#i know the comfort isn't like loads but

[hotluncheddie]

high masking autistic steve harrington follow on from this post

ao3

wc: 2.6k | rated: T | cw: description of a meltdown with semi aggressive stimms | tags: autistic steve harrington (and eddie and robin but this is about stevie), hurt/comfort, stobin soulmates, steddie, steve Harrington has shitty parents

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he failed. he graduated. but he failed. those unsaid words between him and his parents. some get said. the bad ones, about him, they get said. over again like he’s 5 and being told is behaviour isn’t acceptable. that how he is isn’t right. ‘shape up or ship out’, basically. steve knows he can’t go anywhere new, not right now. only freshly recovered, physically at least. mentally; he’s still unacceptable. 

when steve works at scoops. it’s so fucking bright in there. so fucking bright, all day and he can’t focus and talking to people gets so much harder. it’s not like school where he can zone out in class and turn it on during lunch, in between, keep up his face with the people around him and sink back into his head during chemistry. no. now it’s all the time, customer after customer. that he has to talk to, put on a smile for, read so he gives them what they want and they leave happy. it’s exhausting. girls don’t like him anymore, they don’t react to him the same way. he doesn’t think he likes them much either though because they’re so much more annoying when it’s so fucking bright. 

but robin (robin who cycles to work with sunglasses on and doesn’t take them off till she has too) she turns the lights down during open and close. so those couple hours, it’s not so bad. not so stressful. a little bit less loud. 

after the mall burns down steve starts letting her in. tries too. she makes it obvious enough to him that she wants him there. she asks him to stay and calls him at night and he just wants to be enough for her. eventually he’d swallowed his pride and bolstered his courage and called her after a string of nightmares. asking her to stay the night. but then she was there, and it was like everything was thrown off. she was grating on his already freyed nerves but he didn’t know what to say. how to fix it without upsetting her. 

but that night, a mirror of the mall bathroom played out in steves en-suite. steve had freaked. hidden. but she didn’t leave. and he tried to explain. 

he needs her but he doesn’t know how to have her as a true friend. ‘i dunno how to talk to a girl if i don’t wanna date them. i uh, maybe, don’t really know how to talk to someone as myself. as a friend. sorry.’ 

‘well i don’t know how to talk to jocks so. same boat.’ and she has this glint in her eye. like she knows. and it’s okay. 

because robin, she made it simple. she makes it easy. she says just ask and she’ll be honest and give him a yes or no. she’ll say if she can’t be touched right now, or if the movie he chose is pissing her the fuck off. and she wants the same from him. if the music is too loud, if she needs to let him not speak for a while. wants him honest and present and real. real friends. someone close. finally. 

it’s rocky at first. she’s honest and he’s not used to it. it feel like criticism more often than not. makes him see red and lash out, like he was never able to with his parents. but he apologises and she stays. and he’s learning; that’s it’s okay, he’s not perfect and that means she’s knowing the real him. and she’s still his best friend even if he has to tell her to stop picking her nail polish off around him because it makes him want to die. and she laughs at him the first time she sees him in real recovery mode; hair not styled and he has on the only sweatshirt that ever feels good when he’s like this. 

they lay on the floor in darkness and silence. it’s perfect. they share a tin of soup and a grilled cheese. it’s perfect. 

being around robin as much as he is, its so new, having someone see so many parts of you. sometimes she laughs at him asking steve ‘why’d your voice change?’ but steve didn’t even know it had. he was, he was just talking to someone else quick, being nice like you’re supposed to, attentive to make them feel good. he didn’t know his voice changed that much. 

‘girls would like you more if you talked normal to them. how you do to me.’ 

steve swallowed thickly. he just. he just doesn’t know that thats true. nancy left, he talked to her about lots of things, too many things. she like him better at the start. before some of his black tar innards spilled out. before he freaked. before he was able to paste himself back together and she saw him for what he really is. 

he thinks of his parents. how they don’t know him and still don’t like him. anxiety prickles at his fingertips at the thought of those times they do come home. 

because with them there the routine he’s carved for himself, those quiet moments of darkness that he so craves. they’re gone. now it’s tv static and plates clanging and having to show his face at dinner again. but he’s not ten anymore. now he’s an adult whose still drowning in the tension of the room, never able to say what’s really going on, never allowed to ask how they really feel, never taught how to figure his feeling out. no listening ear for steve as a child, and the ice only grew thicker with time. 

it’s his skin itching at his mother stirring her tea across the house, spoon agains porcelain. it’s the hair on the back of his neck standing up at the sound of ice clinking in his fathers scotch glass. it’s triggered memories playing over and over again. it’s being plagued, by ghosts who haunt him, who left but come back every so often, like poltergeists. polietgists with the deed to the house, and ownership over steve, through blood and fear alone. 

‘when they get back you come to mine steve yeah? you come home.’

because now theres not just robin. there’s eddie. 

he sees everything. and more. even when steve’s trying to hide. eddie sees. 

he noticed steve squinting at the hospital and asked the nurse to turn the lights down. he saw how he started zoning out at a diner with the kids, their arguing reaching a pitch, asked steve to keep him company for a smoke break. once they were outside eddie said he just needed a moment, ‘those kids can be animals’. said it and looked a him like he didn’t need an answer, let steve just breathe a focus on the sound of the wind. 

it’s like there’s a million tiny moments, a million tiny cracks in him forming the more he’s around eddie. like his soft underbelly is mewling any time he’s around, wanting attention, wanting to let eddie see. let eddie touch. 

eddie used to look at him sometimes, across the lunch hall. stare at him with an expression steve couldn’t really make sense of. he used to think it was judgment, annoyance. now he wonders if that face was confusion or interest. maybe eddie’s always been trying to figure steve out. 

once it starts. them. eddie’s everywhere. more somehow, maybe, than robin because, you know, they go there. but it’s different, from those time, with those girls. instead now he’s there and his brains off and on in a, like, magical way. a new way that makes him feel whole and, and beautiful. 

this thing they have. it’s fragile. it’s not perfect. he messes up, takes him a moment to grasp how eddie can be so so himself, always, no matter what. especially when it causes him problems. ‘why not just try and fit in?’ but the stone faced reply told steve that was the wrong thing to say, he didn’t get it but he needed to respect it. respect eddie and his choices. ‘i’m not like you steve, even if my brain shit was all gone i’d still be poor, i’d still be othered. still be a gay weirdo little freak.’ 

and steve is trying to get it. he’s learning to recognise that it’s sadness and confusion in eddie’s eyes when he visits him at work, knowing steve is having a bad day and watching him pretend. watching that mask form thick and fast, hiding the real him, protecting but also keeping everyone far far away. steve thinks maybe they’re living parallels. finding different ways to survive. neither better, neither worse. both far from perfect. 

then that pinched sadness in eddie’s eyes. watching steve pretend. cover up. that damn breaks eventually. eddie sees all of him and more. those bits he always kept locked inside. between he and himself. it all comes spilling out. 

they were supposed to be going out soon. but eddie wasn’t feeling it anymore ‘let’s just stay here, be cozy a little longer. what do you say, sweetheart?’ it does sound nice. steves so tired. but they decided. they had a plan. 

‘we said we would. and i have to buy that thing eddie. we had a plan. and i have to go to work later, so we have to do it before. like we said and then i have to work eddie.’ and before he knows it there’s tears prickling his eyes and the ceiling fan is so loud and the desk lamp is too bright and he smacks a fist to the top of his head and it hurts a little but he’s so frustrated and so overwhelmed and so confused and embarrassed, suddenly. and he can’t breath. why can’t he breath? they had a plan. 

they were supposed to go see hopper and pick something up and he has to talk to him and ask about the game because he needs hopper to like him because it’s better when el can come when all the kids hangout. it’s important that she’s happy so hopper needs to trust steve so steve was going to talk to him today and pick something up. it was the plan. hopper makes him nervous but that was the plan. and then he had to go to work. but now he can’t breathe and he feels like he needs something to hurt. 

‘but he already trusts you with el stevie. hop trusts you with anything.’ 

‘i can’t know that. not for sure. when i talk to him it needs to be perfect.’ steve paces. a pinch at his arm. a tug at his hair. pivot. pace. repeat. 

‘i heard what he said to you steve, on your birthday, he was calling you son all day. you don’t need to prove anything to him.’ 

‘i do eddie! you don’t understand. people, they lie. adults lie. they don’t say things the way they mean. i can’t fuck up talking to him. not like i always fuck up talking to my parents. i need to do it better. do it differently. because everyone always leaves. and i just don’t want to be alone again.’ and the tears really start to fall and steve can barely breath and he’s so embarrassed. shaking hands try and cover his face but the tears slip through. 

and all he can think about is the plan. going to work. his vest hanging by the door. the way the plastic tapes feel in his hands. the smell of the bleach they mop the back room with. the day stretches before him. so many things in the way. so much anxiety still to come. if he can’t start, it can’t end. he gnaws at his lip. thumps a hand to his chest, trying to breath right, trying to ground. 

‘i have to go to work’ he mutters. like a prayer. speak it in to happening. taking him away from the now. thump thump thump at his chest. ear ringing. 

eddie’s holding his arms out, giving steve the option. he speaks so calmly, so earnest. ‘you can’t go to work steve. not like this baby.’

steve rounds on him. angry. when did everything get so messed up? if he was just left alone. he should’ve stayed on his own. ‘i cant just call in sick eddie! i’m not sick and and i hate the way they’ll sound when i say it over the phone and knowing what they’ll be thinking about me. they’ll know i hate the job and think i’m lazy and realise how stupid and useless i am and fire me. i can’t afford to get fired eddie. i’d rather just go in.’ he know it comes out garbled, his cheeks on fire. 

‘i’m not letting you go in steve. i’ll sort it. i’ll go pick up robin before and she’ll cover for you, she’ll explain. and she would never. ever think that of you.’ eddie’s voice dropped octave. he speaks clearly and plainly and finally there’s a new plan to follow. a new rule for the day. 

and all steve can do is curl up in a ball and sob. curl up in a ball against eddie chest, in his arms, squeezing his t-shirt between his fingers. clenching his muscles tight, his teeth grinding together. grunting out some of the decade old scream, still stuck there but more visible to him now. 

until finally finally, he relaxes. spent and exhausted. too afraid to open his eyes and face the lamplight, face what could be in eddie’s expression. he drifts..

eventually he gets up, blows his nose and splashed water on his face, turns off all the lights and get back under the warm blanket. fills his lungs. sighs. whispers, ‘m’sorry’ 

‘don’t say that. there’s nothing to apologise for’ eddie’s so close, so warm. 

‘no one’s supposed to ever, see that.. it’s okay if you want to leave’ 

‘steve. why the fuck would i leave you right now?’ 

‘who’d wanna date someone who acts like that? it’s. it’s not good eddie. but, but it’s okay. i’m used to being alo-.’ 

‘please stop stevie. your breaking my heart here. i want to stay, i want to be here with you. i really really like you steve.’ and steve’s cheeks feel wet again. he feels flayed open and young, like a little kid who fell off the swings and everything is different suddenly. 

later later when eddie picks robin up from work she stalks in to where steve’s wrapped up on the couch. curls up into his side and exhales. she bites into his bicep. huffing a sad, annoyed little ‘dingus’ before grabbing his hand and fiddling with his fingers. 

steve feels his eyes prickle again. looking up at the ceiling he croaks out a small ‘sorry.’ for the day. for everything. for anything he can be. and everything he can’t. 

robin kneels on the sofa right next to him. growling a little and placing one of her hands at his sternum and the other at the same height on his back. like she’s forcing herself inside him, holding him together. her hands start to rub up and down quickly, frenzied and grounding for both of them. steve let’s his head hang. eyes closing at the sensation. he grunts. robin grunts back. 

eddie joins. sitting at his other side. slipping a hand in steve’s hair, soothing his scalp with long scratching fingers. and steve humms, sighs, keens. eyes closed he drifts but not away from his body, instead into it. with gratitude, and warmth. at the centre of the two best things that ever happened to him. willing to try again. be just, better. never perfect. 

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pt 3 snippet

a little happier for u @pearynice <3

ty @spectrum-spectre @vampyreddiemunson @fangirlycupcake @grandwretch for ur tags and additions, it was very inspiring

and tags for lovely @irethsune @willim-billiam-byerson @2jug2head

[wordsgood]

loreleaf sees his parents killed at age 6 and stumbles through the next 15 years finding older guardians who are somewhat emotionally available but very much like "i am absolutely not your father/mother, please, i can't handle the responsibility of taking care of you" and obviously having them is better than not having them but also it kind of just sucks. and i think that tomi, when he's recovered from a century of imprisonment, looks at loreleaf, sees the small frightened little boy inside the young man who's grown up way too fast, and goes "i'm gonna parent that" and does not wait for an answer

[woso-dreamzzz]

Outburst

Leah Williamson x Jordan Nobbs x Child!Reader

Summary: You want hugs

The breakup with Jordan went fairly smoothly where the feelings were involved. Where it got a bit gritty was with you.

At three years old the travel between London and Birmingham was hard going and you didn't quite understand why you had to do it or why Mummy moved in the first place.

"Come on, bug." Mum tries to feed you, nudging a fork loaded with pasta against your lips. You turn you head away stubbornly.

Arsenal isn't as fun without Mummy here and you refuse to let Mum lighten your mood. So, you stay stubborn and ignore her.

Leah, for her part, is very confused at your change in attitude. She knew that there would be an adjustment period for everyone involved and she knew it would probably hit you the hardest.

But you'd had an attitude with her the whole week as soon as you got back from Jordan's and Leah can't quite work out why. She wondered if she'd been mean or rude to you but she knew that she hadn't so your change in mood is very disconcerting.

She's not getting very far with you so drops the fork and checks the time. There's still a full day of training to get through but Jordan hasn't got any so she's been driving down from Birmingham to pick you up for the week.

Leah sighs deeply at your stubbornness as you push your lunch plate away and sullenly pull at the table cloth.

"She'll come around," Lia says, reaching out to offer some comfort," It's just a hard adjustment."

Leah huffs. "Yeah, I guess so but-Bug! We don't hit!"

It was almost in slow motion that Leah watched you slap Lia's hand where it's holding hers.

"No!" You screech, not paying any attention to your mum as you scream at Lia. "No touching! She's mine! Mine! Not yours!"

You climb from your seat and grab Leah's arms to force them around you in some semblance of a hug.

"Hey," Leah forces her arms away. "No. We don't hit, bug! Say sorry!"

Your bottom lip wobbles as Mum stops hugging you, leaning away from you as she looks at you with a stern expression. "Hugs!" You whine," Hugs for bug!"

"No," Leah corrects," No hugs for bug until you apologise."

Your face turns stormy and your expression mimics Leah's perfectly. "Hugs!" You insist," Hugs! Now!"

"Say sorry," Leah continues," And then say please and you'll get hugs."

"No! Want hugs now!"

Leah squeezes her eyes shut for a moment to draw herself together before she moves. She hoists you up onto her hip and walks you over to the corner. At first, when you think that she's giving in, you go limp but as soon as you see where she's going, you start kicking and hitting.

"No! No! No!"

"Yes," Leah says firmly," We don't hit and we're not rude, especially not to me. Five minutes in the corner and then you can say you're sorry and we can have cuddles."

"No!" You bite out," Don't want cuddles from you! You're mean!"

Leah tries not to take it to heart. She knows that when she's angry she says things in the heat of the moment but you look so certain of yourself and so angry that it looks like you're being serious.

You fight being put in the corner but once you're there, you know to stay and Leah always makes sure to sit closer so you don't feel like you've been abandoned.

"What's going on?"

She hadn't even realised Jordan's arrived until she speaks.

Leah doesn't look away from you. "Bug hit Lia and she's demanding things again when she knows she needs to use her manners. She's having some corner time."

"Leah." Jordan sounds a bit worried. "She's only little. She doesn't understand."

"If she's old enough to hit and demand things then she's old enough to know that being rude and mean has consequences. It's not like I'm overreacting, Jordan."

The look Jordan gives her kind of makes Leah feel like she doesn't agree. In fact, Jordan approaches you, tapping your shoulder to let you know you can turn around.

"Hey there, bug," She says," What's going on?"

"Want hugs!" You yell, looking between her and Leah," Both! Want hugs from both!"

"Hey!" Leah says sternly again," You need to say please!"

You look at her in rage, like you can't believe that she's denying you again. Mummy never denies you cuddles. She's always touching you and giving you kisses and holding your hand.

She never makes you say please.

"Hug!" You turn to Mummy to show Mum what she's supposed to be doing. "Hug! Now!"

"Jordan!" Leah complains when Jordan immediately hugs you.

