resting against the wall to try and block out enough sound to hear you. “Good to know you’re actually still alive!”

“Dude, I’m so sorry,” you say, rushing through to your bathroom to check if you can get away with leaving the house as you are. (Jury’s out, but you don’t have much of a choice.) “I… don’t know what happened. I fell asleep – I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

Seungkwan chides you again, this time reminding you that he’s been on your ass about going to a doctor to get your iron levels checked for months, that your timekeeping is terrible and that you really better hurry. You promise you’re on your way and hang up the call, pocketing your (horrifically under-charged) phone and slipping into a pair of sneakers you keep by the door before you head out. You told him you’d be here. Seungkwan’s voice rings loud and clear in your ears as you lock up your apartment.

But of course, bad things never happen in isolation. Waiting on the street outside your apartment block, you find yourself being cancelled on by not one, but two uber drivers: by the time the third reaches you, and has to follow the world’s most inconvenient diversion to get past some construction work, it’s 9:35. You know it doesn’t matter how quickly you run down the last stretch of the street and get up the seemingly never-ending staircase: it’s going to be too late.

You only manage to catch the literal last two songs of Vernon’s set. You’re not sure he even knows you’ve arrived, and in a way, you hope he doesn’t. Maybe having him believe you were a no-show is better than him knowing you’re about as low-functioning as a grown adult can be. You just slip in through the door as discreetly as you can and hover at the very back of the room as he rounds up for the night; Chan slips an arm around your shoulders as you turn to the bar and order yourself a drink, but it doesn’t do much to reduce the guilt that weighs heavy in your chest.

Which… is odd, really, you suppose. Seeing as you hardly know the singer much beyond his name and, now, a fraction of his record collection. Seeing as you certainly don’t owe him your presence at any of his performances. But there’s something in the way he made sure to ask you personally if you’d be able to make it, too, and you can’t shake it off, and… yeah, screw it, maybe you did want to be here. Maybe you did want him to notice. Maybe you do care what he thinks of you.

Maybe… you hope he feels the same about you.

Your drink hasn’t even arrived yet by the time you hear a chain of ‘excuse me – sorry, can I just? Yeah, thanks – sorry, excuse me’ -s behind you. Your eyes fly wide and you almost choke on your own spit at the sound, growing closer and closer, somehow audible over the background music floating through the speakers, over the other chattering voices and shrieks of laughter in every direction. Part of your breathlessness, admittedly, is to do with how immediately you just knew who that voice belonged to.

“Excuse m–” it sounds again.

And then, softer: “Hey.”

You turn around on your bar stool, barely managing to bite back a smile. “Hi.”

Vernon grins at you from a few feet away, a dark singlet hanging loose on his frame, showing off his long, lean arms, displaying the few bracelets he wears on one of his slender wrists. You’re staring – you know you are; you don’t even notice the fact that Chan takes several steps away from you, or how he throws a side-along glance toward Seungkwan, nor the fact that your two best friends start talking quietly among themselves, leaving you and Vernon almost alone.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I managed to…” But Vernon’s already shaking his head, coming up beside you at the bar, settling into the seat on your left.

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, glancing over at you where you’re sitting. “I’m just glad you’re here, now.”

Chan stumbles over to you somewhere around midnight and claps his hand down on your shoulder, interrupting Vernon’s very enthusiastic explanation as to why flying is totally a better superpower to want to have than invisibility. Your giggles fall silent and Vernon stops mid-flow, waiting to hear what your friend wants to speak to you about. Unfortunately, Chan’s words are barely intelligible; it’s only when a marginally-better-for-wear Seungkwan appears too a moment later that you’re able to make any sense of him.

“We’re gonna–” Seungkwan hiccups, covering his mouth with his hand and wincing, no doubt at the burn of everything he’s had to drink now sitting high in his throat. “Gonna head out. Are you coming? We’ll split a taxi with you.”

You find yourself glancing over to where Vernon is standing, propped against the pool table that you’re now leaning on the edge of. He just smiles back at you, lifting his shoulders.

“I think… I’m gonna stay here a little longer,” you say after chewing it over. “You guys go ahead.”

Seungkwan looks between the two of you and frowns slightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Vernon gently pipes up from your side, sliding over a little so that his palm rests flat on the felt of the table, his forearm supporting your hips from behind. But it isn’t you he addresses, despite this butterfly-inducing contact. All deep and serious, he says, “I promise, she’s safe with me.”

He takes his time to show it on his face, but ultimately this satisfies Seungkwan, who (despite being just about able to support both his and Chan’s weight in his current condition) has before, and still will, ignore his body’s demands in the name of ensuring your safety. But maybe he sees a trustworthiness in Vernon, or maybe he knows that you can and do handle yourself quite well. Whatever it is, he’s happy with this development, and your two friends bundle you in a hug so tight that it squeezes the air out of your lungs before they make their way towards the exit.

Once they’re out of view, you turn back to Vernon again, raising both brows at the man now closer to you than he’s ever been. But it’s far from claustrophobic – not as these things can so often be. No. No.

It’s addictive.

“Oh you promise, huh?” The tease comes out before you can do anything about it. You even end up batting your lashes at him for good measure.

“Cross my heart,” he says with a small shrug of his shoulders. His eyes dip from where they’re boring into your own, glancing down a fraction, just for a moment, and you’re sure you see him start to lean. Drawn to you like an opposing magnet, like a moth to a flame — his breaths feel hotter as they fan against your skin, his cologne starts to smell a little stronger… then, his fingers on the other hand curl around the pool cue he’s been balancing on his side and he drags himself away from you. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna kick your ass one more time.”

One more game of pool quickly turns to two, and it even threatens to become a third as you tease, again, that Vernon just got lucky and he flashes you another one of those looks that says ‘oh? Try me’. But as tempting as it is, you don’t think your pride can withstand any more losses. You resign yourself from the table with a huff when he rests his palms flat on the velvet covering, leaning towards you in that mouth-watering way he’s been doing for hours. The thing is, for the size of his pool-playing-ego, Vernon isn’t even that good. Not if you consider the number of completely missed shots, questionable connections and pocketed cues. But, because your own skill level leaves plenty to be desired, he doesn’t have to be up there with the big leagues.

He just needs to be a tiny bit better than you.

Asshole.

An announcement for last orders from behind the bar tells you that it’s nearing one in the morning as he starts to circle around the table and makes his way towards you. The bar has emptied considerably since you arrived, the music has steadily started getting more and more cheesy, people in all four corners of the room have started draping themselves over one another like well-dressed blankets, having already chosen the individuals they’ve decided to take home tonight. By all accounts, it’s the perfect time to leave. If you head out now, you’ll miss the rush of people flooding into the street and, if you’re lucky, the surge in taxi prices. The really good takeout place around the corner doesn’t close for another half hour, too.

There’s just one problem. You don’t want this night to end just yet.

“I think I’m gonna get some fresh air,” you say to Vernon, trying to stretch out a burning knot in your shoulder. “It’s like, a thousand degrees in here.”

Vernon nods. “Yeah – cool. I’ll come with you.”

And with your bag slung over the arm not causing you an ache, you start off down the stairwell. The doors are already open and the late night breeze has you feeling like you’re walking through the gates of heaven as you head outside. You inhale deeply, making the most of this very rare occasion of the city’s air not feeling thick with car fuel and cigarettes. Your eyes fall closed.

“I always liked being out at this time,” Vernon says as he joins you, leaning one shoulder against the brickwork of the outside of the bar. “Feels peaceful.”

“Sure,” you nod, craning your neck to look at him. His face is half-illuminated in the neon red of the bar’s sign above you. The harsh lighting and the shadows cast by his angular features have him looking… sort of sinful, in a weird artsy way that you can’t explain thanks to the pleasant buzzing in your brain. Straight out of an arthouse, indie movie. I bet he likes those, you think absently.

He looks straight into your eyes, intense and focussed as if he’s trying to search them, though for what you’re not sure. Honestly, you think if he gave a few more flutters of those beautiful lashes, you’d bend in-half-and-half-again to give him anything he wanted, so in a way you’re interested to ask what he’s thinking about. You don’t end up saying anything, though. There’s something wonderful in these little unspoken moments with Vernon. Something raw.

Something… unexplainable.

Sitting at the bar and stealing tickled glances as the waitress fumbles and drops a tray full of glasses on the floor. Subtle winks of his right eye (always, you’re discovering, the right?) from across a pool table when he succeeds in making a shot he has absolutely no business pulling off. Standing opposite you in the store you own, waiting to find out when – not if – he’s going to see you, again –

“You know,” he starts, the tiniest edge of nervousness in his voice for the first time tonight. Is the performance adrenaline finally wearing off? Is he… maybe starting to feel a little shy? Whatever it is, your last train of thought melts away into the drain just to his right, and you focus on him as he continues down this new path instead. “I got a new coffee machine in my apartment last weekend and I haven’t had the chance to use it for anyone yet.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” He nods, swallowing. “I uh…” He bounces one fist in the palm of his other hand, searching for the right order to put the words into. “I mean, it’s not like, one of those super fancy ones, or anything… but it’s sorta retro looking? Which is cool, and—”

“Vernon?”

“Yeah?”

“You‘re a little out of practice, huh?”

He chuckles on an outward breath, bowing his head, a grin that threatens to split his pretty face in two taking residence on his lips. “That obvious?”

“A tiny bit,” you say. “It’s cute though.”

He glances up at you, head a little tilted. “Yeah?”

“Mm… getting less-so by the second,” you tease him. “You can just ask me to come with you.”

“I-…” he starts, but he takes a deep breath instead and corrects his posture, as if it’ll prepare him somehow. “Okay. Okay — do you… maybe wanna come back to my place, with me?”

Not without flashing him a look first that says ‘now, was that so hard?’, you find yourself nodding up at him.

“I’d love to,” you say.

He pushes away from the wall and when you do the same, he falls into step, heading in the direction of his apartment. You try to discreetly roll your shoulder out again but it’s obviously not discrete enough; it draws his attention down to your arm, and he frowns slightly.

“Is that giving you trouble?” He asks.