She rocks you back and forth for a moment and you instantly deflate.

You reach an arm out to Mum. "Hugs, now," You say, infinitely calmer but a lot more determined," Like Mummy."

"Bug," Leah says," You have to say please."

"Leah," Jordan interrupts," Just give her a hug. She'll stop screaming if you hug her."

Leah shifts closer but doesn't hug you. "You need to say sorry to Lia," She says again," Because it's rude to hit."

You huff. "Lia's not family," You respond," Doesn't need to be touching you."

"What?"

You shuffle out of Jordan's arms but take care to keep holding one of her hands. "Don't need to touch you," You insist. You grab Leah's hand and she lets you because you're trying to explain your feelings and she doesn't want you to be discouraged and shut down like earlier this week.

You pull Leah's hand and connect it to Jordan's, wrapping around both of them so they can't pull away.

You seem proud of yourself, puffing out your chest. "Hugs now!"

"Hey, wait, no," Leah says quickly," Manners, bug. We've talked about this."

"Mummy doesn't make me use manners when I want cuddles." You shrug. "Just have to want one."

Jordan, at least, has the sense to look a bit embarrassed.

Leah never likes to critique Jordan's parenting skills. She's a great mum but there are things that tend to grind Leah's gears. It's not that she thinks that she's better or her way is best (Leah knows that she's not the perfect parent) but giving in to your every want when you're being rude about it is one thing that really annoys her.

"It makes her happy," Jordan defends," And it saves all the tears and tantrums."

"Jordan," Leah groans," She can't just demand everything."

"Leah," Jordan says back," You haven't even scratched the surface of her tantrums. She's always been your perfect little angel." There's a hint of bitterness in Jordan's tone that makes Leah feel a bit bad.

She's right, of course. Before the breakup, you were nothing short of a little angel for Leah, following her like a shadow and lavishing in her company. Jordan had always had to work a little bit harder to gain your approval, even going back as far as the day your care worker brought you home to them.

Leah sighs deeply and pulls you a little closer.

"Bug," She says, a lot gentler than earlier," You need to go and apologise for hitting Lia." You make a face but Leah continues on. "Thank you for explaining with your big girl words but I think big girls like you understand when they've been a bit naughty."

You nod sullenly, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

"And then, if you still want cuddles, you need to say please, okay?"

You shake your head. "No! 'Cause Mummy's here now! Can't have Mum cuddles!"

Leah and Jordan exchange confused looks.

"Why can't we cuddle now Mummy's here?"

"'Cause I've got to go home with Mummy! Can't cuddle with you if I'm with Mummy!"

You look close to tears, tears of sadness rather than the tears of anger earlier.

Leah's face softens. "But do you still want cuddles with me?"

"Please!"

"Okay," Leah says," Here's what we're going to do. Mummy's going to take you over to Lia and get your lunch. You're going to say you're sorry for hitting Lia and then we'll all sit down together, have some cuddles, finish your lunch and we'll get you on your way with Mummy. How does that sound?"

You nod. "Yes, Mum."

"Okay." Leah presses a soft kiss to your temple. "Let's get started then."

[taetr4ck]

and all these little things —

he who loves, dances upon the tapestry of stars. 

skz!maknae line x reader, 1.8k words overall, no warnings — fluff, comfort. (continuation of this request.) taglist form

a/n : ouuu this marks the end of skz's princess treatment series :( i enjoyed making these sm. and also i might have overenjoyed myself writing seungmin's part... whoops

jisung who peels your fruits —

He who always offers to peel your fruits – the simple gesture Jisung does shows that love can be unspoken. It’s a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes. His love is pure, he is taking the time to take care of you.

“Ah, jagiya, let me do it,” Jisung says as he walks up to you in the kitchen, gently taking the orange from your hands. A declaration of love isn't always loaded with promises that can easily falter. Sometimes, love is about the little things that connect us. I love you can mean “You mean everything to me so I’m going to peel your oranges and remove the nasty white stuff off of it.” It can also mean “You know, I never really liked your favorite fruit, but your love for it changed my perspective. I started eating it too – it’s like my body was programmed to like the things you love. I can’t help but think of you when I eat them. Not because of the fruit itself, but because of the person who introduced me to its sweetness.” Love resides in these intricate details that complete the bigger picture together – love is a fragmented moment that you are supposed to piece together, alone, or with the person you chose to mend your love with. You chose to build the fragments with him, and any love he offers is yours to treasure.

If any, he will always choose to stand beside you, laughter permeating through the granite surface of the sleek kitchen counter – adorned with jars of spices and utensils, with a fruit in his hand – peeling his undying love for you. If the world were to end soon, he would want it to end at the kitchen counter, while you are laughing and he is smiling, sharing its last sweet bite before facing the twisted fate.

Through Jisung, you realize that love can be unspoken.

To love someone is firstly to confess,

'I’d always offer you a piece of my orange.'

felix who fixes your hair while you eat —

Felix cast a loving gaze at you from across the table of your favorite restaurant as you savored each bite of your meal – his focus completely on you. You caught his loving gaze, his eyes forming into crescents – and you swear his beauty can be one across the stars – his freckles akin to a constellation, sharing its beauty among the starry expanse of the universe. Without a word, he reached to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch felt like a sacred prayer for which no words exist, and you can feel your heart taking over your body – as if you discovered something for which you don’t have a name for, his fingers gentle against your skin. The sudden touch seemed to startle you a bit, making the heat rush to your cheeks. He does this every time, unsure if you would ever get used to it.

He held your face between his palms, his eyes gazing at you lovingly – with a smile that seemed to belong to you completely gracing his lips. You never met someone like him before – where his touch felt like home, and his smile was the purest you had ever seen. It was as if he had found his sole reason to live, the sole reason to cherish the world he completely lived in. Since the first time he saw you, he swore his whole life belonged to you completely.

His actions carry an unspoken intimacy between you two. It's not just about tucking a stray hair; it's a gesture that speaks volumes about his attentiveness and the connection you share – like a devotion he swore to himself that he’s meant to love and cherish you. The warmth in his eyes matches the affectionate sweep of his fingers through your hair, creating a fleeting yet precious moment amidst the simple act of enjoying your favorite meal together. As long as you’re with Felix, you’ll always feel loved, cared for, and deeply understood – as if he has a unique ability to bring order to the disarray of both hair and the world around you.

seungmin who buys the same book —

The spontaneous trips to bookstores with Seungmin is always therapeutic. The paradise of books laid out in front of you makes your heart leap with excitement, your steps quickening as you scan the books with a carefree smile. The moment he sees that smile – how your face radiates amidst the calm atmosphere of the old bookstore in the middle of the night – he swears he sees stars in your eyes. He watches how your smile glistens when it tugs at your lips, followed by the crescents of your eyes – like the moon, perfectly mending the layout of your face, which is his universe. Your whole being is his universe. It feels like a dream to Seungmin. Is this what true love feels like? To see stars in the eyes of his universe? To see the moon within arm's reach?

That’s when he realizes he grabbed the same book you’re holding. You tilt your head in confusion, wondering why he grabbed the same piece.

“I want to read it with you,” he says, looking at you as if you’re iridescent. He isn’t sure how he will get used to this — you’re startlingly beautiful. He can’t look away.

He always reads the same book with you, attentively listening to your thoughts about the protagonist and their love interest. No matter how cliché the book may be, he's always here, eager to hear your every word. Your voice is a crafted melody to Seungmin, wrapping around him like a gentle embrace. He loves witnessing every part of you – the sudden squeal when you reach the story's climax, the random faces you make when you read a passage that catches your attention, and the faint “tsk” when a character does an idiotic thing. He loves seeing and hearing all of it. He loves you in the strongest way there is.

You are loved more than you can ever comprehend. You’re loved by him to the point his presence alone is like waking up to sunlight. He loves you so deeply to the point he’s willing to engrave your name on the palms of his hands. A declaration of faith, perhaps.

There was a time when Seungmin grabbed the wrong book from the bedroom shelf and was startled to see lots of annotations upon flipping through the pages. It was your favorite book, with annotations scribbled excitedly. It seemed like they were all written in the spur of the moment, without minding what words would formulate in the movement of your hand. He flipped to the last page of the book and saw a handwritten note – the penmanship of which he knew every stroke.

“In the past, I always wondered when my love story would unfold. I once dreamt that my greatest love would exist in this lifetime – until Seungmin came. That’s when I realized that perhaps my invisible string exists in this timeline, at this very moment. I am convinced that it’s him — it’s him I’m destined for. It’s him I’m bound to love. This is the truth. I have loved him in every universe. I will love him in every universe. I always look at him as if there were stars in his eyes, sparkling with no intention of stopping. I’ve never met someone like him before. When I'm lost in fear, I always feel sheltered in his presence. I guess this is what love looks like, to be fully seen by someone and be loved regardless, the unwavering bliss of being known and understood.”

Seungmin felt a pang in his chest. His heart was full of a catastrophic whirlwind of emotions – overwhelming love that may be unbearable. With each sentence, the growing pain in his heart started to intensify. It was as if every word on the page seared into his heart even more, leaving an indelible mark of devotion and love beyond comprehension. As he read the letter, the depth of tenderness grew – wrapping around his soul like a tight embrace that threatened to suffocate in its intensity. This must be the feeling of being loved and cherished to the point where its depths transcend the physical realm, leaving the heart forever changed in its wake. The tears welling in Seungmin’s eyes might be hard to suppress as he reads the last sentence of the letter.

“My love for him is woven into the fabric of the universe.”

jeongin who matches outfits with you —

“Ta-da!” Jeongin exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with delight as he showed off his outfit to you, a proud yet excited grin escaping his lips.

“Wow, you really put a lot of effort into your outfit today. Are you sure we’re just doing groceries today, baby?” you jest, looking at him with a smile. Jeongin has a habit of matching outfits with you whatever the occasion is — whether it is a spontaneous trip to the grocery, a shopping spree, a planned day out, or a formal event. Whatever it is, he always takes the time to make sure his style complements yours perfectly, just like how your hearts complement each other. There is a subtle joy in sharing a wardrobe aesthetic; it’s as if both of your style and loving hearts are interconnected as one.

Jeongin’s eyes would gleam whenever you emerged from your shared bedroom, all prepped up and ready. He would always approach you with a soft smile escaping his lips. He would then kiss your forehead — the spot where he tirelessly kisses as a way of expressing love or saying his goodbyes is called a temple; he loves kissing your temple. He is yours to worship and yours to love. Loving someone is such a pure thing to do; love is like a religion he had discovered on his own. Jeongin seeing you in a room felt like a sanctuary.

Jeongin is always ready, never forgetting the promise he made to himself to love you in all seasons. When times get cold and everything is a mess, he drapes his coat on your shoulders and he becomes your warmth – his love a comforting shield against the chill of uncertainty. Amid the chaos, his gesture offers solace, reminding you that you are not alone, and together you can weather any storm. When it gets too warm, he becomes your cooling breeze – his love like an ocean breeze at dawn, offering comfort and relief with his presence and touch – his caring gesture soothing your fiery heart. When it gets dark and shivers run down your spine, he holds your hand and never lets go, whispering assurance: You’re not alone. I got you, I got you.

On days when you didn't anticipate any matching at all, he'd surprise you with a knowing smile, revealing his outfit cutely matched with yours. It became a playful language between you and Jeongin, sharing laughter and giggles. His eyes would light up with satisfaction, almost melting to the thought that love could be expressed through the woven fibers of one’s clothing, the feeling of being seen by someone and being loved anyhow – submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Don’t be afraid to be seen. Let me see you and love you regardless.

taglist: @agi-ppangx @skzstarnet @straykidsland @bluethemoments

⋆ taetr4ck, est may 2023. / requests open

[dimepdf]

★  𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. miguel o’hara and the nsfw alphabet challenge.

─── ☆ notes. anyone got a slime tutorial link to the new movie yet? . | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 1.5k (11 min read).

─── ☆ genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni | headcanon's | not movie canon | no movie spoilers | creampies | facials | cum play | jerking off | oral sex | eye contact | body worship | size kink | height difference | over stimulation | edging | jealousy | teasing | possessiveness | marking | biting | slight sub/dom | cuddling | let me know if I missed any | not beta'd.

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

Miguel isn’t the type to wind down that quickly, but he is extremely considerate of your feelings and well-being, most of the time he’s making sure you're okay. Especially since the last thing he ever wants is to make you seem unwanted after having sex with him.

That being said, it did take him a while to get used to the whole cuddling and comfort thing. You swear, at the beginning of your relationship, it was like trying to hug one big bear, but as you two spent more time together, he started to crave just having you wrapped in his arms and listening to your heartbeat every now and then.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

He could go on and on about how much he loves every part of you; seriously, you could tell because of how much he cannot keep his hands off of you, but realistically, his answer in the back of his mind is your mouth and thighs. He’s so down bad. 

Whenever you try talking to him, you always catch him staring at your lips like he’s just starving to kiss you. It's the same situation with your thighs as well. Sometimes you would be standing around the house in the mind of a conversation and suddenly feel Miguel’s fingers groping the plush of your thighs, gawking at your legs like he has no home training.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it) 

Oh brother, this man is a mess in the head, he loves, I mean loves, to see you covered in his cum: facials, creampies, you name a place on your body for him to cum on, and he’ll do it with pleasure.

There’s just something about seeing your soft brown skin painted with traces of him all over your body, especially when he would cum inside you. His favorite thing to do is spread your legs and watch it spill out, only to push it all back in and give you another load. 

D= Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory)

Miguel is a very pent-up possessive man, no matter what he does, he just can't get enough of you, which leaves him feeling extremely needy whenever you're gone or just don't feel in the mood. He would just jack off at the thought of you to relieve himself.

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

You had expected him to come from around the entire block from the easy he would pick you up and fuck you, but surprisingly, Miguel only really had a handful of partners in his past—nothing too extreme. 

F= Favorite position

He says he isn't really picky, yet somehow you always end up with your stomach pressed against some surface. Most of the time he sees no point in containing himself, plus weight isn't really an issue on his behalf. Whenever your legs give out from standing, he’ll just pick your ass up as if you weighed absolutely nothing and keep the same pace.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

He likes to completely mirror your emotions or help you ease up more. He's very big on paying attention to the smallest detail, so if you're someone who feels a little anxious or nervous, no matter how many times you two have had sex, he needs to break that broadening act to crack a few dry jokes or shower you in compliments to make you feel more comfortable.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

This man is covered in dark hair from chest to toe. He doesn't really find the amount of body hair alarming, but he doesn't like to upkeep his pubic hair a bit, especially giving himself a trim whenever he wears his spider suit. He just doesn't really care that much to shave it all off, but if you asked him too, he wouldn't mind much.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty) 

He’s pretty reluctant to be overly smothering, with his inmate moments just coming out of the blue, especially with his cold attitude. Most of the time, when you think he’s tense, he’ll switch, turn around, and start praising you. Sometimes he doesn't realize it, but most of the time it's always after he feels like he went a bit too far with degrading you, so he switches up just to even it all out with praise and saying how good you make him feel while holding eye contact.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

Miguel just has the habit of stressing himself out all the damn time, and half of the time it's always over him being too worked up. Whenever he has a moment alone and you just can't be there, he likes to turn to his memory of you to help work off some of his tension.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

Marking. I’m talking biting, scratches, hickeys, and God forbid Miguel sees the fingerprint bruises forming on your hips after he lets you ride him. Just the thought of having traces of him all over you makes that possessive switch in him go haywire.

Size kink. He’s a big guy through and through, and no matter what, he makes sure to remind you of your size difference. Blessed tall and broad, standing next to you, he’s practically a brick wall with the audacity to have a big dick.

Eye contact. Dear Lord, you better hope you laid down in one of his favorite positions and he hasn't fucked the common sense out of you by the time you're about to cum because Miguel will twist you like a hot pretzel and have you begging like your life depended just to hear you say his name and while you look into his eyes.

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

Anywhere with privacy and on every surface he could reach—floor, wall, upside—doing the splits, Miguel damn near used webs to find a way to have you against him.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

Miguel will get turned on by the smallest of things: you stretching near him, you wearing his clothes, you looking at him, you saying his name in a certain way, you, you, you. It's like he has brain rot, and you're all he can think about.

But he also likes it when you get angry or annoyed with him; there's just something about you snapping at him and trying to put him in his place that gets him going.

N= No (turn offs or absolutely won’t do)

Pegging, piss and poop. 

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are) 

He loves giving more than receiving, mostly because he prefers it. There’s just something about teasing and edging you until you can't handle it anymore that leaves him wanting to lay you back and spread you open for hours on end.