“It’s fine.” You wave him off, stretching the muscle as best as you can by tilting your head as you walk. “It’s been like this for years.”

He scrunches his brows. “Here — can I?” He asks, his fingertip looping beneath the strap of your bag. You look down at your shoulder, then back up at him, before raising one brow, dropping the other.

“I mean — I don’t know if it’s your colour?”

Vernon barks out a ‘ha’, easily slipping your bag down your arm, the tips of his warm fingers brushing against your comparatively cool skin. You make no effort to stop him. He positions it on his own shoulder instead, the one furthest away from you so he can still walk right against your side.

“There’s a reason I wear all black, okay?” He says. “It makes everything my colour.”

His fingers smoothly slip between yours as he says it. It was quite the move, and for a second you’re impressed. At least, until it turns out that this simple action seems to jolt him back to his factory settings, because—

“I’m so serious about this coffee machine, by the way.”

“I know you are,” you laugh, bumping your weight against him and squeezing his hand. “I’m counting on it.”

“Okay, so,” you start, settling into Vernon’s couch and tucking one of your legs up beneath you. You cradle the mug of coffee he’s made you — admittedly, the retro-style machine was pretty cool — between both of your hands, a thumb brushing over the raised pattern on the ceramic. The fresh air from the walk here seems to have decently sobered you; barring a pleasant buzz, you feel almost like you haven’t drunk a thing. “How did you get into music?”

Vernon matches your posture play-for-play, biting the inside of his cheek before he answers. He drank less than you in the first place, but he seems steadier now, as well.

“Uh… a couple things, I guess,” he starts. “I mean, my parents are big into music. Sometimes they'd take me with them to shows and stuff, had a bunch of CD’s all over the house — all that. You know? I really grew up on it, so…"

You nod, tilting your head to gesture for him to continue.

“Then… I don’t know. There’s- okay, I was kind of a loser in high school,” he goes on. You roll your eyes; Vernon nudges your thigh with his knee playfully, shaking his head.

“I just mean, I didn’t have a lot of friends.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “So…, I mean, that’s— that’s whatever. The point is that I spent a lot of time on my own and I basically had an earphone in any time I thought I could get away with it, and–... and sometimes even if I couldn’t.” He chuckles. “Weird. Most of my teachers didn’t like me much either.”

You laugh too now, and Vernon bows his head a little; every single one of his handsome features brightens up and you don’t really know where to look. His never-ending lashes are so long they cast shadows down onto his cheeks, and the ambient lighting reflects off his eyes so beautifully that they look like they’re glimmering.

He goes on, “there was one, though. My bio teacher? She was really cool. She had a lot more time for me than the others did. And uh, she called me into her office after school one day and just said… basically, my options were to start giving a shit about… cells, and mitochon– whatever, or start really working for this great big thing that I spent all my time daydreaming about. And it’s been a little up and down, but…”

He trails off, shrugging on one side.

“I think you’re doing pretty okay,” you chime in, leaning one arm against the back of the couch and resting your head in your palm. “I bet those kids would lose their minds if they could see you now.”

“Oh?” Vernon asks, setting his coffee down on the side-table. You click your tongue at him.

“Don’t– come on.”

“No, seriously,” he laughs. “What do you mean?”

“I mean-…” you start, shaking your head. “Okay. People go out of their way to listen to you. Everyone who comes to one of your shows… that’s an hour, two hours, whatever – of making people feel exactly the way you want them to feel. They... all want to understand you. Right?”

Vernon just looks at you, forehead a tiny bit creased — the cogs in your brain tick away trying to find a better way to explain what you mean, but he finally speaks. (You’re glad, because you were struggling to come up with anything else.)

“Shit, I thought that was just an in to say you thought I was hot, or something.”

You push at his chest lightly, your palm lingering on his vest a moment longer than is, perhaps, strictly necessary.

“Shut up,” you groan. But a second later… “I guess there’s that, too.”

He sits back a little, pushing his hair off his forehead with a chuckle. “I dunno, I mean — I sort of… is it weird if I don’t really think about it that way?”

“Of course not,” you tell him.

He gets that look back on his face again; the pensive one, where he appears like he’s seconds away from saying something else, something important. But he falters, and when he glances back at you, his engine stalls.

Then, with a shake of his head, he says, “wow, okay, enough about me. I’m so sorry. Can I ask you a question?”

You take another sip of your coffee and set it down, too, nodding ‘yes’. To be honest, you were quite enjoying talking about him; at the same time, you know what it is to feel a little too perceived sometimes, so you let him move on without argument.

“How do you just… own a record store?”

You laugh. It’s been a while since you’ve had to explain this one. (When was the last time one of your dates was interested enough to ask?)

“I’m not as good a storyteller as you are,” you preface, mirroring him when he rolls his eyes, pretending not to notice that he shuffles even closer. You launch into it easily enough — the old store owner was a friend of the family, he let you work there while you were in college, took you on full-time after you dropped out. When his eyesight started deteriorating, he chose to retire and told you it was yours, if you wanted it.

“Place would’ve closed down, otherwise,” you shrug. “But I couldn’t do it on my own, so I brought the guys in to help. Two years later... yeah. I guess that's how.”

The whole time as you talk, his eyes don’t leave you. He’s quite expressive, you find — whether he’s lifting a perfectly shaped brow, nodding along to what you’re saying, smiling at you… you feel listened to. When he’s sat across from you, you feel heard; you feel known.

“Well, first — take it back. You’re a great storyteller,” he says. You feel your face grow warm and you nudge him with your knee, but you don’t argue — you aren’t convinced he’d let you win, anyway. “But that’s… really cool? Actually.”

“Oh yeah, I heard nine-to-five retail is the coolest thing you can do, these days,” you laugh.

Vernon scoffs at you. “You close at six thirty.”

(How on Earth does he remember that?)

To avoid thinking about it too much, and so you don’t have to try to navigate asking, you roll your eyes.

“You’re right,” you say to him. “That’s way better.”

“Do you like what you do?” He asks, and you tilt your head at him. “Well — okay. If you ignore the… boring, back-office stuff.”

“Yeah,” you say after a pause. “I guess I do.”

“Then it’s cool.”

Your coffees both go cold as you talk more, and more, and more — he asks about your life, and growing up, your friends, and he answers all of your questions in turn when you ask them. He has an interesting way of talking about himself outside of his job; it’s not so much that you have to pry for information, but he’s not super forthcoming. It’s as if he’s taking all of your questions at face value, like he doesn’t know how to go about expanding on them.

Maybe he’s just more of a listener, you contemplate once he turns yet another of your questions back on you and you teasingly pull him up on it. It flusters him, which you can’t help but find very endearing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I just… you have such a pretty… voice?” he confesses, rubbing the back of his neck, ears burning pink.

“Oh?” You ask, stumped for a moment as your heart lurches in your chest. When he nods, you find the gall from somewhere to say, “takes one to know one.”

(You’re not sure how.)

And on it goes. On, and on, and on. More questions, more answers, more lighthearted shoves and lingering touches and shy glances away from each others’ scorching gazes as heat rushes to your cheeks. He even shows you his record collection and puts on one of his favourite albums for background noise before you settle back into the couch. It’s so natural, even when the vinyl runs to the end and the only noise from the player is a distant crackle. Being in his space and having mindless conversation after mindless conversation feels almost as comfortable as being in your own home.

You notice something, as you’re rounding off a monologue about why your highschool math teacher was the worst person you’d ever met. A tiny hair on the apple of his cheek. One of those lashes you envy so much. Even as you try to focus back on your closing remarks, your eyes keep dropping to it and you trail off into silence a few words short.

“I’m sorry, you’ve-… got an eyelash,” you say, tapping roughly the same spot on your own cheek.

“Mm. I have a few of them,” Vernon counters, wiping the heel of his thumb against his skin. He misses, though, and drops his arm back down with the lash still stuck to his face.

You move before you can stop yourself, hand lifting up to his face and hovering just a few centimetres away.

“Can I?” you ask.

Vernon nods, wordlessly. He goes cross-eyed and his lids twitch in a flutter as he watches you get closer; you brush the lash onto your thumb and he only breathes again when you rebalance it on the tip of your finger. You hold it up to him, settling back into your own part of the couch; he just stares back at you.

“Make a wish,” you prompt.

His confusion is poorly concealed, head cocked to one side as he looks from the lash to you and back again. “Huh?”

“Don’t you…?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay, wow,” you laugh, glancing down at your finger too. “You have to make a wish on your eyelashes when they fall out.”

“No, I got that part,” Vernon snickers. “I just mean — why?”

“I—” you start to explain, but you fall short of an explanation and frown instead, biting the inside of your cheek. “… I don’t know. It’s just what you’re supposed to do. I’ve always done it.”

The downturn of your lips doesn’t last very long, though.

“Well, what if it’s not an eyelash? What if it’s like… one of my eyebrows, or something?” He asks.

It's such a simple but off-the-wall response that you can't help but laugh, except it comes on so suddenly you start to choke on your own saliva. One of his hands circles around you and rubs soothingly between your shoulder blades as you cough, succeeding in bringing him even closer and failing to lower the fever you’re starting to feel creep up on you. By some miracle, you don’t drop the lash, even as you hack pathetically into the crook of your elbow; Vernon waits for it to subside, a weirdly fond look on his face all the while.

Now, when you turn your head, he’s right there. In your space. His arm still around your back, the glint of the bar pierced through his brow drawing your attention up away from those smiling lips.

“I guess it just doesn’t come true? I don’t know,” you say, shaking your head. “I’ve never tried wishing on an eyebrow before.”

“I’m just saying,” he starts, falling back against the cushions now he knows you’re not suffocating. His arm doesn’t move, though. If anything, he sort of pulls you with him. “What if it ends up like a reverse wish. Whatever I ask for, the opposite comes true, or something.”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” you say, starting to bring your finger closer to yourself.

Quicker than you can blink, he reaches to you and lightly lays his fingers around your wrist, stopping you in your path.

“Wait,” he says, pouting a little. “I didn’t say that.”

Both of you glance down to this new point of contact. Two sets of lips stay parted but two identical breaths remain held, burning in both your lungs and in Vernon’s. His gaze shifts back up to your face, eyes wide and wholly serious and unblinking.

“What do I do?” He asks on the eventual exhale. It reminds you to breathe again, too.

“Close your eyes.”

It takes him a second to obey, but he does. His eyes flutter closed and you clear your throat, lifting your finger until it’s just in front of his face.

“Make a wish.”

A few seconds later, his brows relax and he nods.

“Then… blow.”

His lips purse and he pushes a breath through them, lifting the stray lash off your skin and sending it out into the room. He opens his eyes, then, smiling in a manner that you can tell is absolutely despite himself.

He doesn’t move away, and his cologne, fresh and citrusy, mixes tantalisingly with the sandalwood candle he lit on your way back to the couch a little while ago, both accented by the chewing gum he popped to get rid of the mocha aftertaste still lingering on his breath.

“What did you wish for?” You ask, dropping your hand back down to your side.

He frowns.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you,” he says. “Pretty sure that’s against like… wish laws, or something.”

“Boring,” you chide, slumping your shoulders, but he just grins at you, darting his tongue out over his lips.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his Adam’s apple bob in a thick swallow and you can feel the gentle brushing of his thumb. The slow movements, up and down over the exposed area on your hip where your shirt has started to ride up, make you shiver, and you know your chest stutters when his fingers move to press wholly against your bare skin. You know he notices, because he does it again. And again, and again.

It's maddening. You end up stuck in this never-ending feeling of falling head-first into his arms.

“Where do you think the laws stand on showing you, though?” He asks, inching a little closer.

You hold your breath, little more than anticipatory static flooding your brain.

“I think they’re okay with it.”

You mirror, slowly, hooked in the gaze that has adrenaline dripping down the length of your spine like honey, and you can’t bring yourself to look away until you can practically taste him. He closes the space between you in half speed, but gently, like you’re both made of tissue, he brings his thumb and forefinger to your chin and touches his lips to yours. His nose presses against your cheek.

It’s comfortable. It’s warm. It’s easy, it’s exhilarating, it’s perfect. You feel like your heart just might burst clean out of your chest—

But… you can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, tugging yourself away and clamping your hands over your mouth. “Shit — I’m-… I’m sorry.”

Out of nowhere, you’re fighting to catch a breath, head spinning in circles, and no longer in the good way. Have those beers finally come back to bite you in the ass? Or, deeper down, do you know your sudden intoxication isn’t alcohol related at all? Vernon shoots back from you like you’ve gone up in flames and he might catch, too — his eyes search your face as you scramble to get to your feet, and he looks… scared.

“Are you okay?” He asks. You don’t respond right away, already looking around the apartment for where you left your shoes, already trying to locate your bag too. (As you try to swim towards the surface, you forget that it wasn’t you who still had hold of it when you came through the door and placed it on the loveseat back in the living room.) “Hey… is everything-…?”

“I’m fine,” you interrupt. You’re not. “I just-… I remembered-… I have to go.”

You catch sight of your shoes, hidden behind the ones Vernon kicked off just after you, and you hurry across the apartment to get to them.

No bag. Where’s your bag? Where did you leave it? But… ah, your keys are in one back pocket and your phone is in the other and maybe it’s not the end of the world if you never see that lipstick again—

“It’s really late,” Vernon says as you bend down to re-tie one of your laces, hovering just a few steps behind you. “Are you gonna be okay to get home?”

“I’ll be fine,” you rush. “I’ll get a cab.”

“Well, at least let me wait with you until it—”

“I said I’m fine,” you insist, you snap, only now looking up at him again. He tenses, but his eyes stay soft. It’s not in the same way you’ve seen them all night, though. Not in a nice way. Not glittering and full of intrigue. No. He’s hurt. And like a wounded animal, he takes several stiff, unsure steps back away from you, swallowing hard and looking anywhere, everywhere else.

“I’m fine,” you say again, trying to sound a little quieter, a little calmer. Even if that is miles away from the truth.

“Okay,” he says, unconvinced and wringing his hands in front of his stomach. “If-… I’m sorry if that was-… I didn’t mean to make you-…”

You shake your head, standing back up to your full height, but you don’t close the gap between you. You don’t reach out to him, even though you want to. You just have to blindly hope he can read your mind somehow — there’s no way to explain it quickly enough without leaving you both in a mess, and right now...

“Hey,” you say, forcing him to look at you once more. “It’s not-… it isn’t you. I just have to go, okay?”

He doesn’t seem overly reassured by this, but he nods anyway. “Can-… you text me when you get home?” He asks. Then, hurried: “Just so I know you’re back safe. That’s all.”

You swallow hard.

“Yeah,” you say on an outward breath, cringing at how exasperated it sounds. You don’t mean it to — you’re really not mad at him. “I will. I’ll message you.”

Biting the inside of his bottom lip, Vernon takes another step back. He doesn’t say anything else, just shoves his hands as far into the pockets of his jeans as he can and watches you.

“I’ll message you,” you repeat, opening the door, speaking more to yourself than to him. “I promise.”

Then, you’re stumbling out into his hallway. Hurrying down the too-narrow staircase. Leaning your back against the brickwork outside, a light drizzle of rain splashing all over your bare arms. The stone prickles through your t-shirt as you slide down, as you feebly try to suck thick, damp air into your lungs, as your head starts to ache, as a dull throb starts to reside behind your eyes.

It takes ten minutes of staring into the empty road in front of you before you feel steady enough to attempt to wrestle your phone out of your pocket. No matter how many buttons you press, no matter how many times you tap it, the screen refuses to come to life and you only now manage to recall the ‘low battery’ notification that came through several hours ago. Briefly, it crosses your mind to go back upstairs and ask if you can request a ride on Vernon’s phone. You know he’d say yes. Hell, he’d probably throw a blanket over your shivering shoulders and fix you another cup of coffee while you waited, too. But you can’t. The look on his face as you slid out his front door is burned into your memory like a brand and there surely couldn’t be anything worse than having to go back in there and face him like this.

Five more minutes pass before you find the energy to stand, to stretch out your bunched up muscles, and start on the walk home. Another thirty until you’re trudging, sodden and blurry eyed and heavy-hearted, through your apartment door. Three and a half after that before you finally manage to text Vernon to say your phone died, but you’re back, you’re safe. That you’re sorry.

Barely ten seconds tick by before it pops up that he reads your message. (Followed by ninety seconds of staring down at the bubble that says he’s typing, waiting for a reply that ultimately doesn’t come.)

And four hours later, you’re still wide awake, lying under your covers, staring blankly up at the ceiling. You think you ought to be giddy, squirming, hiding your smile in your pillow — that’s how first kisses are supposed to make you feel. Isn’t it? Alas, you’re flooded instead with visions of the last time a first kiss felt like it made this much sense; in place of all the endorphins you’re sure should be ricocheting off every inner surface of your brain, all you know is heartache and dread.

So you stare, and you stare, and you keep on staring; even when your eyes start to burn, you stare a little more.

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! as always, likes, reblogs, comments & feedback are so so appreciated. parts 2 and 3 are very nearly finished, as well, so stay tuned.<3

#vernon fanfic #vernon imagines #vernon x you #vernon fluff #vernon angst #vernon x reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #kpop fanfic #j writes.#re. high fidelity.#*

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queenshelby · 1 year

Text

Chemical Reactions (P. 6)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy as J Robert Oppenheimer x Student Reader

Warning: Smut, Age-Gap, Infidelity

Words: 4,905

Note: The fic is spoiler free and my own fantasy and imagination. It is not historically and scientifically accurate.

Previous Parts: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5

“You really want to have this discussion now?” you sighed before reaching for the packet of cigarettes which you kept on the ledge of your chalkboard while leaning back against it. You were still half naked and your bare breasts were exposed.

“Considering the circumstances, I think that we must talk about it now. I understand if you would rather save yourself for someone who…” Robert began to say as you handed him your cigarette and before you interrupting him.

“Listen Robert, the fact that you are married doesn’t bother me and, clearly, it doesn’t bother you either as, otherwise, you wouldn’t have kissed me” you said before snatching the cigarette from his hand again, causing Robert to furrow his eyebrows.

“Now that, too, is presumptuous” he ought to point out in respect of which you laughed.

“Is it though?” you chuckled before expanding on the topic of fidelity. “I suppose your reputation precedes you. Despite, I know about Jean Tatlock and your affair with Ruth Tolman” you told him, causing Robert’s chin to drop. He sighed again and then he asked “how did you know?” to which, of course, you had already formulated a response in the back of your head.

“Women talk. Barbara Chevalier and Ruth Tolman are friends and I have overheard a few conversations between them since living here” you admitted to Robert before handing the cigarette back to him.

“Well, for the record, my affairs with these women are in the past. I have ended them both” Robert explained before inhaling the smoke of the cigarette without realising that, for you, the fact that he had ended those affairs, did not make a difference.

“Dr Oppenheimer, with respect, none of this really concerns me. I am not your wife” you chuckled, causing Robert’s eyes to widen. He was surprised by your attitude towards this topic and now regretted the fact that he had spoken up about it before he even had the chance to be with you, at least that once.

“I suppose we have officially passed the need for formalities, don’t you think?” Robert asked. “So please, call me Robert” he then said and you took him up on his offer while still standing there with the fabric of your dress stacked up over your hips and your bare nipples pointing right at him.

“Alright, Robert” you said before giving him a cheeky smile. “Now, let me tell you something about myself” you then told him and, sure enough, he was keen to hear about your thoughts on the current situation.

“I am a woman who does not believe in love or marriage, both of which are social conventions invented by human kind without any scientific backing whatsoever. In my opinion, questions concerning marital fidelity are minuscule in today’s society where one race is trying very hard to destroy another. We have bigger issues to worry about than our own emotions” you began to explain before snatching the cigarette from Robert’s hands again and continuing with your explanation. “What I do, however, believe in is physical and intellectual attraction giving rise to a connection between two people. I believe that we have such connection but, if you do not feel the same way, then perhaps you are right and this should stop now” you then said before disposing of the fag and stepping towards Robert again who looked both, stunned and confused.