But if you're offering, it's completely your loss. Miguel loves sitting back and watching you struggle trying not to gag or fit him entirely down your throat; either way, it's a free show for him.

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

Whenever he’s feeling less merciful and wants to spice things up from the usual fucking you until your lace sweats off type sex, he loves to just see how long he can push you to the edge (which is a lot more days than you’d like to think), and he will be petty and take it super slow just to see your body twitch and squirm for more of his attention.

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

Even if you're the one offering quickies, it always ends up with you having to reschedule your plans.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

He’s open to new ideas but never really offers any himself. Miguel completely trusts you and is willing to do whatever you want for your pleasure, but just know that nothing at the end of the day will get him off but you.

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

You have to remind him most times that you don't have the same enhanced superhuman abilities as he does. No matter how many times he tries to make you cum in just one night. You swear sometimes it's like you're fighting for your fucking life just to catch one five-minute break.

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

Is the type to feel a bit insulted if you ever mentioned having one or using one until you would regret offering him to use a vibrater on you. Like you handed a murder a knife the moment he found your rose toy and figured out how to use it. 

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

There is no sex without a bit of teasing with Miguel; he definitely pushes you a lot just to get a reaction out of you normally, so doing it in bed only comes naturally to him, and if you're not begging, he ain't giving. 

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

He does not shut the fuck up! You will hear him, whether it's grunting on top of you, raspy whimpering in your ear, or talking you through it. Miguel is very vocal, just not as loud with his moans since he prefers to hear yours instead.

W= Wild card (random sin cannon of any sort)

Has absolutely no issues with letting you ride him with the suit on. 

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

Slightly less tanned than his skin tone, with a slight curve to the left, and too girthy for his own good.

Y= Yearning (sex drive level)

Surprisingly, not that high, especially since he isn't a really big PDA person and the only time he ever gets worked up is in the comfort of privacy.

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

Sometimes you have to trick him into falling asleep with you. Dude has really bad insomnia, but having you all cuddled up next to him really helps with his shit sleeping schedule.

🔖 ...

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[carolmunson]

the boy is mine (carol's edition)

you know i had to do it to 'em. if you'd like to take a crack at the 'the boy is mine' writing challenge, you can check it out here. you can also see the masterlist of everyone's works here. a/n: for me, how eddie was fleshed out in FOI has always been how i see him. hurting, but goofy, but snarky, but sweet, but loving, but scared, but all that. eddie 'has taken care of himself since third grade' munson just makes sense to me. in this ficlet, our romantic night in gets muddled when eddie doesn't know how to just let someone love him right. i've also always have written eddie as older than he actually is, so here -- he's 25. argue with the wall. tw: 18+, angst, hurt/comfort, some smutty references but no smut, references to smoking and drinking. some arguing but nothing crazy.

The day was hard on his shoulders and back, no one should be hunched over the hood of a car for this long -- and even being young isn't saving him from the grimace he makes every time he gets out of his bed with a decades old mattresss. Eddie cracks his neck each way while he chugs down the road leading to Forest Hills, slick and shiny with rain from the afternoon. The orangey yellow headlights on his beat up '71 Chevrolet bounce cheerily off the darkened asphalt, but the scrape, clatter, and growl of his engine and whatever else was a stark reminder that this van was on it's last leg. As bright as the headlights were, the gloomy purpled evening sky was a perfect match to his mood.

Today is Eddie Munson's birthday.

For the past few years, Eddie has spent his birthday working double shifts at the auto shop and then meeting the guys at the Hideout to get so drunk he can't see. Can't be sad about your birthday if you're too drunk to think about how your mama's dead and your dad won't call. Can't be sad about how you won't ever get to hear her sing you happy birthday, or put on a record, or dance with you in the living room. Or have your dad make dinner and put the six pack away if only for that night. To not run out on 'a job' or 'work a late shift' where he won't come back for days afterward.

He'd drink and drink until you had to hold him up to get him out of the bar, piling him into the back seat and having the guys follow you home to help load him into bed. He always looked forward to the greasy diner hangover breakfast in the morning where it could be just the two of you, and not his birthday, and not all the awful things he thinks he is.

The gravel groans and crunches when he pulls in at the side of the trailer he used to share with Wayne. With another roll of his head and shoulders he kills the ignition, hopping out of the van and leaning over to grab his bag. It's only when he slings it over his shoulder that he notices the warm glow of the kitchen light on, passing muted through the small curtains. He hip checks the door shut and makes his way up the steps that need repairing -- another thing to add to the list for 'Spring Cleaning' in a couple weeks that he knows he'll forget to do until you remind him or one of the boards rots out. Eddie's ring tap against the metal handle and he braces for the screech of the door, only to be met with the cozy blend of garlic, onion, and rosemary hitting his nose first. He swallows while he kicks off his work boots, turning the corner to see you in the kitchenette, putting the lid back onto the one large pasta pot he has and turning the burner off. "Oh!" you jump when you see him, shock turning into a smile, "You're earlier than I thought you'd be. Hold on!"

"What're y--" He's interrupted by you hurrying into the fridge, glass clinking when you pull out a Mionetto bottle that was already opened to reveal the cork.

"Surprise!" you ring out, popping the bottle with a little flourish, "Happy birthday!" He stands there, unsure at first what he's looking at, trying to take it all in. You in the kitchen with an apron on, the table set nice, a cake set on the counter to cool with a covered bowl of what looks like home made vanilla frosting next to it. To the side, a familiar small notebook lays opened to a buttercream recipe -- his mom's buttercream recipe, still scrawled in her loopy handwriting on yellowing pages with fading blue ink.

"Melvald's didn't have any like, nice cups," you say with a scrunch of your nose as you pour two glasses of prosecco into flimsy plastic flutes, "Is that okay?" "Uh..." he snaps back to reality when you hand him the cup, "Y-yeah that's okay." "Happy birthday, handsome," you smile, raising your drink before you take a sip, he follows suit.

"What is all this?" he asks, voice sounding like it's coming from someone else. Objectively, he should be falling to his knees right now, crying with adoration for you. Sobbing over the clear effort you've put in for a romantic night together at the trailer. "Um," you suck in your lips quickly, and release them, eyes lowering to the scuffed linoleum, "I uh, I made braised short rib and mashed potatoes, some broccoli. Wayne told me that um, that your dad used to smoke them for your birthday but we don't have a smoker so..."

"Why?" The swell in his heart builds from genuine affection to suspicious bitterness, this was way too much.

"Did you not check the calendar today or something? It's kind of a big day," you try to lighten the mood with a laugh, taking the apron off and hanging it on the hook by the hallway, "Sit, sit." He follows your direction, sitting at the table where the place setting is the best it can be with what you have. You even folded up the paper towels nicely. He silently sips on the bubbles, uncomfortable on the makeshift throw pillow cushion on the chair, while you take the plate in front of him and begin serving.

"I should um," he starts, voice gravelly, "I should wash my hands and uh, and change or..." "Yeah," you nod, voice higher pitched than expected, "Go, go ahead. It'll all be ready when you're done washing up." He leaves the glass behind, thudding into the bedroom where he notices a Frederick's of Hollywood bag sitting at the end of the bed. A small pile of gifts in shiny blue paper lay stacked up pretty on his dresser -- a card front in center 'Eddie My Love' - you write it in the same way you sing it to him absentmindedly every now and again. Flipping the lyrics every time. He swallows again, pulling in his cheeks and biting down while he peels off his coveralls and slips into what he was planning to wear to drinks later -- a band tee and some worn jeans. It feels cheap to wear this now, now that you've put in all this effort. Now that you're looking all sweet and put together in the kitchen for him. He rolls his shoulders again, trying to stretch the frustration out. He doesn't wanna be mad at you, you didn't do anything wrong. He doesn't wanan feel so sick in his chest over it -- but he does. All this work for what? Eddie takes his rings off to wash his hands, using the same Dove bar soap to wash the remaining grime off his face from work. Big inhale, big exhale into the towel on the door before making it back to the kitchen where the dinette table was ready for dinner, two tapered candles lit in old holders on the side. He sits across from you, your eyes glittering in the light of the flame.

"You didn't have to do this," he says quietly. Your lips twitch into a half smile, head cocking slightly to the side. "I know, but it's your day...it's a big one, too. The big two-five," your voice doing its best to soothe, "Can't just, I dunno -- get plastered at The Hideout every year..."

"Sure I can," he shrugs with a quirk of his brows, pushing the mashed potatoes around with his fork. He watches the melty pat of butter ooze off one of the edges like a volcano, pooling in next to the broccoli. "And you like that? That's fun for you?" you chuckle before noticing he's just playing with his food, "You gonna eat?"

"Getting plastered at The Hideout is like, tradition," he mutters, looking at the clock over the cabinets, "And we're gonna be late meeting the guys."

"Ed..." you say, a vapor of disappointment floating through his name when you say it. He winces.

"Like I said, babe," he says, "You didn't have to do all this -- y'know, spend all this extra cash on dinner and --"

"I know I didn't have to, but I wanted to -- I wanted to do something nice so that your birthday could be sp -- " "Okay, well I don't need my birthday to be special, it never is," he snaps, he doesn't mean to, "I didn't ask you to do this for me." You hold your soft gaze at him, shoulders round down while you rest a cheek on your palm. If Eddie's mama was still alive, she'd tell you to get your elbows off the table.

In the flame, your glittering eyes turn glassy. You let a soft breath out through your nose, a sulk clear in your posture. "You're right," you mumble, a soft squeak of a sound while you slowly stand, shaking your head, "You're right, you didn't ask. I shouldn't have assumed that you..."

You trail off while you flick the lights on in the kitchen, leaning forward to gently blow out the taper candles. Your hand swishes away the smoke and soot, pushing out out of the cracked kitchen window before the smoke detector catches it. The cabinets creak while you take out some Tupperware from the top shelves, the good stuff that the ladies in the park sold Wayne back in the 70s. They click and clack as the bowls and trays and their tops hit the formica counter top.

"Well--well, wait -- you don't have to pack it up, babe," he says, sitting up a little taller in the chair. When he hears the shudder in your breath he stands, "You don't have to put it away."

"No, it's fine," you assure, a small strain coming through from your chest, "It'll be like -- you'll be so excited when you get home and there's all this food. I just gotta call the guys and tell them to just go to the bar instead of coming here."

"Whaddayou mean, coming here?"

You turn around, eyes wet now but not crying, a tug on your brow and taughtness in your jaw from where you try to hold it back.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," you shrug, "But like, it's not important. Lemme just pack this up and I'll get it figured out." "What's the surprise?" he asks, tilting his head to get a better look at you. "Well I..." you let out another breath, lower lip wobbling; an action your stop with a sharp inhale through the nose. "Well I thought it would be fun if the guys came over and did a birthday oneshot campaign with you. I helped Gare and Jeff write it and Jeff was gonna DM," you let out in one breath, "And it was gonna be like, a silly drinking game version." "You were gonna play?" he asks meekly. You nod. You rarely play, always watch. Always make snacks or help him clean up the trailer, always order the pizza because Eddie forgets to. Always add extra mushrooms on one because Richie likes extra mushrooms. Always make sure to get one with white sauce cause red cause doesn't sit great with Dustin.

"Did a, um, did a character sheet and whatever," you say, defeated, while you open the utensil drawer to pull out an extra pair of tongs and a serving spoon, "Drew her -- it's in your card."

You start to pack up the food and the tears start up again, welling in your eyes but still not spilling over. Eddie steps forward, getting between you and the pots and pans on the stove.

"Hey, wait," his voice bare audible, "Babe, don't."

"It's okay," you sniffle, "I just have to call them."

"No -- baby, stop," there's an edge now, ring hand falling on your wrist, "Stop packing it up."

"It's fine--"

A waltz between you, him, and the tupperware on the counter.

"Don't make me..." he huffs, trying to maneuver the tongs out of your hand, "If you don't stop, we're gonna have a pr--"

"Ed, enough! We will go to the bar, it's fine," you urge, anxiety heightening in your chest where it bursts, you start to cry, "Please, let me put it away. It's fine. I just -- fuck --"

"I feel like such an asshole," you sigh, breaking. You relent, letting go of the tongs where he takes them and leaves them between the burners on the yellowed stove.

"Don't be like that, you're not," he soothes, closing in on you against the counters edge, "You're not, I'm sorry."

"I really just wanted your birthday to be special," you weakly murmur, wiping at your eyes.

"You know how I get," he says, rough hands coming up to cup your face where he leaves a soft kiss to your cheek, "M'just not great at bein' fussed over."

"You deserve to be fussed over, doofus," you garble out, his thumbs replacing your fingers to catch the tears as they fall.

"It's hard, babe," he nods, "You knows it's hard for me. Y'know with my mom's stuff gone and my dad being...who fuckin' -- who fuckin' knows. The Hideout just makes sense. That's y'know -- that's what I deserve."

"That's not even true," you shake your head, "Don't be stupid."

"Well, I barely graduated so," he offers you a peck to each salty, wet cheek, "Stupid's my middle name." "Don't cry, sweetheart," he breathes, leaning in with a slow kiss. A kiss drenched in apologies and thank yous, breaks away just to kiss again. And again, and again, and again until you're both breathless under the sickly yellow green glow of the overhead kitchen light. "How about I change into something nicer than this, and we'll pop these plates in the microwave and start over," he asks, a smile toying on his full lips, "'Kay?"

You nod back, getting another peck stolen from you, and following him down the hall. "Oh, yes, yes, allow me to slip into something more..." he announces with flourish, posing half sexily half awkwardly in the doorway to his bedroom, "Uncomfortable." You snort, giggling while you follow in after him, settling on the end of his bed, "You don't have to dress up fancy." "'Course I do," he tsks, brows furrowing, "M'going to a five star restaurant doll, I can't look like a slob." He pulls out a pair of slacks from a funeral he went to two years ago, discarding his jeans and sliding them up over his pale legs. To your dismay, he plucks the t-shirt with a screen print of a tux out of his closet, and exchanges the worn Dio tee with that. You'll always prefer the Dio tee. "Classy," you tease. He winks, and that's enough to make you okay with the tux shirt. His fingers trail over the stack of presents and land on the envelope.

"Can I open the card?"

"Sure."

"Am I gonna cry over it?" he asks, looking at you over the dull paper when he flicks open the top.

You shake your head, "Nah, it's not sappy. You're the sappy card writer."

"I'm so sappy," he agrees, pulling out the card, "I gotta work on that, huh?"

"No, I like when you're sappy, ya sap." You watch him read the card, blush evident in the warm wash of gold from his bedside lamp. You're not a sappy card writer, but you always know how to make him feel like a kid with a crush. When he opens up your character sheet his bottom lip tucks between his teeth. "Shit," he grins, "Rogue tiefling, huh? You tryna kill me?"

"I thought it could be fun," you titter, standing up to look at the pages next to him, "Chaotic evil. Look at me."

"Ugh, baby's first villain," he gushes, "I love it."

"Look at the picture," you bounce on the balls of your feet while he goes to the next page. A much quieter 'shit' falls from his mouth. It was not a drawing that was for the rest of the guys to see, a sketch of a tiefling version of you in an outfit meant for his eyes only. "So you are trying to kill me," he asks, fingers tracing the curve of 'your' hip on the page where the outfit digs into the fat of 'your' hips.

"No, that'll be later," you smirk.

"Hm?' his brows raise.

"What do you think is in the Frederick's bag?" you ask, faux innocence smattering into your tone.

"Ah, you put a little costume together for me?" Eddie's mouth waters at the thought, brain fuzzy as he looks at the picture and then at you.

"Something like that," you tease, making your way back out into the hallway. "Something like that?!" he repeats back, hurrying back out to pull you into a searing kiss before you can make it back into the kitchen. The kind from the movies where he dips you down toward the faded carpet. As he pulls away, he nuzzles your nose against his, staring at you through lowered lids, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," you nod, both of you making it back to full height, "Happy birthday."

You relight the candles on the table and nuke the plates of food, topping off each others plastic flutes with the left over Prosecco. There's three cases of beer in the fridge and you know Gareth is bringing Absinthe and it's something you pray doesn't mess your boyfriend up too much.

Dinner is the best meal Eddie's had in years, unable to keep his eyes off of you in between bites while you rehash your day and him, his. You're picking up the dishes off the table when the boys show up and they deliver. Taking the heat off you, they provide the snacks and even more extra booze. Jeff passes out party hats that make you all look ridiculous -- Eddie can remember laughing this much on his birthday, not even when he was a kid. Not even when his mama was alive.