“I haven’t met anyone quite like you and I am astonished by how mature you are at such a young age” he said in an almost whispering voice while caressing your face again gently. He was looking at you with desire and need again before, somewhat expectedly, pressing his lips onto yours for a split second before you pulled away from him once more.

“Unfortunatly maturity doesn’t necessarily translate to experience, as you will soon find out” you blushed, causing Robert to look at you in awe.

“I am sure you will do just fine” he teased, causing you to chuckle and roll your eyes all at the same time before you reached up and pulled his mouth to yours again.

The touch of his warm lips brushing against yours caused a thrill of excitement to rush through you. Robert’s kiss was soft, gentle, and then became more urgent as you opened your mouth to accept his tongue. Even though this was not your first kiss, you almost felt as if it was. This would be a night of firsts for both of you and your heart pounded so hard it hurt as you kissed him back fervently

“Come on” Robert then whispered after pulling away from you and guiding you towards the bed, which is when you quickly shuffled your dress down over your hips and disposed of it on the floor.

“Robert?” you then said with a husky voice before laying down on your back and looking up at him nervously as he disposed of the rest of his clothes as well, expect for his briefs.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked before joining you and hovering over you while caressing your face gently. He looked at you in awe and his eyes were reassuring.

“Take it slow, please” you whispered nervously before reaching up to run your hands through his hair.

“Of course. That goes without saying” Robert reassured you before he kissed you again and, this time around, he was deepening and lengthening the kiss, showing you just how much he wanted and desired you.

As you were kissing passionately, his hands reached around to caress you, causing your mostly naked bodies to rub against each other. Your bare breasts were now trapped against his chest and the feel of his warm body atop of yours caused shivers run down your spine.

Coming up to breathe, Robert eventually pulled away from you a little and, when he did, the tingling sensation he left behind on your lips made you smile.

Robert returned the smile you gave him and the smile that crossed his face warmed your trembling limbs and hid your excited nervousness. Despite the fact that you wanted this man more than anyone you had ever known, you felt somehow unstable when finally being faced with the idea of being intimate with someone else for the first time in your life.

The bravado you usually wore like a shield around him seemed to desert you, and even though you he couldn’t see much more than your face in this position, you felt naked under Robert’s heated gaze. You suddenly worried about your inexperience and you wondered whether this was actually a good idea.

Robert saw the panic of insecurity rise in your eyes, and he reached out to gently push a stray strand of hair behind your ear and grazed your bottom lip with his thumb before bringing his mouth to yours again. It was a slow kiss, deepening as his desire built even further. He knew he needed to go slow with you, take you gently and he hoped he could.

A hot rush travelled through your body as you responded to his kiss and felt his body shift, now enabling to graze his hands over your breasts.

“You are so beautiful” Robert then whispered before allowing not only his hands, but also his lips, to travel and you gasped as, eventually, you felt him nuzzle into your neck and trace your collarbone with his lips.

“That feels nice” you acknowledged as Robert was trailing his fingers over your skin and then you even moaned somewhat inadvertently when he brushed his fingers across your nipples. They surged under his caress and sent piercing streaks of arousal to your core. His caress was like a hot spark, and his touch excited you like you had not believed possible. You did not know how you could withstand his hands on the naked skin of your breasts for long but you knew that you had to try.

As Robert gazed over your naked flesh, you felt a blush creep up your neck. His eyes were so dark and full of lust, unlike anything else you had ever seen before and, just when Robert noticed your nervousness again, he pulled his hands away slightly, giving you some more time.

“Am I moving too fast?” he asked but you shook your head.

"No!” you groaned. “Touch me and kiss me again, please" you begged and you hoped that your voice would sound strong and self-assured. Unfortunately, you could not pull it off, and it shook with pure anxiety.

"As you wish” Robert chuckled before finally cupping one of your breasts and leaning down to slowly and gently swipe his tongue across one hard nipple.

"Oh my god" you whimpered as Robert teased the hard, little bud with his lips and rolled the other stiff nipple between two fingers.

“God, huh?” Robert teased. “I never expected to ever hear this word coming from your mouth…how unscientific of you…” he then joked just as you watched him lean over you.

“Just shut up and keep doing whatever you were doing to me. I am begging you, Robert” you joked for a moment while trying to pull his lips closer to your breasts again, which is when he took your thus-far neglected nipple into his warm mouth. He licked and sucked, alternating between the two stiff peaks, until you trembled and gasped on the edge of something you had never experienced before.

“Fuck, Robert” You felt feverish with excitement. Your mouth was dry, but your body was more alive than it had ever been before. Without him having even touched your mound, it was wet, yet felt as if it was on fire and throbbing with need. Shivers of anticipation shot up your spine, and you sucked your breath in raggedly as Robert dragged his insistent tongue down, letting it trail over your belly and to your navel.

“So perfect” Robert then murmured against your skin as he took his time exploring your body, trailing his fingers and mouth over your belly and thighs, before running them teasingly over the lace of your panties, making you moan loudly.

“Jesus Christ” you cursed, moaned and groaned in pleasure, causing Robert to look up at you and furrow his eyebrows.

“Don’t stop” you demanded as he was looking at you now with a cheeky smile having formed across his face and you tried to squirm up against him to simply gain some friction.

"I won’t, but I want to see all of you before I continue” Robert then said as his voice was thick with longing.

“Okay” you murmured in response, sounding desperate and anxious all at the same time. Your panties were moist, evidence of your excitement, and you were certain that he could smell your arousal as you hooked your thumbs inside the waistband of the lacy panties and wriggled out of them. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly excited by the expression on his face, as he watched you offer your body to him. His expression showed eagerness, pleasure and even greed, you thought. There was no sign of the trepidation you had expected to see there.

“Now you” you then winked and, without taking his gaze from you, Robert stripped his briefs off quickly, throwing them to the side of the bed.

When you saw his erection, your breath caught in your throat. This was the first time you looked at a man’s most intimate body part, and in your virgin mind, it appeared impossibly thick and long. Your mound throbbed at the sight of it, but your stomach churned in repressed fear.

Eventually, you decided to proceed and Robert’s hands moved slowly and tenderly over your body again, pushing the anxiety from your mind as they wandered over your contours and cupped your mound gently. You groaned softly as his fingers caressed the lips, wet with your arousal, and then slid between their moistness into the entrance of your pussy.

"You are so wet” Robert then said as he buried his face against your neck while probing your entrance some more.

“Uh huh” you moaned in response as you moved your pelvis in time with his probing fingers. They were curious and insistent and were creating marvellous sensations in your core.

“Oh god Robert. This feels so nice” you eventually groaned as you spread your legs wider but your voice faded as Robert took immediate advantage of your pleasure, dipping his finger deeper inside your wetness. Your hips jerked suddenly at the unfamiliar sensation of being penetrated.

"I am sorry. I will go slow" Robert said, realising that this was too quick and too soon for you and, just as he let his thumb circle and caress the hood of your swollen clit, he could feel the heavy beating of your heart. Its rhythm matched his own, but the throbbing in his groin was wilder than he could remember.

“This feels incredible” you spoke with laboured breath and took every ounce of Robert’s willpower to restrain himself and not plough into you immediately. The scent of your mound was driving him wild, and it looked so good. All soft, swollen and slick with your excitement. It was the most welcoming sight he had seen in a long time.

“I want to taste you. May I?” Robert then whispered and your eyes widened. You knew what this meant and the thought of it alone aroused you incredibly.

“Yes” you thus moaned and, unable to restrain his need to taste your properly, Robert kissed down your body again so that he could let his tongue slide through your glistening labia and taste your delicious essence as his lips sought out your fleshy clit.

"Oh, fuck! Robert. Oh my god!” you moaned, squirming under his mouth. Your nails dug into his scalp to hold him there. You did not want him to ever stop. His tongue was creating sensations in you that you had never experienced before. Masturbation had always been good for you. You knew how to use your fingers expertly to bring yourself to climax, but this was different. It was warmer, wetter and more teasing, with an intense build up that made you want to thrash around and cry out in pleasure and frustration. You rocked your pelvis against his mouth, your inhibitions fading into the background of the sensations he gave you. You moved with him, demanding more as he licked and explored you.

Eventually, a squeal of pure pleasure tore from your lips as your spasms started deep inside. You trembled and gasped at the sensations that raced through your body exploded in a wave of pleasure that radiated back throughout your body again. As the waves of sensation crossed each other, you swore you would pass out. You held on to the here and now, enjoying the wild ride, and when you opened your eyes at last, you found Robert smiling at you.

"Fuck Robert, that was amazing. I had no idea! Is that how it feels for you? I mean, would it work the same way if I did this to you?" you asked, boldly reaching out to caress the rigid cock pressed into your side, eager at the thought of giving him the same pleasure he had just given you. It was hot and hard in your hands, and a small trickle of precum dribbled from the darkly coloured tip.

“Properly” Robert acknowledged and you moved to a better position and bent your head to tentatively stroke the velvety shaft against the side of your soft cheek, before dragging the tip of your tongue over the crown. Very gently, you drew it into your mouth and sucked slowly, lovingly, savouring his meaty thickness. You were surprised by your own enjoyment of this. You had never even contemplated it before.

"Fuck, I won't be able to hold out for too long, if you do that for much longer” Robert groaned after fifteen minutes or so as he watched you latch your soft lips onto his throbbing hardness. You moaned, overcome with the sensation of having him in your mouth and the taste of his excitement.

"Then don't. Cum in my mouth. I am curious about what it tastes like” you said quite honestly after lifting your lips from his cock and looking up at him through hooded lids that only served to stoke the fire of his desire to even higher levels.

"No. I don’t want to cum. Not yet" Robert groaned nonetheless before he gently pulled you from his cock before pushing you back onto your back playfully. "The first time I cum tonight will be inside of you" he then grimaced and a rush of adrenaline shot through you as he moved between your thighs.

“If this is still what you want…” Robert then ought to confirm and you nodded eagerly.

“Yes. It is what I want Robert. I want to feel you inside of me” you told him just as you felt the heat coming off his body when he nudged himself against the moist outer lips of your pussy. You spread your legs, and he rubbed the head of his cock over your slickness. He hesitated for a second before, eventually, leaning forward and supporting himself with his arms.

He then pressed ahead, pushing himself into you slowly and carefully while looking for cues of any discomfort on your face. His attention was focused on the warm, wet feeling of your lips surrounding his cock. They opened slowly to him, and he slowly pushed himself into the velvety depths of you with a pleasurable groan. He hadn't been sure if he had been expecting the barrier of a hymen, given the fact that you admitted that you masturbated, but there was only a small amount of resistance to overcome as he continued to push into you with slow, gentle thrusts.

“Robert! Fuck!” you moaned eventually while digging your nails into his arms and shoulders. Your voice was tremulous and shaky as he filled you and stretched you beyond what you had known.

Hearing your tremulous moan, Robert thrust forward sharply now and groaned as he slid all the way up inside you. You winced and bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying out. Your breathing was fast and shallow as your channel opened and stretched to take all of him. Despite the soreness and feeling of being overfull, it was a wondrous moment for you, finally knowing what it felt like to have a man buried inside you.

"You are so incredibly tight” Robert gasped at the snugness of you, barely holding onto his self-control. Now that he was in deeper, surrounded by your wetness, he was careful not to move, to let your get used to the feel of him inside you. It almost killed him not to plunge repeatedly into your pussy. His cock felt harder than it ever had and your cries of pleasure, knowing no one had ever made your feel like this, made him feel more virile, more potent than he ever had.

"You don't have to hold back Robert" you breathed into his neck as you clung to him. You wrapped your legs around his hips and raked your nails down his back as he sunk deeper into you. The eyes looking down at you were tinged with concern and fire, but you wanted his desire, his passion, to feel beautiful in his arms. You wanted him to make love to you, but you also wanted him to fuck you. You wanted to experience everything you had heard others talk about over so many years, all at once, even though you knew it was unfair to expect so much from this one man alone.

He moved his hips slowly, sliding his cock back and forth inside you, letting your get used to the rhythm. You moved with him, intuitively pushing your pelvis upwards as he slid into you. Each time he buried himself inside of you, your clit was trapped against the upper side of his shaft. You moaned loudly at the exquisite sensations and ground your mound up against him even harder, pumping back faster, until the sounds of your bodies slapping against each other and the squelching sound of their passionate fucking sent a wave of need and pure lust through him.

"Oh god. Keep going" you gasped, licking his neck and biting at his shoulders. "Don't hold back. Please, I need you to take me” you gasped again, unbelieving that you had said the words that chased around your brain out loud. You felt confident now. You felt safe. And you most certainly felt incredible.

Your words caused the blood to rush through Robert’s veins. He stared into your desire-filled gaze but, when his eyes locked with yours, a deeper connection hit him with more force than he had ever known with another woman before.

"Y/N. Oh god. I want you so fucking much” Robert groaned and since he didn’t usually swear or use the name of the holy lord, his very own words surprised him. Your name tore from his lips as he plundered your body, changing positions twice, before finding himself atop of you again.

His tongue drove into your mouth, sweeping inside, tasting, commanding, and taking what he needed. He could no longer restrain himself and he let himself go, fucking you the way he had wanted to ever since you had appeared in his life. With a growl of pure lust, he pumped his hips, plunging into you over and over. He could not get deep enough.

"Oh god, Robert. Take me” you moaned over and over again as he drove into you. Your body arched and undulated under his fevered lovemaking. The muscles of your channel clenched and spasmed around his length as a great bubble of pleasure rose up from your toes, engulfed you and burst into shards of explosive release that had you shuddering and sobbing.

"Let go for me Y/N” Robert groaned while he pinched your nipples, and you cried out again.

Your face and torso were flushed, your breath raspy, as you writhed beneath him and clawed at him while your body peaked again. You then cried out once more, and he lost it. A roar exploded from him as his body crested and he toppled over the edge. His length throbbed and pulsed, spilling his anguish and a steady stream of cum into you. He collapsed on you gasping, trying to regain his breath.

"Don't move, please" you said, your face still flushed with your excitement. You stroked his hair lovingly. "I like the way you feel inside me” you said while enjoying the little ebbing ripples from your tight walls against his cock. He smiled and kissed your lips softly and you continued this for a while until, eventually, he pulled out of you which caused some of your combined juices to leak from your slit and on to the sheets.

“So how did I do, Robert? Just fine?” you then asked just as Robert rolled to his side, facing you and caressing your face while you thought about this incredible explosive feeling he made you experience just moments ago.

“I actually cannot recall the last time I had sex that good” he gasped. His breath was still laboured as he looked at you and smiled.

“I am sure you say this to everyone” you joked after pressing a quick kiss on to Robert’s lips and before sitting up straight when, suddenly, it hit you and you came up with an idea.

“No, actually, I don’t” Robert said as he watched you get out of bed abruptly. “What are you doing?” he thus asked while you tippy toed across the room before standing right in front of the chalkboard in order to ask him a question.

“Have you figured how to get your hands on enough uranium yet? Because, going by my estimates, I believe that the US will never be able to secure enough for more than one bomb unless they work with their allies?” you then said somewhat suddenly, causing Robert to sit up as well and furrow his eyebrows.

“You know I cannot talk about this Y//N” he told you as you picked up the chalk and began to write down a formula.

“Alright, you don’t have to tell me anything. I do the talking and you take away what you want from it” you said as, still in your naked form, you wrote down a few calculations from your head.

“Y/N, your calculations don’t make sense…” Robert interrupted you until he realised that you were talking about two entirely different substances now.

“We aren’t talking about uranium anymore, are we?” he thus ought to clarify, causing you to chuckle.

“Well, you aren’t talking at all Robert. You can’t tell me anything, remember?” you teased before telling him that it was plutonium which you based your calculations on rather than uranium.

“Plutonium is too fragile” Robert pointed out which is when you dropped the chalk back on to the ledge of the board and shrugged your shoulders.

“Yes it is fragile, but it is powerful and you can extract more” you pointed out while, elegantly, crawling back into bed.

“It’s impractical nonetheless. It will be much more difficult to build a bomb using plutonium” Robert said while sill glancing at your calculations.

“Probably, which is why you need a bunch of people as smart as you are to figure out a way to make it work” you told him, causing Robert to pull you atop of him and kiss you again.

“There is something incredibly sexy about watching you calculate a reaction, completely naked, while talking to me about atoms” he then determined, earning him yet another quiet chuckle.

“If you say so” you teased while giving in to his many kisses and caresses.

“How do you feel about moving to the dessert with me?” Robert then wanted to know, causing you to pull away from him.

“You want me to come on to the project with you?” you asked somewhat surprised seeing that you were not even a postgrad student yet which, in your mind, made you unqualified.

“Yes. In fact, I think I need you” Robert told you nonetheless and with a great sense of determination, causing you to shake your head.

“You don’t need me Robert” you chuckled, seeing that he probably already had a group of well-known scientists on board, none of whom you could compete with.

“But I do need you and it would just be you and me, working together during the day and then doing this at night” Robert responded to your statement while gently running his hands over your bare skin again in a suggestive kind of manner.

“Just you and me, huh?” you moaned before pushing Robert’s hand out of the way. “What about your wife?” you wanted to know, seeing that, no doubt, she would be there too.

“She has no desire to live in the middle of nowhere for a year or two, because this is how long it will take to make this bomb. She is not coming” Robert informed you while caressing your skin again, teasing you and making you ache with need and desire for him.

“Robert…” you gasped before his lips silenced you gently, kissing you passionately.

“Just think about it” he then told you after your lips drifted apart, causing you to nod.

“I will think about it and, maybe, there is a way you could make this proposal a little more appealing to me” you suggested just before you pushed Robert beneath you and assumed authority over him.

“How?” he asked while feeling your hand gently wrap around his hardening shaft.

“Well, for starters, you could fuck me again” you teased while stroking him.

“Right now?” Robert groaned while, again, you lined the head of his hard member up with your entrance, causing you to nod.

“Yes, right fucking now” you determined before sinking down on his cock, engulfing him completely, which was something you continued for a quite some time.

In fact, you made love for what felt like hours, up until one or two o’clock at night, following which Robert stayed with you, sharing a bed just like any other ordinary couple would until, suddenly, at 6 o’clock in the morning, you were startled by the arrival of someone unexpected, barging into your room.

To be continued…

Please comment and engage. I love getting comments and predictions pretty please!

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@lulunalua23

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@moonmaiden1996

@marlenamallowan

@cyphah (cannot tag)

@majesticcmey

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@alessioayla

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@ur--mommy

@throughgoeshamilton

@celverzonkwombatsludge

@cyphah

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@heidimoreton

@nela-cutie

@futurecorps3

@delishen

@nosebleeds-247

@thirteenis-myluckynumber

@gills-lounge

@hjmalmed

@lost-fantasy

@tiredkitten

@sidechrisporn

@smallsoulunknown

@charqing-qing

@hopefulinlove

@aporiasposts

@shycrybaby

@me-and-your-husband

@hjmalmed

@lacontroller1991

@galxydefender

@aporiasposts

@multifans-things

@galxydefender

@hunnibearrr

@saint-ackerman

@raineeace

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@littlewolfiieposts

@ihavealotoffandomssorry

@tn22220-blog

@nadloves

@lost-fantasy

@noluces

@mcavoy-girl

@hjmalmed

@yogurt567

@bloodybagels

@obeyme4life

@richiesgroupie

@blushykiss

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #Oppenheimer #oppenheimer x reader #j robert oppenheimer #j robert oppenheimer x reader #oppenheimer x y/n #oppenheimer x you #j robert oppenheimer x you #manhatten project #robert oppenheimer #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy x y/n

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wub-fur-radio · 5 months

Text

420,000,000 Reefer Fans Can’t Be Wrong Punk Gunk, Garage, Psych & Other Wild Shit — Volume 420

Our annual 4/20 holiday mix — 19 "New Rockophonic" HIGH Fidelity Recordings for your holiday (or any day) listening pleasure. Featuring musical joints from Th' Losin Streaks, Kid Congo & The Pink Monkey Birds, The Cavemen, Astral Magic, Sonnyskyes, Drunk Mums, Mean Jeans, Bass Drum of Death, and 11 more bands who can’t be wrong.