After the oneshot completes and everyone is ankles deep in a tipsy haze and the smoke from a few joints lingers in the air, you walk in with the cake that is finally frosted -- the 2 and 5 confetti colored candles dancing in front of him while the rest sparkle in the middle of the coffee table. He makes one thousand wishes that he knows will come true because his friends are all still there with him and so are you. You're one room right over, cutting the cake and plating it up, and you'll be there when the boys leave in your skimpy nerdy costume that you bought just for him. And you'll be there while he sleeps and you'll be there when he wakes up. You'll be there across from him the next morning when he feeds you fries dipped in chocolate shake at the diner.

Today is Eddie Munson's birthday. And his mother's buttercream frosting is the sweetest it's ever tasted.

[rogueddie]

Change / Gloom

It's not hard to figure out that Eddie is gay- or bisexual? Steve isn't sure. All he knows, undoubtedly, is that Eddie Munson likes men.

The rumors from high school definitely do a lot of the heavy lifting in regards to Steves revelation. But he knows what it looks like when people are attracted to him. He knows exactly what it looks like when people try to hide that they're attracted to him.

His first test was simple; stretch. The bottom of his polo always rides up and, as expected, Eddies eyes lingered on the slither of skin on display.

A simple test. An easy one.

The second test is not so easy- it requires Robins help and she's not the most subtle. Luckily, she's as keen as he is on getting him a boyfriend (specifically, an Eddie-shaped boyfriend), so she puts in as much effort as she can at being convincing.

Eddie admitted to her that, yeah, Steve is attractive. That he also finds Steve attractive. And not in a straight way!

("What the hell does that even mean?" Robin had asked, when Steve insisted that she needs to clarify that. "If he's attracted to you, it can't be straight!"

"It totally can," Steve tutted. "Tommy was attracted to loads of guys in a straight way."

"I'm going to ignore that because we don't have time to unpack any of that-")

He hadn't expected Robin to be so convincing, or for Eddie to be so open yet. It ruins his very thought out plan in the best way- he only needs to confirm if it's more than just physical attraction now, and that's the easy part.

"You're late," Steve greets. He leans his hip against the doorway, crossing his arms.

Eddie rolls his eyes. "So sorry, princess. You gonna let me in?"

"Say please."

"Please." He shifts, trying to look annoyed, putting his hands on his hips. The hall light illuminates his face too well for Steve to miss the slight blush.

Steve steps back, beckoning him as dramatically as he can manage without feeling like an idiot.

"Eddie!" Dustin calls, waving him over to the couch.

Robin already helped Steve make it so there's only two spots left open... Eddie, like they'd hoped, choses the corner so he can lean over to talk to the kids.

Once he's checked the door is definitely locked, peeking into the kitchen to make sure the back door is also shut, he plops down on the sofa. He shifts, stretching his legs out so his thigh is pressed up against Eddies.

It's not until the movie starts that Eddie leans over and whispers; "what are you doing?"

Steve quietly hums, raising an eyebrow.

Eddie gently kicks his ankle. "That. And at the door."

"I can't be friendly?" Steve whispers, with a teasing little smirk- it always used to have girls stuttering.

"Not like this," Eddie hisses. "Back off."

"What? I was just-"

"I know. I'm telling you to stop."

Steve slowly pulls back so they aren't touching as much- where they're sat doesn't leave much space.

He feels unmoored. He's never felt so wrong about his chances- even at Scoops Ahoy, despite his attempts, he knew he was probably going to get rejected. He's not sure he has ever been so off.

"I'm getting some popcorn," Eddie says quietly, towards the mid-point of the movie.

"I'll help," Steve quickly offers, jumping to his feet before Eddie can turn his offer down.

"Hey," Robin pipes up, grabbing his arm and giving him a light squeeze- reassurance, comfort. "Make me that ice cream shake I like."

"Understood," Steve nods, giving her a lazy salute.

It takes a good few minutes to make, giving the two of them more time alone in the kitchen.

She's giving him the green light.

"Sorry about that," Steve says quietly, once they're in the kitchen. "Didn't mean to come on too strong. Or, like, if it's too public. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He keeps his back turned to him, waiting in front of the microwave, shoulders hunched to his ears.

Steve isn't sure whether he should say anything else. He looks uncomfortable. Steve isn't sure if speaking up would make it worse or-

"Who told you?" He eventually asks. He finally turns around, expressions dangerously blank. "Was it Gareth?"

"What?"

"He probably meant well," he ponders. His smile doesn't reach his eyes- it makes something uncomfortable squirm in Steves stomach. "He never did have the displeasure of meeting King Steve."

"Eddie-"

"It's ok though, right? You didn't mean to make me uncomfortable."

"What the fuck are you talking about, man? Are you mad that I, like... know? Is that it?"

"Is that it?" Eddie repeats, mockingly. "No, Harrington. I don't care that you know- most people guessed it, what's one more? No, I care that you're making fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you."

"Really? Could've fooled me."

He turns back to the microwave- it dings, but Eddie stays there, pretending to be busy.

Waiting for Steve to leave.

"I'm not making fun of you," Steve tries again, hating how wobbly his voice sounds. "I was- I mean, I thought maybe, you, um... but if not, that- that's ok, I can, like... fuck."

Eddie slowly turns, frowning, looking slightly more concerned- but the suspicion still lingers. "Spit it out."

"I thought you might like me but I don't know if it's just physical so I thought I'd try and flirt as a way of testing the waters before actually trying to ask you out," Steve rushes out in one breath.

"You were... actually flirting?" Eddie blinks at him, slowly. "Seriously? Not a joke? But... what? I thought you were straight?"

"So did I," Steve shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. "Never really, um... thought about romancing a guy before."

"Before..?"

"Before you."

"Holy shit." Eddie goes to pinch himself- stopping at the last second with a shake of his head. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me up."

"This is your idea of a good dream?"

"You know damn well it is, you little brat." Eddie laughs, shaking his head again, in disbelief. "I've fucked this up a bit, huh? Can we start again?"

"Oh. yeah, sure, of course, uh-"

"Wait, no, I don't have the patience for that," he quickly darts around the kitchen table, grabbing Steves waist and pulling him close. "This alright? Not gonna say psych?"

"If you don't kiss me right now, I just might."

"Say please."

[brewed-pangolin]

Soap Cuddling Headcanons

This was an ask I received forever ago, then tumblr decided to eat it because I don't know. Apologies for this taking soooo long.

18+ MDNI Sexual Themes

SFW and NFSW below the cut because why the hell not.

Soap loves to cuddle for one reason and one reason only: touch

He's touch starved. He craves it. Begs for it. Yearns for it when he's half a world away with you always creeping around in the back of his mind

And when he's home, he can barely think of letting you out of arms reach

It was a bit overwhelming st first, to have him always so close and needing so much physical affection

You didn't push him away, but you did have to maintain some personal space at the beginnings of your relationship

But that all changed after his first lengthy deployment

On those long, lonely nights. Reaching out to him and feeling nothing but cold emptiness beside you in the bed

That's where you fell into his spell and began to yearn and ache for his touch just as desperately as he did

SFW

It doesn't matter what you're doing, if you're within arms reach, your going to be wrapped up by him

Cooking? Yup. He'll have his hands on your hips while comfortably resting his chin on your shoulder

He'll whisper soft, culinary praises into your ear while he watches intently, following your fingers as they diligently move across the cutting board

"Smellin' good, hen. Be a shame if ya had t'waste any, yeah?" And you fell for it. Every single time

Don't be surprised if those hands on your hips begin to wander. It's nearly impossible for them to stay in one place for too long

Loves to wrap his arms around you during the weekend late movie nights

Will intentionally put on horror or suspense movies just so you'll scoot closer, and he can hold you tightly against him while you tremble in his arms

But where this cuddle monster truly shines is in bed (and not just after a romp)

He'll cling to you in the morning, arms wrapped around your torso and his face nestled unto the curve of your shoulders

Big spoon. Little spoon. He doesn't care. As long as his skin is touching yours, he's happy

Will prolong mornings the first few days back home, willing to push aside responsibilities and spend the entire day in bed

Netflix and Chill Extraordinaire

But Cuddling isn't only sanctioned for the bedroom

Soap is a romantic at heart, and he'll whisk you away to his favorite outlook up in the mountains in his 4Runner

Just to build a fort of blankets and pillows in the back and watch the sunset like a true Casanova

And movie nights are best under the stars at your local drive-in

Nestled deep within in his arms as you leave the world behind to enjoy each other's comforting embrace (and loads of overly butterd popcorn)

NSFW

Soap MacTavish is the absolute KING of aftercare, especially after your more vigorous and enthusiastic sessions

He'll keep you close, wrapped within his muscular arms, and pressed against his sweat drenched torso as you ride out the last waves of your climax

"So good f'me, lass. Ya did so good." He'll whisper, voice muffled as he buries his face into the crook of your neck

He's in no rush after a lengthy romp. You need 15 minutes? 30 minutes? Two hours? Soap's not going anywhere

Except to get the towels. He knows he makes a mess, and your legs are currently jelly after your umpteenth orgasm

But if you already planned on having an earth-shattering sexcapade, the towels are already on the nightstand because...

Cockwarming

Soap can't help it. He loves being buried to the hilt deep inside you

Especially when he softens and your walls continually pulse and milk every last drop of him

And you pull the most beautifully pornographic whimpers from his lips

"Fuckin' hell, bonnie. You an' that greedy lil cunt a'yers.."

And as previously stated, he's in no rush to pull out.

In fact, he may just fall asleep.

His arms caging you tightly against him as he drifts into a restful slumber with his cock sheathed snuggly within your silkened heat

@deadbranch @sofasoap @d3athtr4psworld @punishmepunisher @homicidal-slvt @glitterypirateduck @obligatoryghoststare @jynxmirage @mykneeshurt @shotmrmiller @astraluminaaa @writeforfandoms @thetrashpossum @simpingoverquestionablemen @kkaaaagt @designateddeadend

[unholyhelbig]

new oversight will be everything! i can’t wait!

Title: Work Life Balance [an Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: When reader gets hurt during a job, she starts to worry about how her girlfriend, the infamous mafia boss that controls the city, will react

[a/n: while this isn't a new chapter of Oversight (I am working on that), it is set in the same universe as the Oversight. It's based off of a Private Practice episode, and something a little lighter & silly. Enjoy!]

Warnings: Gun violence, blood, spit, threats, blood, hurt/comfort, No spell checks

Check out the full Oversight universe

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The metal bat had slammed against the side of your face with enough force to blind you momentarily in the right eye. It knocked the sense out of you too and your bearings were scrambled until that darkness started to ebb away into a blurry image of the alleyway.

There was a pungent scent in the air, rotted food in dark green trash bags that had been torn by tiny teeth, or elongated claws. Crumpled napkins and discarded soda cups littered the damp ground.

Before the man could swing the bat for a second time, you caught it half an inch from your face and shoved it away. He was disarmed and you were able to shove his back up against the wall, holding him there despite his squirming. His lip was split, the blood drying quickly from the bright red to a deep black.

“Come on, man.” You twisted your hand into the fabric of his shirt, bunching your fingers around his collar. “We fronted the product, so you have to front the cash.”

“Fuck off,”

He spit on you, a gummy mix of tobacco and sugar. There were a lot of things you could handle; the ringing in your ear, and the pain in your knuckles from the first four blows you threw. But spit was where you drew the line. It had bugged you since you were in fifth grade and Amy Sheldon dangled a long string of it inches from your nose before slurping it back up through the slit in her buck teeth.

“Alright,” you breathed out, making sure you kicked the fallen bat out of his reach. “You agree to push product on that little street racer of yours in exchange for twenty five percent of the cut. You get sloppy and sample the product and don’t have the cash to give to my boss?”

You lifted him from the brick and shoved him back down onto it with enough force to push the putrid breath from his lungs. “That doesn’t feel very fair, now, does it?”

He smiled at you with a laugh that rivaled a cackle. His teeth were orange with diluted blood. There was no getting through to him. Your free hand dipped into the side of your jacket. Over the last two years, you’d grown well accustomed to the feeling of a gun in your hand.

You pushed the tip of the gun under his chin into the soft spot of his skin. He stopped laughing, the sound getting stuck in his throat with a choking sound.

“Do you know what they call me?” You gritted.

“A raging bitch?”

You made a buzzing noise in the back of your throat, much like the signaling of a wrong answer on a game show. There was a soft click as you pulled the trigger of the gun. The man in your grasp tensed and hissed.

“Wrong. You know, at first, I just forgot to load my gun. Got me into some pretty hot water, scalding actually. But eventually it became a bit of a calling card. Roulette. I can pull the trigger as many times as I want, but only one will hit it’s mark.”

He swallowed hard, you felt it in the side of your hand. He was sweating and you were growing tired of the empty threats. Yelena wouldn’t approve of something like this, and you were sure Natasha wouldn’t have had a second thought about putting a mark between his eyebrows.

“Most men aren’t lucky more than twice,” You pulled the trigger again, met with another soft click. Of course, there were no bullets in the chamber; they rattled in your front pocket like your keys. “Three times at most.”

His voice cracked. “Please,”

There was a sharp scent in the air that rivaled that of trash. You were losing blood fast. It had streaked down the side of your face from a gash on your temple and crusted the collar of your shirt.

“You have a week to make up the difference. A week and I’ll be back with a gun that has more than one bullet in the chamber. Am I clear?”

“Yes, but-“

“Am I clear?”

He nodded aggressively and you sheathed your weapon, releasing him. His legs gave out and he sunk to the damp pavement. You picked up the weighted metal back, entirely content to take it with you. It would make your next encounter a hell of a lot easier.

It was impossible to sneak into the house without giving yourself away. Even if you were to park down the block, unlace your shoes and pad into the foyer barefoot, and leave the front door open a crack, you were at risk of creating a scene.

That didn’t mean that you couldn’t keep the injured side of your face away from Natasha for as long as possible. She would know that something was up, and despite her throwing you into this life in the first place, her heart broke when you were on the deep side of any injury.

You set the metal bat down with a bucket of black umbrellas and a bench that was mostly unused. There was a dull metal thump that aggravated the headache that was coming on. You attempted to sneak up the stairs, but the second your fingertips hit the mahogany handrail you were stopped by an irritated voice with a Russian lilt to it.

Yelena was sprawled out on the sofa, a book was face down on her chest, lifting and falling with each breath. She’d given up on it in favor of the warmth that Kate provided her. Kate’s head was on Yelena’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Yelena looked perfectly comfortable in between Kate’s legs, both of them were about ready to doze off and if you had waited an extra five minutes, maybe you would have gotten away with sneaking in.

“Did you get hit by a bus?” Kate asked.

You leaned against the entryway of the sitting room. “Ricky got a good hit in with a metal bat.”

“Oo, Natasha is going to be mad at you.” Yelena chuckled, taunting you like a child. You would have thrown a pillow at her if Kate wasn’t in the line of fire.

She was going to be mad at you for not using the buddy system that was proposed and certainly for not dodging the hit that was coming your way. Natasha hated when you got hurt and that sad look in her eyes was worse than whatever pain could be inflicted on you.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It looks pretty bad.” Kate said.

You shot them both the middle finger before turning away and padding up the stairs towards your shared bedroom with Natasha. Most days, she was holed up in her office and you didn’t bother her until the ache for her touch, for her presence, bothered you both enough to cave.

That was most days.

Some days, Natasha could be found in your room in sweatpants with a laptop propped up on her crossed legs. She was dwarfed in the silk bedspread, her hair in a messy bun and a pair of glasses on the bridge of her nose.

This was quite possibly your favorite look on Natasha, this quiet version of her. She’d let you hold her in this state instead of the other way around. You hated to break the mood, hated that she glanced up from her laptop not once, but twice.

Wordlessly, Natasha set her work aside and walked over to you. She cupped your face, her fingers cold against your cheeks. Her voice was soft and when she was angry enough, there was the slightest bit of a Russian inflection to her words. “What happened?”

“I… didn’t use the buddy system.”

“Mm, you didn’t use the buddy system.”

Her thumb moved against the black and blue wound against your eye. She pressed every so slightly, testing its durability. You winced, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. It wasn’t bad, really, her touch soothed you just as quickly as it had bitten you with pain.

Natasha was good at taking care of you and she pulled you into the large master bathroom that the two of you shared. There was an abundance of white and beige. It was always a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house and offered a form of comfort as such.

There were nights where the two of you would simply brush your teeth shoulder to shoulder, and there were nights where she had her arms wrapped around you amongst the deep scent of lavender. Bubble hit her touch as her fingers roamed over the most intimate parts of you.