Apologies to The King (still America’s favorite pillhead/narc/rock icon). Legalize Marijuana Everywhere Now! End the War on Drugs!

▶︎🎶 Listen on Mixcloud

Running Time: 59 minutes, 53 seconds

Tracklist

I Mean You (2:50) — Th’ Losin Streaks | Sacramento, CA

This Generation (2:55) — Opinion | Occitanie, France

Flowers On My Grave (2:57) — The Cavemen | Auckland, New Zealand †

The Boy Had It All (3:22) — Kid Congo & The Pink Monkey Birds | Tucson, AZ

Echoes All Around (3:36) — Sun Dial | England, UK †

Let's Take a Ride (4:02) — Astral Magic | Finland †

Clean My Head (3:43) — The Brooms! | Portugal

I'm Flying Too (2:57) — Sonnyskyes | Long Beach, CA

L.S.D. (2:30) — Acid Tongue | Seattle, WA

Something You'll Never Find (3:18) — The Cripplers + Alicja Trout | Memphis, TN

He Lost His Mind (2:47) — The Revox | Switzerland †

Last Day on Earth (2:34) — The Satelliters | Germany

Saturday (1:48) — Drunk Mums | Melbourne, Australia

I Don't Give a Shit Anymore (2:24) — Mean Jeans | Portland, OR †

Mindwater (3:45) — Still Animals | St. Louis, MO

And Here We Are (4:34) — Misty Lanes | Sydney, Australia

Revelations (3:43) — Levitation Room | Los Angeles, CA

White Vine (3:12) — Bass Drum of Death | Mississippi †

This Might Be The End (2:57) — The Decibels | Sacramento, CA †

All tracks released in 2024, except those marked † released 2023.

#psychedelic rock #garage rock #punk rock #indie rock #neo psychedelia #music mixes

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tmbgareok · 3 months

Note

Hi JF! Was curious to know what recording equipment and technology you used to record songs for Dial-A-Song from 1983-1985, and if the Oberheim DMX drum machine was ever used in some of those early songs ("Next Plane To London" cover, "I Need Some Lovin'"). Also, were aliases like "Cappy Ernest Fidel" and "Mr. Tissue" used to keep the band anonymous when you posted ads for DAS in the Village Voice? or were they just random joke bits made on the fly during recording. Thank you!

youtube

JF: Next Plane to London... I believe the "clap" and "kick" sounds were just things I dialed in and played by hand on JLs Mini Moog. The kick might have even just been a thumb on the top of a Shure 57 microphone which for a period we found to be the best sounding kick emulation we could muster (surprisingly thumpy)

We did not have a lot of gear--it was a 4 track tape recorder, a Farfisa organ, the Moog, a guitar, a borrowed drum kit and a first generation Dr Rhythm was kind of it. For a fevered weekend we did have the DMX drum machine on loan from Chris Butler--a generous man to whom I will be forever grateful. It was the earliest sample based, programmable drum machine I knew of, best know for the bone-crushing Kings of Rock by Run DMC, but those songs are all very quantized so they have that tighter sound.

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trevlad-sounds · 3 days

Text

Invisible Club 31

18.09.2024

Intro 00:00 Misha Panfilov–Formosa 01:24 Oberu–Green Kitty 05:56 µ-Ziq–Hastings 09:49 The Lighthouse–Dionysus 12:32 Beefus B–From Light into Darkness 16:24 Mike Dickinson–Torus 21:09 Apifera–Iris Is Neil 26:09 Ghost Power–Vertical Section 30:53 Black Moth Super Rainbow–Folks with Magik Toes 33:04 Lone Bison–Origin Story 33:32 Dark Fidelity Hi Fi–Soft Light for Re-entry 36:32 HEBA–T5 (Kommissar Keller’s Mountain Panorama Remix) 40:37 Time Is a Mountain–Alicetti 48:06 Moray Newlands–Hoist the load to your left shoulder 53:34 Vulfmon, Evangeline–Got To Be Mine 55:34 Heron & Crane–Crownbeard 58:36 Outro 1:02:20

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aphrogeneias · 11 months

Text

𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 — 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

summary: there is more to a couple of friends exchanging mixtapes than what meets the eye.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: peak mutual pining. oblivious idiots. reader is in danger but nothing specific is mentioned. allusions to a bad home life. a super tiny reference to high fidelity.

author's note: again, only minor changes were made, as well as editing.

series masterlist

In the backseat of Steve’s car, squeezed between Dustin and Lucas, while the group disclosed your situation to him, Eddie could barely keep his own thoughts in check.

He felt sick to his stomach, even as the gentle breeze coming from the opened windows hit his face, and the radio played a song that, if he let himself think too much about it, it would remind him of you.

The younger boys explained that you were alone during Spring Break, and that you've been neighbors with the Wheelers your whole life. Last night, Nancy had noticed something strange happening to the lights of your house, and when she went to check on you, you said you were fine, you just thought you saw something, but it was probably just the old electrical wiring. Nancy knew better, though.

Cursed, they said. You were cursed.

They also told him that Vecna didn’t choose his victims randomly, you were all connected through some kind of trauma, all being monitored by the school counselor, like their friend Max, and Chrissy, and Fred, from the school newspaper - both of the former weren’t able to escape, but they could save Max after a breakthrough they had about how music can break the trance caused by the curse.

Eddie wasn’t processing any of that information, though. Their voices seemed to blur in the background, Dustin’s detailed explanations and Steve’s bickering interruptions fading away as his mind wandered to you, who were suffering, unbeknownst to him. The tragic princess in a tale, trapped in the tower of your own mind — and Eddie was no dragonslaying knight, no hero. There was nothing he could do to help you other than trust Dustin's plan to work.

He should have known something was wrong, shouldn't he? He should have insisted on making you tell him what you were going through instead of letting you slip away. Should have, should have, should have.

It was too late now.

Saturdays were the busiest day at the record shop.

Eddie didn't usually visit you on Saturdays, since you never really had the time to hang out with him as you did during the week, when the store was mostly empty — but, that Saturday, he had a mixtape to deliver to you.

A couple of days before you had gifted him with one, wrapped in sparkly purple paper, a small note with his name on it attached to the worn out ribbon tied it all together. You'd explained to him that, even though the two of you had widely different takes on music, those were a few songs that made you think of him, and you thought he'd appreciate them.

Most of the music in your tape was mellow, acoustic songs, the kind of music he imagined you listening to in your room, or driving your car to school — Crosby Stills and Nash, Joan Baez, Fleetwood Mac. Not that he kept thinking about you alone in your room all the time, not at all.

It rendered him speechless. You were casual about it, sliding the cassette on top of the counter in his direction, but he could tell you were somehow shy about it. There was something else hidden under your fleeting gaze, something that had shifted along the way — or, perhaps, it was only his imagination.

Except that something had changed, ever since his friends decided to take a trip to the record store only to mock him for his infatuation with you. Barely noticeable, barely there, but it changed in the way you looked at him, how you'd seemingly always find an excuse to be close — something unspoken lingered in the air.

Then, again, maybe it was only his fertile imagination playing tricks on him. He wasn't used to getting this kind of attention, and it confused him, but Eddie would be damned if he let his feelings get in the way of what you had.

As he made his way into the store, mixtape heavy in the pocket of his jeans, he shoved through a small group of school kids gathered around, looking for you. Spinning on the heels of his well worn boots, his eyes searched the whole room, but you were nowhere to be found. Behind the counter was one of the guys who only worked weekends — Rob? Bob? Honestly, he didn't care much to learn.

"Hey!" He called out in the other boy's direction, who looked up from the tapes he was piling. "Uh… where's Y/N?"

Rob, or Bob, simply pointed in the direction of the steel door that led to the back of the store, a slightly frightened look on his face. That was the reaction Eddie usually got from people, but it never got old.

Smiling, he said "Thanks, man!", and strolled to the back to find you.

The warm afternoon sun was hitting the brown brick wall, where you stood, leaning against it. Sunshine illuminated your features as you blew smoke from the cigarette you were smoking, looking straight ahead. Eddie felt the breath being knocked out of him as you turned, after probably sensing his presence, and smiled.

"Hey, sailor. What brings you here?"

The rasp in your voice made his tummy flutter.

Approaching your side, he mimicked your pose, leaning against the wall. "Came here to thank you for giving me some new music to fall asleep to. Honestly, insomnia? Never again."

"Why did I have a feeling you would say that?"

"Only because you know me so well." You chuckled, playfully squinting at him.

You smiled, turning your gaze to the ground. “Yeah, I think you’re rubbing off on me, Munson.”

It was silent, for a bit. He watched you finish your cigarette, stubbing it into the wall and crushing it beneath your beaten up converse. This was not the comfortable silence you would sometimes fall into, there was something unreadable in your face, dark circles under your eyes weighing on your features. Fighting the urge to reach out and comfort you, he reached into his pocket instead.

“Here,” Eddie handed the tape to you, a simple cassette inside an acrylic case with your name scribbled on top with his handwriting, quickly before he could regret it, “I brought you this. It’s not much but I thought it was fair. You showed me yours, I’ll show you mine, right?”

“Right.” You nodded, securing the tape in your hands. “You’re making that sound a lot more exciting than it actually is.”

When he laughed, you didn’t follow suit, managing only a half smile before you looked away again. It worried him, your silence.

“Is everything alright? You’re a little out of it today.”

“Uh, yeah. Had a tough week, that’s all. Things at home aren’t… great, right now.”

“You know you can talk to me, don’t you? About whatever you want, whatever you need. I mean, the last thing the freak can do is judge you.” He chuckled that last part, but there was no humor behind it.

Looking back at him, your face was still unreadable, but the look in your eyes was earnest, raw. "You're not a freak, Eddie. You're my friend."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic

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whitestopper · 1 year

Text

Bisexual media

Note: This should not be taken as a declaration of quality or my personal likings - I haven’t fully (or even at all) consumed the media below. Not all of the shows focus on a bi protagonist but all do have at least one bi main character; a summary of main initial plot is provided. I will edit this post with updates intermittently.