Now, she guided you to the edge of the sink and lifted you up in a fluid motion. She stood between your legs, making you feel even more like a child when Yelena had scolded you downstairs. Still, there was a degree of affection in her movements. Natasha frowned as she pulled a med kit from the bottom of the sink.

She tutted “Zaychik, this looks bad.”

“Image wise or the actual wound because-“You let out a small noise when she placed the frigid and stinging antiseptic against your face. It sent electric down your spine. “I didn’t know he had a bat.”

“A bat?”

“Right out of left field.”

Natasha’s frown deepened. This was supposed to be an easy job, and by all means, it was. You had accomplished your assignment of scaring up. You were sure he had released his bladder as he slid down the wall into a fetal position. Getting the money from a frightened man was going to be no problem.

Tonight was intended to be calm. You’d come home and shower and eat pizza and spend the entire night curled up in Natasha’s arms while she typed away on the computer. You’d listen to her breathing, her heartbeat.

Instead, she was roughly patching you up, buzzing with anger under her stare. “Why didn’t you take Clint?”

“Nat, I have a fantastic idea.”

“If it involves gutting that man alive and hanging him from a flagpole, then I am all in, darling.” Her words were light, distracted, as she wiped away a good portion of dried blood.

“What if we left things at the office, metaphorically speaking. What if we didn’t bring stuff like this home? Shut it all off.”  

She pulled back far enough to stifle her floral scent. There was an adorable crease between her eyes. “My mind doesn’t work like that, Malysh. This home is my office and vice versa. Someone hurt you and that is my business. That is my work.”

“I know,” you said, tucking a strand of fallen hair behind her ear. She glowered under her thick-framed glasses. You wanted nothing more than to kiss the frown off her face. “I know, but sometimes I just want to be with you.”

“Huh,”

“Huh?”

“Huh.”

This wasn’t exactly a constructive conversation. You figured as much when she ripped a bandage out of its waxy packaging and slapped it onto the gash against your temple. You let out a disgruntled noise and she grasped your waist and maneuvered you back to the floor. Your legs had fallen asleep and you were a little unsteady.

Natasha flicked on the sink and started scrubbing her hands of your blood. “No sex,”

“What?” You blinked at her, scratching fruitlessly at the adhesive on the bandage. It was incredibly itchy.

Natasha dried her hands on the nearby towel, “You heard me, no sex.”

“You… You’re withholding sexual pleasure because of something that happened at work?”

“Not something that happened at work, your refusal to talk about it.”

“Natasha,” You nearly whined.

“No sex!” She huffed, pointing towards the exit of the room “Go sleep on the couch.”

You dropped your shoulders in defeat. You had been banned to the couch? Your girlfriend didn’t’ withhold most things and the two of you had a very healthy and active life. There wasn’t true anger behind her words, instead she was testing you. Watching you until you give in.

“Fine,” You huffed, crossing your arms “The couch sounds lovely.”

“Good,”

“Great.”

“Fine.”

You grabbed the fuzzy blanket at the base of the bed and started to stalk towards the door. You could feel Natasha staring at you, waiting for you to turn around and apologize but it wouldn’t happen. Not this time. You were setting boundaries and if that included…no sex… then that was fine. It was fine.

“Zaychik?”

You turned back to Natasha, one eyebrow lifted, “Yes?”

“Leave the blanket.”

She gave you a sugary sweet smile before settling back into her previous position, pulling her computer into her lap. Your jaw was agape, but you tossed the blanket at her nonetheless and stormed out of the room.

The nerve, the absolute nerve!

Natasha wasn’t particularly hard to have a conversation with, but work was nearly untouchable with her. You knew that. She knew that. You did as you were told and protected her and her assets at all costs.

When you got back downstairs you fixed yourself a sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich before sulking back into the living room and flopping down onto the recliner in the corner. Yelena had since fallen asleep, and Kate was reading the book while her eyes grew heavy.

“You got kicked out, huh?”

“Kicked out, banned from sex.” You waved the sandwich around in the air “doghouse.”

Kate scoffed “the Romanoff sisters aren’t always the most forthcoming, are they?”

She was looking lovingly at Yelena, stroking her hair as the smaller woman curled deeper into her, fingers clenching at Kate’s flannel and then releasing as she settled back into a comfortable sleep.

“They make it hard to love them, but the moments where the mask slips and they’re vulnerable. Moments like these make everything worth it. And despite everything, you know they care. They’ll always care.”

“Sometimes too much,” you took a large bite of your sandwich.

“No such thing.”

Yelena stirred in her arms, nose pressed against Kate’s pulse point. She clenched her eyes tighter, her next words mumbled “Kate Bishop, if you don’t stop talking you will be sleeping on the couch with y/n.”

“Doghouse,” You said with a long sigh.

“Mm,” Kate hummed, letting out a quiet whisper “Doghouse,”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife]

[wileys-russo]

katie mccabe, “are you blushing?”, any place 🫶🏻

hot in here II k.mccabe

"oh gosh its a bit much isn't it?" your mum spoke with wide eyes and a wince as your girlfriend went tumbling to the ground, up on her feet within seconds and shoving at the chest of the player who'd taken her down.

"thats it katie! get into her girl!" your dad cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted supportively as you smacked him on the shoulder. "dad! don't encourage her." you groaned, pulling him to sit back down as both katie and the other player were awarded yellows.

"mccard strikes again." you heard someone chuckle behind you, shaking your head as your dad turned around to speak with them. "she gets a lot of those is all." you explained to your mum who seemed hopelessly confused.

"wait why is there more time?" your mum frowned as they announced there would be three added minutes of injury time. "its extra time to make up for the time where the game isn't played. like if a player falls down and needs medical attention the game is paused, so this is the time added for that interruption." you explained as she exhaled in understanding.

"go on katie! rip in!" your dad shouted as your girlfriend readied herself for a throw in, catching your eye with a wink and a grin before turning and lobbing the ball towards steph. "i hope you know the more you fluff her ego the more insufferable she gets." you sighed as time ticked down.

"ah she's confident! you need confidence to be successful. she's good at what she does and she knows it, that should be encouraged!" your dad patted your knee as you only hummed. "you should try living with her then." you chuckled with a shake of your head.

"oh! theres that lovely song again." your mum beamed as katies chant started up, your dad yelling along as katie took off down the right hand side. "go on katie! go girl!" your dad boomed as suddenly she side stepped the last player in her way and hit the ball with aloud thud, sending it hurtling forward toward alessia who tapped it in widening arsenals 3-0 lead.

you grinned as your girlfriend raced past you and your parents blowing you a kiss and giving them a wave as there was barely time for villa to kick off before the final whistle blew.

"oh that was exciting. i still don't understand much but i see why you like it!" your mum pulled you into a hug making you laugh. "she appreciates you made the effort to come, but she was nervous this morning." you revealed, watching as katie did her laps thanking fans, stopping every now and then to sign something.

"katie? nervous? thats something you need to see to believe!" your dad laughed patting you on the back as you chatted away with them, introducing them to leahs mum who made her way over to say hello, all four of you speaking until you heard a familiar whistle.

"we'll be down in two seconds darling." your mum nodded for you to go as you left them with amanda and made your way down to your girlfriend.

"well aren't you a sight for sore eyes stranger." the irishwoman teased, having been away the last week visiting your parents before they returned back with you to spend the next few days in london.

"wow its been so long when was the last time i saw you? oh was it maybe...this morning in bed?" you teased, having returned last night. "i'd almost forgotten what your face looked like." you winked, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

whatever smooth one line she intended to quip back with was interrupted at the arrival of your parents, katie hopping over the barrier to greet them properly as your dad launched into a very animated recap of how well she played.

"oh and that yellow? load of horse shit you were only defending yourself!" your dad bellowed as you winced, his voice carrying far beyond your small huddle. "dad!" you hissed, katies arm wrapping around your waist as her hand grazed the small of your back in a wordless comfort.

~

"i warned you they wouldn't let you pay baby." you laughed as you and katie stepped inside your shared home, unwrapping the multitude of layers which had been keeping you protected from the bitter chill of a winter evening in london.

"i'm callin ahead next time and settin up a tab!" your girlfriend scowled, having been easily shut down by your dad who'd paid for everyone's dinner despite both you and katie trying to protest it.

"watch it mccabe, at your age you'll get frown lines and crows feet." you teased, reaching up to smooth the wrinkles from her furrowed forehead. "oi! watch it cheeky i'm only a year older than ya." the defender warned as you sent her a wink and made your way to the living room.

"my parents really enjoyed the game baby, and you certainly gave them a show to watch." you grinned, pulled into your girlfriends lap as she sank into the lounge beside you. "i'm glad they finally got to see one, we'll get em to a national game next and then they'll really see a show!" the brunette smiled wolfishly as you laughed and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.

"i think my dad might actually contend me for your biggest fan, he was going on and on and on about you long before kick off. mum said he stayed up watching a bunch of your highlights in the hotel, she had to take his phone to force him to sleep!" you laughed, a slight pink flush coating your girlfriends cheeks at your words.

"are you blushing?" you gasped, grabbing her face as she frowned and shook her head. "no! its just...warm in here. me cheeks are red from it being so cold outside!" katie dismissed with a wave as you smirked.

"you're blushingg, you're so cute baby." you cooed, pinching her cheeks mockingly and shaking her face side to side teasingly. "aih lay off! i am not and i don't blush." katie scoffed with a roll of her eyes, shoving you off of her causing you to yelp.

"we've got mccabe! who? katie mccabe! who? i just don't think you understand!" you started to cry out, standing to your feet as the footballer stared up at you unamused. "she plays out on the wing, she blushes at every little thing, we've got katie mccabe!" you sang out, squealing as she grabbed at you and pulled you down back to lay across her lap.

"did you not like the remix babe? i think it'll go down a treat at the emirates." you smirked, your girlfriend glaring down at you though you saw the usual sparks of amusement and mischief present in her eyes.

"you're bloody lucky you're so cute darlin or i'd have dropped you a long time ago." "oh god and she's a charmer too? the full package you are love, i'll try to work that into the next verse."

[scribbledghost]

Hear me out: Neighbor! Simon who’s livid when he finds out reader was sold a faulty item (something pretty pricey), and they’re too nice to actually go back to the shop and ask for a replacement/refund

Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk

He is the "they asked for no pickles" boyfriend. I know this. You know this.

But like. Imagine if he finds out you were sold, like, a faulty mattress. There's bumps, lumps, and overall it's just. Not comfortable. You tell him it's no use going through all the trouble of taking it back, and even if it was, you'd be out a mattress until you could get a replacement.

But uh. Yeah. Simon isn't having that. Good thing he's got a pickup truck, time to spare, and a "give no fucks" attitude.

So he manages to convince you to load up the mattress and go with him to exchange it. (And if they won't exchange it and it takes a bit for you to get a new mattress? Well, good thing he's got a perfectly good one at his place you can share for the time being).

Except when you go in, they refuse. They're adamant they see no issue with it, so they're not gonna give you any sort of refund or opportunity to switch it out for a better one.

Or at least, they weren't going to. Until Simon slowly walks up, full black clothing and balaclava on, and puts his hands on the table in front of the now-sweating salesman.

"Not gonna ask ya twice, mate," he says. "Give 'em the money back."

They don't refuse a second time.

[j2lx]

Arguing With Them (headcanons)

Warnings: angst to fluff, arguments (obviously lol), worrying about safety and overworking, insecurities, crying (a lot of crying), mentions of abuse in Sukuna's part and Naoya's part

A/n: I am so so sorry I went on hiatus without notice =( I just came back from my overseas vacation and I was so tired on the trip and when I just came home that I couldn't do much. I finally got the energy to finish this draft that was sitting in my docs for like a month so please do enjoy reading!

Characters: Itadori Yuuji, Fushiguro Megumi, Kugisaki Nobara, Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Ryomen Sukuna (Sukuna has his own body in this but isn't in his OG form), Zenin Maki, Okkotsu Yuuta, Inumaki Toge, Suguru Geto (basically high school Geto, before he became all you know), Toji Fushiguro (he isn't broke in this fic just so it isn't as confusing), Naoya Zenin (he isn't misogynistic (for Fem!readers) cuz he loves you a lot!) x Gender Neutral!reader

Itadori Yuuji

You hardly argue with your boyfriend. You understand him, and he understands you. The two of you never argue much since you both are able to come to a mutual agreement. Both of you get along really well, and think in similar ways, so it's rare for things to escalate into a fight.

When it does though, it hurts the both of you a lot. Guilt tends to gnaw at you two, and you both start to feel bad for lashing out at each other instead of talking it out slowly. Yuuji would be the one who's more affected between the two of you. He won't even be able to sleep after arguing with you because of how bad he feels.

Most of the time, you argue because of your boyfriend's lack of concern for his own safety. He tends to put others before himself in all situations, putting him at risk of injuries and even death. While you understand that the both of you being Jujutsu sorcerers would mean risking your life at times, you just can't tolerate how your boyfriend seems to be unnecessarily throwing himself into situations that could kill him.

Yuuji, being the caring and kind person who makes sure to protect others more than himself, fails to understand where you're coming from when these arguments start. It's his job after all, and it's what he should be doing. He just doesn't understand why you are so concerned when you yourself have to do the same. He doesn't get why you say he's "going too far" and "basically almost dying on every mission".

He's always stubborn and defends himself during these arguments, telling you that he's already doing his best to protect himself. But when you start to walk away and cry, he'll start to reflect and more often than not, he does realise that what you're saying is true. He just gets into the heat of the moment during missions and ends up not thinking about ways he could protect himself better, all while getting the mission done.

When you start to walk away, he'll immediately chase after you and try to apologise to you. Most of the time, all you want to do is make up with your boyfriend and cuddle with him while he holds you close to him. However, if you ever decide that you need time alone instead, Yuuji will sit outside of your dorm, listening to the shuffling of your feet in the room, your soft cries and sniffles, waiting for you to open the door and let him in to comfort you when you feel ready enough.

Yes, arguments with your boyfriend might hurt, and it might be tough to get through to him most of the time, but when he sees how desperate, concerned and sad you are, he'll start to understand. He'll never let you stay mad at him after these arguments because he doesn't want to lose you over something that he should have realised that he was wrong about all along. Expect loads of cuddles and Yuuji being clingy to you after arguments! (Also lots of "I love you"s from him)

Fushiguro Megumi

Honestly, arguments with Megumi occur once in a while, but it hardly escalates into something really big. Megumi isn't always the best at understanding your feelings and trying to see where you're coming from, especially if it's about your safety. He's stubborn and stands his ground in arguments, which makes arguing with him a little… painful.

He tries his best to understand your point of view, really. But you're the most important person to him, and it's natural for him to want to protect you no matter what, right? When arguing with him, it always hurts you more than him, because sometimes it's like he's scolding you and not hearing you out. But after the argument, all the guilt hits him like a ton of bricks and he starts to feel really bad for just lashing out at you.

Arguments with him are the worst when he realises changes in your behaviour. You started to train and exercise a lot in your free time, which confused him. You didn't spend as much time with him anymore and he could tell that you were overworking yourself. When he confronted you about it, you refused to tell him about it and it pissed him off. You were so important to him, and he wanted the best for you, so why couldn't you open up and tell him?

He starts to lecture you about reasons you shouldn't overwork yourself and tells you, in a rather harsh way, that you should tell him what's going on. And the whole time, he doesn't pause to let you speak at all. He's just so worried and annoyed that he goes on and on. He starts getting blinded by his concern and anger that he forgets to listen to you, and even if he does, he tends not to process it before he says something again.

He only knows he's gone too far when you start tearing up, shouting above his voice that the only reason you were overworking yourself was so that you could match up to him, so that he wouldn't leave you behind. And when you run out of his dorm and hide in your own dorm, locking the door the moment you step in, he finally starts to process what you said.

He sits on the edge of his bed, processing everything you said. He feels the guilt of not hearing you out properly, and he knows he has to do something to make it up to you. He knows he isn't the best at expressing his emotions through his words, so he heads to the kitchen and starts to make a cup of your favourite hot drink for you, before heading to your dorm.

He always knocks on your door and asks if you can let him into your dorm. If you don't, he sets the drink down on a table in the common room and tells you to drink it before it gets cold, and then heads back to his dorm. But if you let him in, like you do more often than not, he'll set the drink on the table you have in your room and apologise to you, before asking if he can cuddle with you, which you always agree to.

Kugisaki Nobara

Arguments with her are actually pretty rare! Most of the time, the two of you just try your best to understand each other, and it works perfectly well. The two of you hardly meet a situation where both of you have really different opinions and disagree strongly with each other.

But when that does happen, it gets heated very quickly. One of you would start accusing the other person, while the other has no choice but to defend themselves to the best of their abilities. You both end up really mad at each other because you didn't really listen to each other's feelings and instead, started shouting accusations at each other.