TV Series

The Bisexual (2018) - Leila explores her attraction to men after identifying as a lesbian alongside her girlfriend and friends for the past decade, while her new roommate tries to get a grip on his relationship with a younger woman.

Black Mirror’s San Junipero - Yorkie meets Kelly in the strange setting of San Junipero. What’s the deal with this place, and what can make them stay?

Bob and Rose - Bob is gay. Rose has a boyfriend. Can I make it any more obvious? (I can - they find that they’re attracted to each other and deal with the implications and expectations of that.)

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend - Rebecca pursues her ex-boyfriend in the hopes of finding happiness. With a drastic move to West Covina, will she learn what happy feels like?

Cucumber - Henry’s life is upturned in one evening, then another, and then some more, while boyfriend Lance and new acquaintance Freddie come to terms with the present and the past.

Everything Now - Newly out of recovery from anorexia, Y11 student Mia is determined to complete her bucket list and be seen as normal.

Feel Good - Mae and Charlotte navigate a relationship challenged by Mae's drug addiction and Charlotte's new sexual discovery.

High Fidelity - Young record store owner Rob revisits her past relationships in order to sort out her singledom.

Kieta Hatsukoi - Aoki lies about having feelings for classmate Ida to protect the feelings of his crush Hashimoto. But misunderstandings and revelations cause a hullabaloo.

Torchwood - this Doctor Who spin-off features a collection of characters solving alien crimes.

Movies

Appropriate Behaviour - Brooklyn dweller Shirin deals with her ex-girlfriend, family expectations, job struggles and more.

City of Lost Souls - a German musical exploring the experiences of LGBT people, black people, Jewish people and immigrants in post-WW2 Berlin.

Disobedience - Ronit returns to her old Orthodox Jewish community after her father passes away, having been shunned for not adhering to cultural expectations.

Shiva Baby - While at a Jewish funeral service with her family and community, college student Danielle navigates an awkward situation with her sugar daddy and her ex-girlfriend.

Books (Admittedly, I do not read nearly enough so in addition to my own suggestions, I'd like to recommend @the-bi-library!)

Fiction

You Could Be So Pretty (Holly Bourne) - In a world not too unlike our own, where girls and women can be Pretties or Objectionables, what will schoolgirls Belle and Joni make of their lives under the Doctrine after an incident brings them together?

Your Driver Is Waiting (Priya Guns) - Damani, a RideShare driver, falls hard for a white upper-class girl, but she's been grieving her father, caring for her mother and dealing with the ever-growing tension from protesters across the city. When Jolene acts with massive consequences, what will Damani be pushed to do for herself and her community?

Non-fiction

In The Dream House (Carmen Maria Machado) - Machado goes through her volatile relationship with The Woman From The Dreamhouse, intercut with musings on pop culture and history.

Strong Female Character (Fern Brady) - famous in British comedy circles, this autobiography follows Brady's life growing up in Scotland as an autistic woman.

You're Embarrassing Yourself (Desiree Akhavan) - from the Creator of The Bisexual and Appropriate Behaviour, this autobiography covers Akhavan's life as a bisexual Iranian immigrant.

Bisexuality research/history/essays

Bi Any Other Name: Bisexual People Speak Out

Bi: Notes for a Bisexual Revolution

Bi: The Hidden Culture, History and Science of Bisexuality

The Bi-ble Volumes 1 and 2

Claiming the B in LGBT - Illuminating the Bisexual Narrative

Go the Way Your Blood Beats - On Truth, Bisexuality and Desire

A History of Bisexuality

Purple Prose - Bisexuality in Britain

Music (This is for songs which are outright bisexual, not just songs inspired by bi experiences or by bi artists. Also, no Sweater Weather.)

Alicia Champion - Bi

Ana Carolina - Homens e Mulheres

Ani DiFranco- In or Out

Anne Marie - Perfect to Me

Bali Bandits - Girls & Boys

Book Of Love - Pretty Boys and Pretty Girls

Cariño - Bisexual

Christina Aguilera - Not Myself Tonight

Delli Boe - Bisexual Problems, Bisexual Problems 2

Demi Lovato - The Kind Of Lover I Am

Domo Wilson - Becoming Myself, Bi Pride, Bisexual Anthem

Halsey - Alanis' Interlude, Bad At Love

HOUSE OF SAY - Boys Girls

Jão - Meninos e Meninas

Jesse - Girls & Boys

Jessie Paege, Lucy & La Mer - Not a Phase

King Kitty - Bisexual

Megan Thee Stallion - Captain Hook

MIKA - Billy Brown, Blame It On The Girls

Miley Cyrus - Midnight Sky, She's Not Him

Missy Higgins - Scar

Mitski - Cop Car

Peaches - I U She

Peter Allen - Bi-Coastal

Poppy - Girls In Bikinis

Torrey Mercer - Boys / Girls

Ysa Ferrer - To bi or not to bi

#it mine #bi #bisexual #bisexuality #lgbt #lgbt+#lgbtq #bi visibility #bisexual visibility

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sweetbottletops · 3 months

Text

I wish mental health days were more accepted even a few years ago. Mitsuki’s perma-eyebags were exceptional this chapter. She’s really starting to look more like those future glimpse sketches.

Ch. 92

Mitsuki went with the western breakfast. (cc: Cafe Collaboration.)

I feel like Agu enjoys drawing his arms. There was so much arm. MA-18 for arm.

She was waving off Aya’s concerns yesterday but now that her song writing high burned off overnight she’s got a case of the nerves. Stage fright isn’t so bad when it’s the stage you picked for yourself, but she really doesn’t like eyes on her at school specifically.

(Is AC sickness like sleeping-with-wet-hair or forgetting umbrella as specific Japanese causes for getting sick?)

This is extra funny when you remember the CD shop is connected to their home.

Joe doesn’t seem to take mental health days himself. He’s been tightly wound for probably six years running. Mitsuki doesn’t seem familiar at all with him just closing up shop because he’s in the mood.

Confession time. I had to clear my schedule and watch School of Rock* for the first time tonight. I looked at the date it came out and I must have been busy. Yes, for the whole year.

It was free on Paramount+ and I got back into Stardew Valley this week (I will romance you, Haley. Stop struggling.) which is a perfect game for multitasking.

*I have seen High Fidelity, Almost Famous, Empire Records…I’m not completely uncultured.

Joe turns into a school boy when it comes to Kanna. “…you think she’ll come too?” Aw shucks, Joe. She’s waiting for you to ask anything at this point. It’s cute he immediately thought to include her. I wonder if that was their family movie.

The family head patting pecking order is:

Kanna > Joe > Mitsuki

Kanna having a serious job thats prematurely aging her vs the Kogas. See, this is what they bring to the relationship.

Meanwhile not in the group chat…Aya is going to be so worried when Koga doesn’t show up at school after the talk they had. She’s gotten used to being relied upon since around the sprained ankle situation, but Mitsuki has to reach back as well.

#the guy she was interested in wasn't a guy at all #arai sumiko #green manga #yuri #manga #the guy she was interested in wasnt a guy at all #kinioto

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mariacallous · 2 months

Text

It’s telling that the first question I saw raised in the media after Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi was killed when his helicopter crashed in the country’s mountainous northeast on his return from Azerbaijan in May was whether the United States had a hand in it. In that same regard, among the questions raised concerning Russian President Vladimir Putin’s recent travel to Pyongyang, apart from its impact on the simmering tensions across Asia, was what opportunities his willingness to venture farther from the Kremlin offers. Namely, should the United States and its allies seek to depose Putin by enabling a coup in his absence, or assassinating him during such travels? The answer lies in assessing the risk versus gain.

What would be gained by killing Putin? If the bar was juxtaposing the status quo with the consequences of Putin’s violent removal, would Russia’s threat to the United States and its allies be degraded? Would Russian troops withdraw from Ukraine and cease posing a threat to NATO allies in the Baltics and Eastern Europe? Or might Russian intentions become even more hostile and less predictable? Despite Putin’s obsession with intrigue, denial and deception, and smoke and mirrors, he’s fairly predictable. Indeed, the United States, with Britain leaning in the same direction, was the exception among its NATO allies, not to mention Ukraine itself, in forecasting with high confidence Putin’s plans to attack.

Would the United States do it? The record shows that the U.S. sanctioned violence in sponsoring the overthrow of democratically elected antagonist regimes in Iran in 1953 and Chile in 1973, while the Church committee investigations documented multiple CIA attempts to assassinate Cuba’s Fidel Castro.

More recently, the United States made no pretense in concealing its hand in killing Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Quds Force Commander Qassem Suleimani in January 2020, an action that historic precedent would suggest was an act of war. Since 9/11, U.S. counterterrorism strategy has in practice been predicated on assassination. The mantra “find, fix, finish” is the other euphemism for preemptively hunting down and killing terrorists abroad before they might strike the U.S. homeland.

Left: Iranians tear up a U.S. flag during a demonstration following the killing of Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Quds Force Gen. Qassem Suleimani, in Tehran on Jan. 3, 2020. Atta Kenare/AFP via Getty Images Right: The statue of Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein is toppled at al-Fardous square in Baghdad, Iraq, on April 9, 2003. Wathiq Khuzaie /Getty Images

While these episodes collectively demonstrate the U.S. government’s willingness to undertake consequential, lethal actions in the name of national security, when separated from transnational terrorist targets, only the strike against Suleimani occurred while he was abroad. Operations to depose Mohammad Mosaddegh in Iran, Salvador Allende in Chile, and Castro in Cuba depended rather on internal elements to facilitate the plots.

Apart from these episodes and a possible hand in others, U.S. governments have arguably favored the status quo of a predictable adversary. Regime change has not worked out well for U.S. interests. The overthrow of Saddam Hussein in Iraq was no small factor in bringing about the Arab Spring, with effects that continue to reverberate across the Middle East as reflected by unresolved civil wars in Libya, Syria, and Yemen, as well as ongoing political instability in Egypt and Tunisia.