Nobara really appreciates it when you spend time with her on your days off from missions and school. She often takes the initiative to ask you when you're free and then sets aside those few days just to spend time with you. So when you told her that you took up an urgent mission, even though there were other people to handle it, she was really annoyed and pissed off. You had promised three weeks ago that you'll spend time with her on that day, and yet you decided to go on a mission that any other Jujutsu sorcerers could handle instead.

She started out by asking you why you wanted to do that, and when you replied that it was so you could get promoted more quickly, she snapped. She had told you countless times that in the Jujutsu world, you'll forever want to aim higher and higher, and there was no end to it. And yet, you had taken up a mission on a day she specially put aside so that the two of you could go out together.

Accusations and screaming is all that can be heard when your arguments get that heated. She calls you a liar and you retort that she doesn't care about you. She says that she can't trust you anymore and you reply that if she believes that, it's fine by you. It's just her attacking you with her words and you just trying to defend yourself. Eventually, it gets too frustrating for Nobara and she just walks out of your dorm, slamming the door behind her.

In the end, you go on your mission. But on the way there, you start reflecting, and realise that you were in the wrong to begin with. And truth to be told, you don't know how to make it up to your girlfriend. You know that she's always looking forward to these kinds of days, days that she can spend with you, having fun and just hanging out together. And yet, you decided to ruin it all and make her angry by breaking a promise.

When you get back to Jujutsu High, you knock on Nobara's dorm room. You hear a muffled "go away", so you just leave, giving her the space she needs. You head out again to buy her something you know she'll like, and then leave it outside her dorm room when you return. And when she finds the gift outside of her door, with an apology letter, she goes to look for you immediately so that the two of you can make up and cuddle in her dorm after that.

Satoru Gojo

You get into arguments with him mostly because of what he's doing. Be it annoying and teasing you too much, or being too reckless, it's always because he gets too cocky and negligent of himself that the two of you end up arguing. It doesn't happen often, since he listens to your scoldings when you try to tell him to stop being annoying or reckless.

And on the occasion that the argument does escalate, it's always him trying to defend his own actions by giving you random excuses. And if that doesn't piss you off enough, he never gives you the space to cool down after arguments. He'll cling to you, because "the argument is over" and he clearly thinks that it's fine to stick close to you when you clearly need your own space.

It's the worst when you get into arguments with him over his safety. His only excuses are that he's "the strongest" and since he "hasn't died yet, you don't have to worry". And while you don't disagree that he's the strongest, and know full well that he won't bite the dust that easily, you just can't help but worry. Yes, Satoru understands you like no other, the only thing he'll never comprehend is your worry for his safety.

Maybe it's because he's just that confident in his own abilities, or he just doesn't deem it necessary for you to worry over him when he promised that he'll return home to you no matter what. Regardless, he's stubborn when these kinds of arguments happen, more so than usual. He'll pick on everything you say, use things he's said in the past, just do absolutely anything to win the argument when that's not exactly the point. In the heat of the moment, he always forgets that it's you worrying about him, that you're scared for him. And instead of trying to reassure and comfort you, he starts to defend his own actions.

You're always the one to step back from the arguments and head to your shared bedroom to just have some space for yourself. However, your boyfriend takes that as a cue that all's well and good, and that you're on good terms with him again. He'll knock on the bedroom door, and no matter what your response is to that, he'll enter the room and start clinging to you, hugging and kissing you when all you really want is time away from him. He only gets that when you tell him to leave and shove him away from you.

He'll give you all the time in the world after that, just so that you can calm down as much as possible. And instead of distracting himself from the sadness of being pushed away, he sits outside the bedroom door, listening to every sound you make. He has to will himself not to burst into the room when he hears your quiet sobs, and just curls up into a ball, hoping that you'll calm down soon.

And when you finally let him into the room, your eyes red and puffy, he'll pull you into a hug while apologising for how unreasonable and annoying he was. He spends the rest of the day cuddling with you and being at your every command. He would do everything and anything, literally anything, just to cheer you up and make you feel better.

Nanami Kento

Arguments with him are super duper rare. He really tries his best to understand your feelings and will never lash out, even if you're being unreasonable sometimes. He's able to reason with you very well, so the two of you hardly get into arguments if there's ever something that's bothering either of you.

That doesn't mean that there are no arguments at all. Of course, when arguments do happen, Kento tries to let you understand his side of the story and hears you out no matter what. But when it does escalate, he knows when to end the argument and give you some space. There will be raised voices and even shouting, but at some point, he knows that it's not going to help solve anything and gives you the space to calm down.

The worst argument you had with him was over him being "obsessed" with hunting down a curse. You heard of this unregistered special grade curse with a patchwork face, and you knew just how dangerous it was to track it down. But you knew that your boyfriend was trying to help out and protect people from this curse by finding it and exorcising it.

Even so, you couldn't really understand why he had to work so hard to hunt it down, even working overtime on most days just to get information and track the curse's location. It wasn't just that he was spending less time with you, he was risking his own life and safety by trying to accomplish his mission. And you drew the line at that. You couldn't lose Kento. So you confronted him about it one evening after he came back from working overtime yet again.

It started out fine, just you telling him to give it up, or at least not work so hard over this matter. You expected him to understand, to listen to you, but you were wrong. He started to tell you about the mission, why it was important, why he had to do his best to search for it even if it meant that he had to work overtime. And that just leads to you shouting at him, telling him how neglected and scared you feel. And he starts to raise his voice too, saying that you don't understand how important his work is, even though you're a Jujutsu sorcerer too. Both of your voices fill your shared apartment, just pointless screaming that isn't helping either of you to come to a consensus.

After a while, Kento calms down and approaches you slowly, wiping away the tears that flowed down your cheeks without you even noticing. He goes to the kitchen and hands you a cup of water before going to your shared bedroom, giving you some space and leaving you alone in the living room to think about what happened.

He always waits for you to calm down fully and look for him. The last thing he wants is for him to cause you to feel more upset by approaching you while you're still mad at him. Rest assured though, after you go to look for him, he'll apologise very sincerely and do whatever you want to do with him. Expect lots of cuddles and kisses, and even a date later in the week!

Ryomen Sukuna

Arguments with your boyfriend are not exactly common, but they do happen more than should. He's not the best with emotions, but he's really trying his best to understand your point of view. He knows that he needs to start being gentler and more sympathetic, and he's really working on it.

But more often than not, arguments with him do escalate quite badly. He's stubborn, and most of the time he forgets that communication is a two way thing. It's not that he's shutting you out on purpose, he just doesn't register that he needs to let you voice out your opinions so that he can hear you out.

Most of the time, arguments occur because of how overprotective your boyfriend becomes when you talk to another guy. You've told him before that men have taken advantage of you before, gained your trust before throwing you around and using you for their own cruel plans. And whenever Sukuna sees someone being nice to you, he panics. He doesn't think that they're genuinely trying to be nice to you. Instead, his brain thinks of the worst case scenario and immediately his body acts to protect you in case they do anything to you.

It wasn't the first time Sukuna had to meet a male colleague of yours. Considering that you both were Jujutsu sorcerers, most of your colleagues were his as well, and he slowly managed to warm up to them without feeling the need to protect you from them, because he trusts them enough. But when he met your new make colleague who was going to be your mentee, he kind of lost it. Your boyfriend immediately glared at him when he tried to help you carry some documents back to the office, scaring your mentee.

When you got back to your shared apartment, you confronted Sukuna about his actions. To you, it was just plain unreasonable that he had scared someone innocent and who had done nothing to harm you. Your boyfriend got frustrated that you couldn't see it from his point of view and told you to just let him protect you so that no one else would take advantage of you. And while you could see where he was coming from, you couldn't tolerate the fact that he was going around intimidating people who were innocent and had no plan to abuse you like the people you encountered in the past. So you shoved him away and told him to leave you alone as you left the apartment and went to stay over at Shoko's place for the night.

The next morning, you were greeted by your mentee the moment you got to the campus of Jujutsu High. He shared about how Sukuna had apologised to him for scaring him, and had warned him not to take advantage of you, which he assured you he had no intention of doing. Upon hearing that your stubborn and somewhat unapologetic boyfriend actually apologised to someone who wasn't you, you couldn't help but feel a little touched and decided to find him after work to make up with him.

You managed to catch up to him as he was leaving the campus and immediately reached to grab his arm, stopping him in his tracks. You wrapped your arms around his torso and pressed your face into his chest, apologising for being irrational the previous night, and thanking him for looking out for you. He smiled before picking you up in his arms and pressing a kiss on your forehead, whispering an apology as well. He put you down gently and you both walked hand in hand, ready to go back home together.

Maki Zenin

You and Maki have arguments, yes, but they hardly occur. The two of you prefer to sit down and talk about it calmly instead of lashing out at each other, since talking it out makes the both of you more comfortable with sharing your views and helps make the atmosphere less tense.

During the extremely heated and intense arguments, that are few and far between, it becomes much more difficult for the both of you to take a step back and it usually ends up in the two of you ignoring each other for a while.

It's not uncommon to see Maki work out and train in her free time, considering that she wants to work hard to get promoted and just get stronger in general. Anyone who knows her would know that she works out almost everyday during her break time, and you're used to that too. In fact, you do enjoy joining in with her, or just watching your girlfriend while she trains.

But sometimes, it gets a little too much. It's not that you want to be the kind of clingy s/o, nor do you want to disrupt Maki's training regime and deprive her of the time she has to work out, but it's been bad to the extent that she only has time to eat and sleep outside of classes, missions, training and working out. Due to it being the season where more curses appear, all of you at Jujutsu High have been assigned more missions and life has been busier than usual. You would've thought that with the number of missions she was assigned, your girlfriend wouldn't have the time or energy to work out when she got a break (if she got any), but she clearly proved you wrong.

You decided to talk to her about it one day. It wasn't just about the way she spent her time, but also about her health and sleep schedule. You were more worried than anything, and you just wanted to make sure that she was alright and safe. Maybe it was the stress from all the missions, or it could've been the weather, but for whatever reason, Maki was more pissed than usual when you tried to talk to her. You explained the situation calmly and yet she could only snap that you wouldn't understand. And when you tried again to ask her about how she was feeling, she said that she was fine in a deadpanned voice. You got frustrated and ended up shouting at her, which led her to shout at you too. After she made her point she turned to leave and didn't talk to you for the next few days.

Even after the whole argument, you still wanted to look out for your girlfriend as much as possible. That led you to going to the teachers and requesting for them to give Maki fewer missions, just so she wouldn't push herself too hard on a daily basis. And little did you know that a certain blindfolded teacher mentioned it to your girlfriend in passing one day during training.

As a result, you were shocked to see Maki outside your dorm room on a weekend morning, considering that she usually went for jogs at that time. She explained that Gojo has told her about what you did, and apologised for being mean to you. You did the same, admitting that it was probably not right for you to disturb her when she was in the middle of getting ready for a mission. You invited her to spend the rest of the day with you, and the two of you let the rare time you had away from missions and training pass while spending time catching up with each other.

Okkotsu Yuuta

Arguments with Yuuta almost never occur, just because you two get along really well and never actually had a good reason to get into an argument. You two are like relationship goals, being able to understand each other's emotions and adapting the needs of the other party.

Even when things escalate, it never goes to the point of leaving a permanent, unforgettable scar on either of you. The two of you are both very emotional, and neither of you can bear to see the other person crying. So your arguments never escalate beyond a certain point, because you just can't stand to see each other hurt because of what had been said.

The only time you've had a super heated argument with Yuuta was when he finished his training overseas and was going to come back. Despite the fact that he kept telling you that he was going to return home to you soon, the date kept being pushed back. It was a full two weeks since the initial date he was supposed to come back home, and yet he was still overseas because of the missions he had to take up at the last minute.

You were slowly becoming more and more impatient. It's been months since you've seen your boyfriend, and the time you've spent apart just gets longer by the day. Did he not care about you anymore? It started to seem that way. You were normally an understanding person, and you knew how hard your boyfriend had it, considering he was a special grade sorcerer. But if you had to spend just another week away from him, you knew you would break. You decided to call Yuuta, just to let him know that you needed him back as soon as possible.

The call didn't go as you expected at all. You started by telling Yuuta how much you love him, and that you really can't do it anymore. That you can't spend any more time without him by your side. And Yuuta, with guilt laced in his voice, told you that he had to stay for six more days because of the appearance of a special grade curse. And that's when you broke. With tears trickling down your cheeks, you asked him if he even loved you anymore in a shaky voice, before hanging up on him and going to sleep, hugging the plush toy he bought for your birthday to comfort yourself.

You didn't hear from Yuuta the day after that and resigned yourself to the fate that you wouldn't see him until a week later. The last thing you expected was to hear a knock on your door the first thing in the morning, and for your boyfriend to be standing on the other side of the door, his bags and luggage still with him. He handed you a small bouquet of flowers with a small teddy bear on it and hugged you to his chest tightly. You could hear the tremble in his voice as he whispered apologies in your ear, and you pulled away from the hug to give him a peck on the lips.

After he placed his baggage in his dorm room and took a shower, he headed straight for your room to cuddle with you. The two of you talked things out, apologised to each other and started to plan for what to do if he got sent on a long trip again. Needless to say, you both spent the rest of the day in each other's arms, kissing and cuddling to your heart's content.

Inumaki Toge

You and Toge never had an argument before, as weird as it sounds. Of course Toge is a prankster and he loves teasing and flustering you, but he never goes overboard and never causes you discomfort of any sort. The two of you just never had anything to argue over, and you were thankful for that.

Well, that held true until… that happened. That's when you learnt what arguments with your boyfriend were like. And it wasn't even a normal argument. It was a horrible and scarring experience for the both of you. You just shut him out and Toge basically couldn't defend himself because you were ignoring him.

It all started when a new second year student transferred from Kyoto Jujutsu High to Tokyo. They were randomly assigned a buddy from the second years in Tokyo and it just so happened to be your boyfriend, Toge. At first, you were happy for him. Because of his cursed speech, it was difficult for him to make new friends and you had a feeling that this buddying experience would help him gain a new friend.

The warm feeling of happiness slowly turned to bitter envy when your boyfriend's buddy started to cling to him more. They basically spent the whole day together, and the only time they weren't together was during bedtime. From training to doing homework together, Toge's schedule suddenly became dedicated to them. And despite knowing that Toge loved you and only you, jealousy washed upon you and you couldn't help but feel more and more insecure by the day.

It got so bad that eventually, you couldn't even bring yourself to get out of your dorm room, unless it was for classes or training. You didn't want to see his buddy clinging to him, and your boyfriend paying them the attention they were seeking. You decided that you had enough one night, and took your phone from the bedside table and sent a message to Toge that said, "I hope you and your buddy are getting along, because it certainly seems so. If you don't want to be with me anymore, you know you can just tell me right?" And with that, you switched your phone off and tried your best to go to sleep.

You didn't leave your room for the entire day the next day and tried to distract yourself from hunger by reading the books you had. However, by the time it was evening, you were so hungry and desperate for food that you had no choice but to leave your room. And when you opened your door, you saw a lunchbox tied to the door handle on the other side. Without even opening it up, you knew it was from your boyfriend.

You immediately went to his dorm and knocked on the door. It took less than 10 seconds for the door to open and for him to pull you into a tight hug. Toge then dragged you into his room gently, and gestured for you to sit on his lap after he settled onto the edge of his bed. He placed a small kiss on your nose and muttered, "S…Sorry." You instantly felt your heart soften; hearing your boyfriend speak words other than onigiri ingredients was something that rarely occurred. You apologised before cupping his cheek and kissing him roughly on the lips, the kiss conveying all the emotions and love you felt for each other.

Suguru Geto

Yes, arguments do happen but they don't last long nor are they super intense. No seriously, your boyfriend is one of the most compassionate and sympathetic people you've ever met, so it's not often that he can't understand how you feel.

But when he truly fails to see where you're coming from, either because he thinks that what he's saying is more justifiable, or because he thinks that you're overacting, then the argument does escalate into something more heated than usual. He'll still hear you out, but he's likely going to continue to defend himself.

With a boyfriend who's a special grade sorcerer, it's only normal for you to have to spend time away from Suguru at times. It could be because of long missions overseas or just emotional distance because he can't spend much time with you. No matter what, he always makes it up to you after all his missions and assignments and spends lots of time with you.