The U.S. occupation of Iraq also facilitated the rise of the Islamic State. And the Taliban ultimately outlasted the United States in Afghanistan by returning to power despite 20 years of American blood and treasure, and they now give sanctuary to insurgent groups threatening Pakistan, Iran, its Central Asian neighbors, and China.

The inclination to accept the known status quo is further strengthened when that country is armed with nuclear weapons. As regards Russia, even under the most ideal circumstances in which the U.S. government could remove Putin and conceal its hand in doing so, how confident is Washington that a stable and less hostile leadership would succeed him?

In Russia, like most autocracies, power rests with those who control the nation’s instruments of power—primarily the guns, but likewise the money, infrastructure, natural resources, connections, and knowledge of where the skeletons are to be found. That power is currently concentrated within a small circle of septuagenarians, almost all of whom have long ties to Putin, the Cold War-era KGB, and St. Petersburg. The Russian Armed Forces might have the numbers in terms of troops and tools, but under Putin, as it was in Soviet days, they are kept on a tight leash and closely monitored, with little discretionary authority for drawing weapons or coming out of their garrisons.

The three organizations most capable of moving on Putin and the Kremlin are the Federal Security Service, or FSB; the Rosgvardia, or National Guard; and the Presidential Security Service within the Federal Protective Service, or FSO. The FSB is Russia’s internal security and intelligence arm through which Putin governs given its relatively massive and ubiquitous presence across all the country’s institutions. The FSB enforces Putin’s rule, monitors dissent, intimidates, punishes, and liaises with organized crime. The Rosgvardia is Putin’s brute force. It was established in 2016 from among the interior ministry’s militias variously responsible for internal order and border security to be Putin’s long red line against protests, uprisings, and armed organized coup attempts.

Alexander Bortnikov leads the FSB, having succeeded Nikolai Patrushev, who followed Putin and has served since as one of his chief lieutenants. Until recently, Patrushev served as Russian Security Council chief and was most likely the Kremlin’s no. 2, and might still be, despite having been made a presidential advisor for shipping. Bortnikov, like Patrushev, shares Putin’s world view, paranoia for the West, political philosophy, and glorification of the old Soviet empire.

Bortnikov is considered by Kremlinologists to be Putin’s most relied-upon and trusted subordinate, and in turn, the individual best positioned to overthrow him, should he desire. While Bortnikov maintains a relatively low profile, limited glimpses suggest some degree of humility and contained ambition, although uncorroborated rumors suggest health issues. His deputy, Sergei Borisovich Korolev, some 10 years younger, is regarded as effective, similarly ruthless, but perhaps too ambitious and ostentatious in his relationships with Russian organized crime. It’s likely that Putin sees a bright future for Korolev but has enough reservation to justify more seasoning and evaluation before having him succeed Bortnikov.

The roughly 300,000-strong Rosgvardia is commanded by longtime former Putin bodyguard Viktor Zolotov. Likewise a part of Putin’s septuagenarian St. Petersburg crowd, with extensive past ties to organized crime, Zolotov emerged somewhat from the shadows following then-Wagner Group leader Yevgeny Prigozhin’s June 2023 revolt. Zolotov claimed credit for protecting Moscow and mused publicly at how his organization would likely grow and secure more resources to facilitate its critical responsibilities.

Zolotov might not be as educated or sophisticated as Putin’s traditional siloviki associates, all former Cold War-era KGB veterans, but making his way up the ladder as he did from a St. Petersburg street thug, he’s not averse to using force to achieve his aims.

Little is publicly known concerning Zolotov’s politics apart from loyalty to his boss, but there’s no evidence he might offer a progressive alternative less hostile to the West. As Putin has done for all of those in his inner circle to secure their loyalty, Zolotov’s family members have been awarded land, gifts, and key posts. Patrushev’s son, for example, is now a deputy prime minister.

The FSO includes the Presidential Security Service, some 50,000 troops, and is responsible for Putin’s close physical protection. Little is known about its director, Dmitry Viktorovich Kochnev, now 60, whose mysterious official bio indicates that he was born in Moscow, served in the military from 1982 to 1984, and then went into “the security agencies of the USSR and the Russian Federation” from 1984 to 2002, after which time he was officially assigned to the FSO.

If Kochnev wanted Putin dead, he’s had plenty of time to pursue that goal, but he is unlikely to have the means and network to go further on his own in seizing power. Kochnev would still need the FSB and the Rosgvardia to accomplish the mission so would likely be an accomplice, but he would not be at the forefront of such a plot.

There are likewise a handful of others close to Putin who might influence his succession, or be the face of it, such as Igor Sechin, former deputy prime minister and current Rosneft CEO; former KGB Col. Gen. Sergei Ivanov, also a former defense minister and first deputy prime minister; and former KGB Col. Gen. Viktor Ivanov, who also had a stint as the Federal Narcotics Service director. All are known to be ideologically in line with the Russian leader and seek a restored empire unwilling to subscribe to a world order and rules created by the West that they believe aim to keep Moscow weak and subservient.

If Putin were assassinated abroad, regardless of the evidence, the old guard would likely accuse the United States and use it as a lightning rod to consolidate power and rally the public. And sharing Putin’s paranoia over the West’s existential threat, the risk is credible that they would retaliate militarily, directly, and with uncertain restraint. Believing themselves insecure, they would likewise crack down at home in an indiscriminately ruthless manner that might unleash long-contained revolutionary vigor among the population, which would throw a large, nuclear-armed power into chaos.

But could the United States do it if it wanted to? History shows that foreign leaders are not immune to assassination, as we were reminded when Slovakian Prime Minister Robert Fico survived being shot at close range by a disgruntled citizen in May. Unlike in the movies, however, assassinations are complicated, particularly against well-protected and deliberately unpredictable targets in foreign environments over which one has no control.

According to leaked documents and the account of Gleb Karakulov, a former engineer and FSO captain, Putin is paranoid concerning his safety and health. Karakulov’s observations, Putin’s limited travel, and his proclivity to cloister himself from direct contact with but a small number of insiders for his safety makes him a hard target. Scrupulous care for his movements includes the intense vetting, quarantining, and close monitoring of those involved with his transportation and his personal routine as well as in securing the cars, trains, and planes he uses. Who can forget the flurry of photos and memes surrounding the 15-foot-long table Putin used when conducting personal meetings during the COVID-19 pandemic?

For any such operation to succeed, close target reconnaissance and good intelligence are required to determine patterns and vulnerabilities on which to construct a plan. But while foreign head-of-state visits follow certain protocols and have predictable events, there are no long-term patterns within which to easily identify vulnerabilities. Other considerations include a means to infiltrate and exfiltrate the various members executing the operation as well as their tools. North Korea is not an easy place to visit let alone operate in for a foreign intelligence service to clandestinely steal secrets or conduct an observable action such as an assassination.

There are certainly additional risks when Putin or any foreign leader ventures beyond the layered, redundant, and tested security protocols enjoyed in their home cocoons. Visiting dignitaries must rely on the host government for a variety of resources and needs too numerous and costly to pack, and when doing so would offend the locals. And that extends to perimeter and route security, emergency medical support, and infrastructure integrity.

The threat to a foreign leader’s communications security, habits, health information, and that of their entourage is higher while in transit abroad—and therefore an attractive intelligence target. The multiple moving pieces and complicated logistics associated with such visits produce information that must be shared with the host governments and span agendas, itineraries, dietary requirements, flight and cargo manifests, communication frequencies, telephone numbers, email addresses, travelers’ biographic details, and weapons, to name a few.

In the era of ubiquitous technical surveillance, as the Israelis learned firsthand when Mossad agents assassinated Hamas official Mahmoud al-Mabhouh in 2010, going undetected in any city is no small feat. Mabhouh’s killing was largely captured on CCTV. The Dubai investigation identified as many as 28 operatives who were involved, almost all of whom were revealed through technical means or the leads they generated.

Still, whoever assassinated Lebanese Hezbollah’s notorious international operations chief, Imad Mughniyah, in Damascus in February 2008 and al Qaeda deputy Abu Muhammad al-Masri in Tehran in 2020 managed to mount complex attacks in highly restrictive police states. Of course, neither moved about with a protective detail, let alone that which would surround a head of state.

Israel managed to assassinate Iran’s top nuclear scientist, Mohsen Fakhrizadeh, in November 2020 in Iran despite a protective detail—although it was an operation that might have been taken from a science fiction movie involving automated robotic machines guns controlled from afar.

Then again, even with the best-laid plans for protecting Putin, one weak link could be the Russian leader’s self-imposed vulnerability, depending on the aging and problematic Soviet-designed Ilyushin Il-96 series jets he uses, as he did in recent travels to North Korea and Vietnam. Even if Russia builds and updates the replacement parts, there is long-term structural fatigue and limitations when trying to reconfigure so old an airframe design.

While there’s arguably an element of Putin’s pride in wishing to use Russian equipment, I suspect his inclination is driven more by paranoia for what adversaries might implant on his transport that prevents him from adopting newer Western aircraft, as his country’s commercial airlines have.

There are also significant bureaucratic hurdles to lethal operations. For the moment, at least, the U.S. practice of covert action is dictated by the rule of law. These are primarily executive orders rather than public laws, like EO 12333, which ironically forbids assassination, and the various presidential memos issued by Barack Obama in 2013, Donald Trump in 2017, and Joe Biden in 2022 guiding the use of “direct action,” the euphemism for drone strikes and other kinetic operations, against terrorist targets outside of conflict zones. But while the United States killed Suleimani as a terrorist who fit these guidelines, killing foreign leaders based on credible intelligence reflecting their ongoing efforts to do harm to the United States would reasonably still meet the legal bar for preemptive self-defense.

When it comes to killing Putin or any prominent adversary, the biggest challenge is not necessarily if it can be done, but whether it should be done. Openly killing Suleimani posed risks, of course, but ultimately, Iran is not an existential threat. Its retaliation could have been more costly, had Tehran chosen escalation, but still manageable.

Russia, on the other hand, as Putin frequently reminds the West in his saber-rattling speeches threatening nuclear war, is another matter. What happens if you fail? As The Wire’s Omar Little said, paraphrasing Ralph Waldo Emerson, “When you come at the king, you best not miss.”

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