Maybe it's because you never really showed strong opposition to Suguru going on more and more missions. You knew it had to happen, considering he was one of the four special grade sorcerers and that he was needed by the Jujutsu world considering his strength. But recently, your boyfriend started taking up more missions volunteeringly. And considering that he had never done that before, it felt weird to you… almost like he was trying to distance himself on purpose, which you were pretty sure wasn't the case. Nonetheless, you decided to talk to your boyfriend about it. You wanted to make sure that he wasn't pushing himself too hard unnecessarily, and that he wasn't being pressured into taking on these missions.

When you finally got down to confronting your boyfriend about the issue, he merely shrugged it off and said that it had to be done. He didn't really seem to acknowledge the concern you were showing him, which frustrated you and led you to snap at him, telling him about how he just doesn't seem to care about you or anything you do for him anymore. He then snapped back, saying that if you cared so much, you'd just leave him alone.

He instantly regretted his words, and even more so when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes. He muttered a quick "sorry" before he walked towards the door and prepared to leave your shared apartment to give you some space, like he always does after arguing with you. But instead of letting him leave as you would usually do, you pulled the hem of his shirt and whispered, "Stay. Please."

And stay he did. Your boyfriend sat down on the couch before pulling you onto his lap, comforting you by stroking your hair and whispering sweet nothings to you, all while you stuffed your face into his chest, letting his smell calm you down. After you calmed down enough to look at him, he kissed you all over your face and offered to make you your favourite dish for dinner that night, which of course you couldn't say no to. And you both knew that after you talked things out during dinner, everything would be alright again.

Toji Fushiguro

There was hardly any reason to get into arguments with Toji. He protected you, took good care of you and most importantly, showered you with love and made you feel so happy just by being with him. However, that doesn't mean that your relationship is always smooth sailing.

Arguments with him always escalate, but that's mainly because they hardly occur and your boyfriend doesn't really know how to deal with it. All his life, he's needed to fend for himself, so it's only natural for him to do the same during arguments with you.

You recently introduced Toji to a job. You used to work as a cashier in a bookstore and after contacting your previous colleague, who was now the manager, about job openings, they told you that there was an opening that just so happened to fit Toji perfectly. The job scope was mostly helping with organising the books in the bookstore, which your boyfriend definitely could do considering his strength and height.

Everything was going really well and he even got commended on his performance at work. Of course, you were really happy for him because he finally had a job and could earn money to support the both of you and the family he wanted to build with you. But that happiness was short lived after you realised that he started betting with his earnings like he did in the past. You couldn't help but feel a little bit betrayed because you thought he would know better than to go back to doing things like that, especially after learning how hard it was to earn money again. But old habits die hard, and you knew you had to stop it before it was too late.

You got Toji to sit with you and talk about how his job was going, before you slowly approached the topic of him betting his earnings. When you did reach that point, you asked him why continued to do it, as gently as you could so as to not make him feel attacked. But when he said that he was merely enjoying life and only betting a small amount each time, something in you snapped. It wasn't that you didn't want Toji to do what he liked to do, but you just couldn't accept that he forgot all about the future and saving money to start a family together. And so you lash out. You tell him that you suddenly feel alone in working towards having a better life and a family together, all while he tries to tell you that he was trying his luck to maybe win big and let you rest instead of working.

Somehow, that managed to make you soften up and as much as you wanted to stand your ground, you couldn't help but walk up to your boyfriend and press a kiss on his cheek. The mere fact that he was doing it so that there was a chance that if he won, he would let you rest and not have to work yourself so hard made you feel touched by his way of thinking.

Toji mumbled an apology, telling you that he didn't know you wouldn't approve of what he was doing and you could feel a wave of guilt wash upon you. You had never set any guidelines on how he should spend his money and you felt bad for making him apologise for doing something he liked with the money he earned himself. You muttered an apology as well, before pressing your lips against his to convey all the feelings you can't put into words.

Naoya Zenin

Arguments with him are the worst. The very very worst. They don't happen very often, but they always escalate quickly because he just lashes out and says everything he wants to say without letting you say anything, frustrating you in the process.

Almost every argument you have with him will escalate, and he just doesn't get that he should listen to you. He doesn't think that your insecurities might be bugging you, which is why the argument even starts. He doesn't stop to process that you're probably feeling really extreme emotions, that you're just desperate for some kind of affirmation and comfort from him. He doesn't realise that he should be gentle with you, instead of arguing with you.

Naoya doesn't spend much time away from you, he knows full well that if he does, your fears and insecurities would probably get the better of you. However, when he starts to do it subconsciously, you can't help but want some form of reassurance that he isn't doing it on purpose. It's your fear that he's still in contact with the Zen'in clan, the very people who abused you for months on end, the people he saved you from.

When you go to him, asking him about why he hasn't been spending as much time with you, he gets frustrated. He doesn't realise that he never told you about all the extra missions he's been taking on to save up more money to surprise you with a vacation for your birthday. He doesn't realise that you're scared, scared that he's going to turn against you and exploit you because you think he's spending time with the clan members, planning to bring you back to them.

And he just lashes out. He doesn't even give you time to explain yourself, he just starts telling you to learn to take care of yourself, to stop relying on him, to stop being "clingy and whiny". He doesn't stop shouting at you, saying that you don't understand why he's even doing all this. And it's true that you don't, because he never told you. He just gets so frustrated that he just continues yelling at you, until you can't hold it back anymore. You just break down in tears and run to your shared bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

Only then does he realise that he's taken it too far. The image of your tear-stricken face gets stuck in his mind, and he starts to feel really remorseful. He remembers you telling him that if he leaves you for too long, you get scared that he's leaving you. And yet that never crossed his mind when he was lashing out.

He goes to the bedroom, and knocks on the door asking if he can enter. And you never answer, too caught up in all your negative thoughts to process that he's trying to reach out to you. He always enters as quietly as possible, so it always catches you off guard. And when he sees how you look at him, your eyes shining with fear and sadness, looking at him like he's one of the clan members who abused you, he tears up too, because he never meant to hurt you that much. He grabs the blanket from the bed and wraps it around you snuggly, pulling you to his chest and letting you sob with him while he mutters apologies over and over again.

I think I went… a little crazy considering the length of this. I was honestly very tempted to make this into a hcs + short fic post and if this gets enough comments or asks requesting for a short fic part, I probably will do it =) Hope you enjoyed reading!

© @j2lx, 2022

[cu7ie]

!! ( ｡> ᯅ <｡) ~ʷᵃʰʰ⠀⠀⠀ PLAY PRETEND // statue ⠀⠀⠀... loading file

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ (⊃´｡• ᵕ •｡`)⊃ the one where you're sleeping beauty.

⠀⠀⠀cw ☆ consensual somno (sorta, reader is pretending) ☆ mikey being a jackass ☆ clothes ripping ☆ oral (male receiving) ☆ large insertions ☆ reader has a punani and gets some fingers in it.

Your mouth is overflowing with saliva as you try and suck the cock that's making it gape, trying and not succeeding to avoid choking on the dick in your throat, shallow thrust's of your boyfriend's hips accompanied by his whining.

"Not enough," spittle trickles down your cheek as Manjirou's desperation begins opening up more of your mouth. He's hardly hitting the back of your throat and yet you can barely catch a breath. You're trying to breath through your nose but his hip thrusts are shaky and erratic and when the head of his cock brushes your uvula you can't help but choke just a little.

"You gotta get more in there." And if you could speak to utter a protest you would but you've already got your proverbial hands full, sucking with all your might and stroking off whatever you can't reach. Manjirou looks down with intensity, hair curtaining his face as he watches you struggle and decides it's for the best if you just stop, right now.

Your mouth has the residual shape of an 'o' as Manjiro grips your head and slides you off of him with a wet pop. You look up, bleary eyed with remnants of tears hanging near your waterline. Manjiro is flushed, his mouth gaping in awe of your cutely swollen lips and the dull look in your eye.

"Just let me fuck you." Your shoulders heaving, your heavy pants the only thing that register as a sound at the moment. You force yourself to remember what he said to be able to respond to it, subconsciously licking the cum from your lips before you do so.

(So salty.)

"No, no no. That .. wasn't .. the deal." You frantically shake your head and try to pull on his thigh for leverage. Manjirou pushes you down and keeps your eyes level with his cock, the swollen head leaking a lot more than when you first started. "Asshole,"

"I'm not trying to be! But this isn't gonna work. It's your throat or your ass and' you can barely even take half of me. You can't suck dick for the life of you-"

"Oh fuck off, then. 'f that's what you think, stick it up your own ass, how about it?" You take his hand off the back of your head and leave the guy standing there feeling dumb, dick bobbing and swaying like he's some kind of sex doll, uncomfortably stiff between his thighs. "Noooo. Wait-", 

He hears you slam the door (presumably the one to your bedroom) and he follows behind like a kicked dog, his dick in one hand and his pride in the other. "I didn't mean it you know…" he's saying as he opens the door and pokes his little head in and feigns innocence, like you're going to fall for his sweet words this time. 

"You suck dick just fine-"

"Manjirou. We're not having sex." He groans and stomps his foot like it's gonna make you change your mind, trying to convince you with his eyes that you ought to sleep with him tonight.

"No no no no no. Figure out what to do with your dick on your own. M'not fucking you." And with that final word, you turn the bedroom lamp off and turn over. Not convinced of his rejection, he tucks his boner back into his drawers and tries getting comfy beside you. You check him in the ribs and lean into your body pillow.

You're asleep a few minutes later, breathing heavy yet peaceful as you make distance with Mikey's impudence within the comfort of your mind palace. Mikey's breathing heavy, too. 

For an entirely different reason, angrily fucking his fist beside you in bed as he tries to curl into a pillow groaning as the velvety sheet drags along the head of his penis and makes him sigh, wishing you would have just let him fuck you. You're always nice and tight, with this whiny pitch to your voice whenever he's balls deep and just going at it; the wet sound of your sex emboldening him and embarrassing you. 

You always underestimate his strength on account of his size. He's managed to hold you up and fuck you just like that, no problem.

He can even laugh to himself, remembering the look on your face.

(That shaky gasp as he pressed your knees to your chest, holding you up with both hands, back against the far wall of your bedroom. Astonished, confused, horny. You're moaning like some whore as he grabs the fat of your ass for leverage, fingers carefully gripping the curves of you and positioning the head of his cock so it catches on the lips of your pussy. And baby you're shaking like you're coming down with something.)

He can't see your sleeping expression now but bets it wasn't nearly as adorable.

"..hmph." he sighs deeply through his nose, pausing a moment before the schlick shlick resumes and he's back to furiously getting off, his impudence crackling away as he is consumed by fire, arousal making his dick pulse and his body fidgit like he can’t be asked to sit still. You stir beside him but he doesn't regard you for the time being, too focused on finishing to notice how you've stopped breathing as deeply, how you're frigid and still and listening to him jerk his cock like it's his last day on fucking earth. 

"...haah." a shuttering gasp and more weight dips the bed. He's holding his shirt under his chin and feeling his balls tighten, his shaft throbbing in his hand - slick with his own precome, some of your saliva still. "Fuuuck."

Something about his desperation flips a switch inside you.  You listen to him pant and moan as arousal twists in your belly, and it goes straight to your pussy. You're not touching yourself yet but you feel arousal trickle out of you, your pussy getting slicker and wetter and you subconsciously grip the pillow tighter, Manjirou's groaning riding up higher and higher. Subtlety cast aside, Manjirou reaches out for you.

You tense up. And maybe that was a dead giveaway to the voyeur in you. Maybe it was a sleep response that Mikey didn't register. His hands are straightening your back out and you don't know what he's thinking until he speaks.

"You don't have to do anything. Just go back to sleep, you little whore. I'll handle it," He sounds a little tired himself as he pulls on the back of the frilly panties you wear, tugging once and shivering when he hears the elastic pop. "Oops! Hope you didn't like those too much. Not like you can complain. You're asleep." And you must be, because when his animal instinct has him resorting to pulling your panties to the side with a finger, you're still not moving. And while he kicks aside the covers to get a better look at your glistening lips, thinking about how badly he wants to spill this load in your pussy and watch it spill out,

You don't move. In any way he can observe. Your eyelids are twitching but your head is in the pillow. Your lips are trying not to quirk up into a smile, you're trying not to belt out in wanton moans as his finger buries itself into your folds and he smears the slick against the pad of his finder. But he's narrow mindedly focused on the snatch that his palm heel grinds into, your clit swollen from his eager ministrations. You groan into the silk cover on your pillow. Manjiro pretends he doesn't hear you.

He spreads your legs and his hands curve around your thighs, plush flesh bulging from between his fingers as he squeezes you. Raising and repositioning your hips until he can see your pussy quivering with his own eyes.  Your panties are taught like a cloth cage, they're being sucked in by your greedy little pussy and he wishes it was him, so as one does, he goes about making dream reality.

He licks his lips.

"Wrap your legs around me — just like that. Oooh.." he bites his lip as if to say 'you little tease', when he's still doing most of the work on his own. 

"I knew you were eager for some dick." His cock slides along your thigh with the barest of touches and you can hear the excitement build in his throat. "Ya didn't have to pull back on me earlier. You could have just said how badly you wanted me to…" He crooks the fingers he's lodged inside of you into the soft tissue of your walls. 

"Oh - ho, shit. We've got a bit of a leak down here." His tone is condescending, even. But he's not lying, your pussy is soaking your panties and he really does riiiiip them right off you, the broken remnant around your hips but leaving your sensitive lips on display for him oogle.

"What to do about that.."

He peers at your pussy and mulls over a solution. You notice he gets silent and leans into you, maybe trying to glean your thoughts from the way your Adam's apple bob's as you forget that sleeping people breathe deeper than that.

".. you think I should plug it up?" The sound of a smile leaks into his voice. He holds the base of his shaft and moves your hips a little this way, a little that way.

His cock teases at the fold, rubbing up against your clit and making you fidget in your 'sleep'.

"Okay!" Mikey is deceptively cheerful, the words on his tongue sharp like the devil's horns. "Whatever you think is best."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀don’t be shy !⠀send this user a message!⠀૮ • ﻌ - ა⠀

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

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

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

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

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

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

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

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

"I said you have good taste."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's my scene," you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

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

You panic slightly. "I need a minute." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's multi-faceted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's dramatic." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do we know those guys?" you ask. 

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

Ananya turns off the TV. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–" 

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

"Shithead." 

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

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

"You'll sneak out." 

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

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

"You know this is stupid." 

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you losers doing?" 

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

"You're disgusting," Eddie says. 

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

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

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

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

"I can't shower, I'm watching him." 

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

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

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

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats. 

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

"Jame," he protests. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Whose house are we in?” you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

I need to get paid. 

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

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

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

You blow it away from her. 

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

“The floor’s fine.”

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

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her. 

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

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

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

You find you aren’t asking Morgan. 

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

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

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

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

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?" 

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

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

"You look familiar," he says. 

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?" 

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

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

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan, you could hit him.

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

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

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

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

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?" 

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

"No, that one passed me by." 

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

You take it. You tell him your name. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why's she so upset?" you ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The subtext isn't important. 

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

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This tastes awful." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist." 

"The loud one." 

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

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

"Can you get me something from the minibar?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got." 

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

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

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

A familiar scent pricks your attention. 

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

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

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

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

"Hey, sweetheart." 

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

"Have we met before?" you ask. 

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

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

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

"You look exactly the same," you say. 

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

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

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

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

"You'll catch flies." 

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

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek. 

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

His lightness fades. "Nice." 

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

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I help you?" he whispers. 

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

"Fucking move," she says. 

His expression flickers. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

"She's hot," he furthers. 

"Jesus, Gareth." 

"What? She's fucking hot." 

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser." 

"I was just asking." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did." 

"And only that." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it, he thinks. 

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

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

You appear and blitz past him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah." 

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

"She's a piece of work." 

You shift uneasily. 

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

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

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

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

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

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?" 

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

"Fuck you, I do not." 

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

"What would you know?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

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

"They're hardly desperate." 

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

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

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

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

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

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?" 

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?" 

"It doesn't." 

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him. 

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone." 

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up. 

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath. 

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon." 

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column. 

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows: 

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see? 

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror. 

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off? 

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad. 

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him. 

"And Cindy." 

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously." 

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs." 

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks. 

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave." 

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks. 

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up. 

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet. 

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks. 

"Because she was jealous of my success." 

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out." 

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands. 

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy. 

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious. 

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue. 

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right? 

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and— 

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely. 

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself. 

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room. 

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it. 

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch. 

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly. 

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face. 

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted. 

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end. 

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes. 

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly. 

"Sorry." 

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?" 

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID." 

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips. 

"You're American?" the cashier asks. 

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say. 

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card. 

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie. 

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together." 

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now." 

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that. 

"I thought you didn't know who I was?" 

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said." 

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till. 

"What were you really gonna say?" 

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean." 

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown. 

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway. 

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess." 

"You can't be serious." 

"I'm so serious," he says. 

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it. 

"You're hot when you're mad." 

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same." 

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?" 

"I thought that too," you say. 

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice." 

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter. 

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival." 

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor. 

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention. 

"Seriously, come on." 

"No." 

"No?" he asks. 

"No. I don't have to listen to you." 

"You're being stupid." 

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care." 

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?" 

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?" 

"Tormenting me." 

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other." 

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–" 

"You started it." 

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his. 

"Don't touch me," you say quietly. 

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea." 

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car." 

You're infuriating. 

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…" 

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd." 

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that." 

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people. 

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt. 

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his. 

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl. 

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him. 

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats. 

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has. 

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second. 

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson. 

You don't do that. 

You wave. 

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat. 

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do. 

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face. 

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left. 

A wooden board creaks. 

You look up. 

"Hey, you–" 

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat. 

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view. 

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest. 

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You want to mess with me, is that it?" 

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart. 

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson." 

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation. 

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft. 

You lift your chin. 

I dare you. 

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in. 

"Are you going to–" 

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours. 

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you. 

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away. 

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much. 

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth. 

"Don't play games," he says. 

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist. 

"You like games," you argue. 

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once. 

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt. 

"Stay still." 

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own. 

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?" 

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it. 

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now." 

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan. 

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks. 

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding. 

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice." 

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again. 

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart." 

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance. 

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game. 

You'll have to be better. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

[exhaslo]

Puzzle Pieces Ch.5

(Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Reader)

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4

Warning: Eventual Smut so Minors DNI, mentions of abuse, blood, murder, language, fluff, bullying, mentions of sex

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You could feel how hot your cheeks were still. Ever since you had kissed Miguel's cheek, you couldn't stop thinking about him. He was so nice to you and such a gentlemen. Honestly, all you saw were green flags coming from him. You really wanted to keep seeing him and talking to him and just, enjoying how you felt around him.

You were currently at work, wrapping some meat for a custom order. It was strange. Immediately after your first date with Miguel, your work load got easier. You didn't feel as stressed or tired anymore that you were actually able to eat normally again.

"The usual?" Your supervisor asked.

Your ears perked up, turning your head. There was Miguel, whispering something before a bunch of men entered the third freezer. You watched as Miguel slowly walked by you, his hand swiftly patting your head.

Oh, you loved it when he did that. Miguel had started to pat your head every now and then. It was a small token of affection, but it made your body feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You thought it was silly, but you wanted Miguel to keep showing you such small affection like that.

"Clock out when I finish," Miguel whispered.

Your ears perked up and just nodded to his request. Once he entered the freezer, you scurried to your supervisor and informed him of your early leaving. Your supervisor just agreed with ease and let you finish your work.

----------

Miguel just drank in every loving look you gave him. It felt like you were so close to being his, but Miguel hasn't even kissed you yet. He was still warming you up to be his little wife. Miguel needed to know how comfortable you were with his part of his life.

Sitting against his chair, Miguel watched as his men took care of another Goblin Society member. He hummed towards the man's screams, still recalling your adorable expression to his head pats. Honestly, how innocent could someone be?

"Miguel, he isn't talking." Peter whispered. Miguel lazily glanced towards the pathetic man,

"Hobie, do whatever."

"Aye, finally."

Miguel leaned back, not interested in this anymore. He already had a long night dealing with Alchemax work, only to wake up to this fool snooping around his base. Miguel just needed his dose of stress reliever, aka you.

Once the screams finally stopped, Miguel inhaled deeply. He stood up and walked towards the body then faced his men. Taking a look at his watch, Miguel grunted lowly.

"Tighten security. The fact that such a worm like this attempted to sneak around is pathetic." He spat then turned towards Ben, "You and Jessica go to the port and check the shipment. I don't want anymore surprises."

With a wave of his hand, Miguel left the freezer first. He walked through the maze of boxes and exited. The hallway where the freezers were was empty as usual. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Miguel walked down the hallway, towards the deli.

You were looking better. It had only been two weeks since your first date, but things were changing for you for the better. Miguel made sure to have a word with the supermarket. He was going to take care of you little by little. You were deserving of his affection.

He on the other hand, did not deserve yours, but Miguel was sure as shit going to take it.

Making eye contact with you, Miguel watched as you hurried to clock out and get your stuff. Miguel was a greedy man. He always took what he wanted. That or it just happened to land on his lap, just like you did.

"S-Sorry, d-did I make you wait long?" You asked.

Miguel patted your head, enjoying the look you gave him. If only he knew it was this easy to win your heart. Miguel would have done this from the start.

"As promised, you get to pick the place for our date," Miguel said with a warm smile, walking you out of the supermarket.

"I-I saw there is this H-Halloween event in Central P-Park. P-Pumpkins, apple p-picking and some o-other stuff. C-Can we go there?" You asked him. Miguel helped you into the car,

"I'm not going to say no if it's where you want to go,"

"R-Really?!"

Watching you smile brightly, Miguel couldn't help but give in. If you wanted something, he was going to give it to you. Call it love, but Miguel was falling for you hard. His little bunny deserved everything, especially if you were going to be his.

-------

You squealed lowly as you and Miguel arrived at the event. Practically jumping in place, you grabbed Miguel's hand, wanting to look around. This was something new and actually fun. You hadn't had a chance to leave your apartment to do anything like this.

"Wah, look at those!" You whispered, spotting some stands that sold desserts.

Miguel just watched you, keeping his composure as he followed your every whim. Right now, he was outside his territory. Buying you a cupcake, Miguel watched as you stayed close to him, nibbling happily on the treat.

You couldn't stop smiling as you munched on your cupcake. For once, you actually went somewhere that you wanted to go. Not only that, but Miguel was treating you like his girlfriend. Following you around and getting you treats. It was making your heart flutter. Gripping his sleeve, you tried to hide your face as you kept enjoying your treat.

Miguel kept his arm was wrapped around you waist, keeping an eye out. Some of his men were around to keep guard, but Miguel still had to be careful. After all, everything worked out when he took care of it himself.

Miguel's goal was to have the whole city of Nueva York under his command. He was almost there, but there were still some small gangs and enemies who tried to stand in his way. Miguel wasn't going to let those scum win. Not when he was so close to being in charge of everything.

"Mhm~ Sure you don't want one?" You asked. Miguel leaned down towards you, his forehead against yours,

"If you let me lick off your crumbs," He whispered, watching your face turn bright red.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he wiped some frosting off you lip and proceeded to lick it off his finger. You squeaked and hid your face in your sleeve, while he scrunched up in disgust. Miguel was never a fan of sweets, but he'll do anything for you.

"W-Want....Want to pick out a p-pumpkin?" You asked lowly. Miguel played with you hair in response,

"Sure,"

You threw away your wrapper, still holding onto Miguel's hand. Your heart was racing since Miguel was the one who asked you to hold onto him at all times. You were feeling embarrassed. These dates were making you want Miguel more and more.

You were just scared.

Scared of another Eddie. You gave yourself the better of the doubt, wanting to believe Miguel to be different. So far, he sure did feel different, but deep down...You were still terrified of him turning around and turning into another Eddie.

Stopping at the pumpkin patch, you curiously looked around, wanting to distract your mind. You were having a good time with Miguel. It was best to avoid thinking about the past. Once you found the perfect pumpkin, you cheered quietly. You wanted to try and make your own pumpkin desserts. Give them to Miguel as a gift for taking good care of you. Picking up the pumpkin, you smiled and showed Miguel.

Right as you did, an explosion happened.

Miguel immediately grabbed you, pulling you into his embrace as he signaled his men to check it out. Miguel cussed lowly as he recognized the laughter to be Goblin's and his crew. Holding your head in place, Miguel swiftly picked you up and took you back to his car.

"M-Miguel," You whimpered, shaking as you still held your pumpkin.

"My driver will take you home. Text me when you arrive."

"W-Wait," You whimpered, putting your pumpkin down and hugging Miguel's waist, "P-Please...Please don't go."

"I have to," Miguel stroked your cheek and placed a firm kiss against your forehead, "Text me when you get home, mi amor. (my love)"

Your lips quivered as the car drove off. You watched as Miguel pulled out a gun and ran back to where the explosion was. Tears rolled down your cheek as you trembled in fear. You just wanted him to hold you a bit longer and tell you that everything was okay.

That's all you wanted.

---------

Miguel cussed in Spanish, angry that his date got ruined. Things were moving along quite nicely. Miguel actually felt like you were ready for him to kiss you. But, of course, like everything else good in his life, something had to happen.

"Take them down,"

----------

After a few hours of endless shooting and fighting, the Goblin and his crew ended up giving up. Well, Miguel got his hands dirty and beat the living shit out of the Green Goblin himself. Once the cops showed up, Miguel and his Spiders disappeared from the scene, leaving nothing but their webs of destruction.

Riding with Peter, Miguel finally looked at his phone and saw your text. He grunted lowly, recalling your tears before he parted. In an annoyed and demanding tone, Miguel told Peter to drop him off at your place.

It was a surprise, but Peter happily agreed. Teasing Miguel about finally finding love and whatnot. Miguel tuned him out since he knew that Peter was just going to show him more pictures of Mayday, his child.

"Peter, why don't you do something productive instead?"

----------

You whimpered lowly as you took the batch of pumpkin cupcakes out of the oven. You were still waiting for Miguel to text you back. It had been hours since you've heard from him. Five hours to be exact and you only knew that because it took you four hours to boil the pumpkin for the puree.

Placing the cookies down to cool, you gasp as you heard your door bell. Quickly, you rushed over and glanced at the peep hole. Seeing Miguel, you opened the door and tackled him in a tight hug. Tears rolling down your cheeks as you cried softly.

"I'm sorry, (Y/N)." Miguel whispered as he wrapped his arms around you, bringing you back inside.

"I-I was s-so s-s-scared! M-Miguel, p-please..." You whimpered into his chest, then gasped moving away, "S-Sorry! I-I'm getting your shirt d-"

"I don't care about my clothes," Miguel shut the door and pulled you back into his embrace, "How are you? No lingering pain from that explosion earlier?"

This a new. Your eyes widen as tears rolled down your cheeks as Miguel observed you. He was worried about you. Asking about how you were doing. No one had ever asked if you were ever doing okay. Shaking, you gripped Miguel's sleeves and hugged him again.

"Thank you," You whispered. Miguel sighed as he stroked your hair,

"Sit down, Mi pequeño conejito (my little bunny). I need to talk to you,"

You slowly followed Miguel to your couch, rubbing your eyes. You sat beside him, noticing the furrow in his brows. This was the most annoyed you ever seen him. You played with your sleeves, worried about what this could be about.

"I need you to know about what else I do, aside from being a CEO at Alchemax."

Miguel glanced at you, watching you fidget in your seat. He scoffed lowly, wondering what you were nervous about now. Gripping his hands, Miguel tried to hold this out as longer. It was always a risk telling someone about his mafia business. He had to secure their silence before revealing his secret.

But how could he do that to you?

You could have gotten injured today because of the Goblin's bullshit. Miguel wanted to protect those he cherished. His mafia group was made to protect the innocent, despite how it seems. Fixing his posture, Miguel turned towards you.

"(Y/N), what do you know about the mafia?" He asked, making eye contact with you. You flinched,

"Um...I've watched...the G-Godfather."

"Dios Mio. (My God). Alright, my fault there, I set the bar too low," He said with a grin, "How do you feel about underworld business?"

"Hm...Not sure...what you mean,"

"(Y/N), is there anything you know about the criminal world?" Miguel asked, honestly wondering your innocence. You shook your head,

"N-Not really, just that...it's bad stuff. Um, I-I was always told...t-to keep my nose down...a-and not...not know about anyone."

Miguel raised you chin, his thumb trailing your cheek. His eyes motioned you to come closer, to which you did. Miguel could see the curiosity in your eyes. The anticipation you had the closer to got to him. Miguel kept his hand against your cheek, his body turning to face yours.

"How would you feel if I was one of those bad people?" Miguel whispered, his other hand bringing you waist closer to him.

"Y-You're not...bad to me," You whispered.

"Oh, but I am,"

Miguel's smirk grew wider as he sat you on his lap, his lips drawing closer to yours. Once he had you secured, Miguel stole your lips in a deep kiss. Your lips were soft and your grip was light. It was strange, but Miguel felt a connection.

--------

You trembled slightly as you drew closer to Miguel. Your body was getting hotter as your heart raced faster. Once you were on his lap, you resisted a whimper. His touch was so soft and warm. He was gentle as he stole your lips with a kiss.

You felt weak as Miguel kissed you. His kisses were deep, rough, but somehow kind. His hand held your head while his other held your waist. You could feel your body heating up. Parting your lips for air, you whimpered lowly as Miguel took the opportunity to slide his tongue inside your mouth.

Another whimper escaped your throat as you gripped onto Miguel's shirt. As if he understood, Miguel broke the kiss, letting you catch your breathe.

"Sorry, got carried away there," Miguel whispered, holding your waist still. You shook your head,

"I-It's fine...I enjoyed it." You admitted shyly.

Miguel raised a brow as you stopped shaking. He raised his hand to your cheek again, watching you nuzzle into his palm. He smiled, finally giving into what Peter said. Miguel pulled you into a hug, letting you rest against him as he stared at your shitty cieling.

You belonged to him now. Miguel was going to hold off telling you about his mafia business. As much as he wanted to inform you now, Miguel had to make sure you were secured with him before saying anything. It will take some time though.

"Miguel," You whispered, slowly falling asleep, "I...made you...some pumpkin cookies,"

"I'll make sure to try them," Miguel hummed.

Once you fell asleep, Miguel inhaled deeply. You smelled delicious, probably from your soap. Miguel rubbed your back, his eyes glancing at the rim of your shirt. He wanted to see what you were hiding, but he knew that you needed to tell him.

That and he might lose his temper if there was something he did not want to see.

"Best not to think of that. Let me just enjoy this moment."

Closing his own eyes, Miguel decided to rest. He was comfortable with having you in his arms. This was a first and defiantly, not the last.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

next chapter

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[becca-e-barnes]

Thinking so much about clingy, mutually possessive, filthy sex and how much I just need that rn

The kind of sex where you and Bucky just can't feel close enough to each other. You physically can't get any closer than you are, his thick cock buried so deep inside you but you still need more of him. He has nothing left to give you and you're glad because if he was any longer, you wouldn't be able to take the rest.

You're panting against his neck, whining out your frustration each time he slides home into your warm, wet body. His own groans are low, rumbling from his throat and hanging in the humid air of the bedroom you share.

"You know I can't fucking resist you. I can't." Bucky moans, grasping one of your wrists, guiding it between your bodies, encouraging you to play with yourself while he fucks you.

"I can't say no to you. Fuck, I'm yours." You hardly hear what he's saying over the obscene, wet sounds of your body accommodating his.

Your fingertips rub against your slick clit and the sensation is almost too much. "You're mine." You whine against his neck, using your free hand to claw at his back, driving him impossibly closer to you.

There's something reassuring about the feeling of his skin on yours. It's hot and sweaty but it's so comforting being naked with him, enjoying the pleasure of each others' bodies. You don't feel vulnerable communicating your pleasure to him; you feel understood.

"I am." He groans, eyes fluttering shut, lost in the way your body clings to him. "All yours. And you're mine, aren't you? My good girl."

It's a relentless build up, each stroke taking you a little further than the last and at some point, the band just has to snap.

"I am." You whine, barely able to manage any more words than that.

"You feel like Heaven. You were made for me. This warm, tight little pussy fits me perfectly." His body still isn't close enough to you, not that there's any way you could physically feel more of him.

"You take me so well, you know that? You take every drop of cum and you still beg me for more. Fuckin' love it." Just the very mention of Bucky pumping his release into you makes your walls flutter, dreaming of the feeling of his thick load shooting into you.

"I can't last like this." You hear him mutter and you're almost glad because you're not far off either. "Can't last when I can see that pretty face." His eyes meet yours and he pulls you in for a kiss that stifles your moans for a few seconds.

"Bucky, please." You groan when he pulls back, rubbing yourself just a little too quickly now that you've gotten desperate.

"Go on sweetheart, let me feel you cum for me." It only takes a few more strokes for your high to take over, pleasure rippling through you in a way that leaves your legs shaking.

You almost miss the start of Bucky's release, given how distracted you are by your own but the unmistakable throbbing of him inside you tells you he's reached his own peak if his moans didn't give it away.