#look I fucking hate smartphones

[lensdeer]

Just got hit with a borderline animal urge to build a cyberdeck

[workwort]

firmly and deeply resent the modern condition of stratification social isolation and compulsion to not only own ‘essential’ tech and have it within arms length at all times but also to adopt and maintain a digital identity/social life

[sirquacklesdefoof]

I AM UNSTOPPABLE

[gandalfs-mommy-milkers]

[ID: The "full of milk" cat from tumblr user catcrumb, edited to be frowning with angry eyebrows and a drip of blood on the corner of their mouth, and to say "full of bloodlust". End ID]

me when the psychiatrist moves addresses and doesn't tell their patients

[pinkrelish]

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬.

ex-con!linecook!eddie x fem!reader

✶Steve messed up. He assured you over and over again that you could have the spare bedroom in his apartment, but while you took your time mulling over his offer, someone else moved in: his down-and-out best friend who needed a place to stay. When you show up at Steve's door with little warning due to your job relocating you, he suggests you and Eddie share the bedroom. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Besides the fact Eddie hated you, and in turn, you hated Eddie.✶

NSFW — smut, masturbation, eddie watches porn, dry humping, cumming in pants, reader flashes her bra & wears a pencil skirt, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, there was only one bed(room)

↳ teaser oneshot | [wc: 9.3k] | series tba!

⋅line cook hc from @bewilderedbunny⋅

Steve was a nice guy. Really.

He was your pen pal since meeting at summer camp when you were both eight-years-old. He was sweet, and wrote you back within a week, without fail. He was your first kiss one sweltering afternoon on the dock over the lake; a quick peck when the counselors weren’t looking. He was one of your first contacts in your flip phone, and his picture occupied the first circle when you got a smartphone, after pestering him to meet up with you in Indianapolis, snapping the pic at a crosswalk; a day where your conversations spanned nothing and everything. What was there to talk about when you talked via pencil, pen, markers, emojis, and photos for years, and suddenly forgot the past decade when you encircled your arms around each other?

He was a nice guy throughout all of college. He’d text you during class. You’d text him from states away, falling asleep at your dormroom desk. He worked at his father’s business. You started as an unpaid intern collecting coffee orders, and pulling all-nighters doing spreadsheet grunt work your superiors didn’t deem worthy of their time.

Stevie 🌞: just quit your job and live with me!

Stevie 🌞: I still have that spare bedroom

Stevie 🌞: rent free

Year after year, you always declined. Climbing the ranks at your job was important to you; and one day it paid off. They were relocating you to the Chicago, and if you didn’t take their pitiful relocation package, you’d get a decent advance on your next paycheck (which was dire considering your salary was roughly the same, despite the ever increasing cost of living); and knowing Steve always had that spare furnished bedroom, and most of your belongings could fit into your car (as long as you didn’t need to see out the rear window), it seemed like a done deal.

Until you surprised him.

You: hey! can i move in w you? my jobs relocating me to chicago and i might already be two hours out. sorry i didn’t text sooner. i had to leave my apartment asap. fuck paying for the damage cindy’s doberman did to that place 😬

Stevie 🌞: Lets talk when you get here

Stevie 🌞: I’ll meet you for coffee

Let’s talk? Never a good sign, even when he was smiling at you from over his latte.

————

“My friend needed the spare room, but he’s a good guy, I swear,” he told you.

“He’s just a little rough around the edges,” he told you.

“He’s understanding; I’m sure you two will get along,” he told you.

“He can make space in the closet for your stuff, and one of you can sleep on the couch,” he told you. “Maybe you can alternate! Bed, couch. It's not like I’m charging him rent, so he should be cool with you living with us until you can afford to move out, or whatever. No big deal. I don’t really care when, you know that. No rush.”

Right. Just share the room.

You weren’t present for the conversation; Steve and Eddie were in the bedroom while you stood awkwardly in the living room, but the result of the exchange made quite the first impression.

“I dunno,” Steve’s voice carried, “maybe you could work something out like you get the room Monday through Wednesday, and she gets it Thursday through Saturday. Sunday’s up in the air?”

“Oh, just share the room like I used to, huh?” Eddie asked, alluding to the life he lived several months ago. “Finally got some privacy to breathe around here, and now you’ve invited some chick to live with us without telling me? Actually–no–you invited her to live here. In my room. No heads up.”

Steve’s wince was audible in his heavy sigh. “You work weird hours, you probably won’t even have to interact with her. C’mon, man. She’s been my friend since we were kids, and it’s just until she finds her own place. She’s cool. She’ll sleep on the couch, or whatever if it really bothers you; just like, let her keep her clothes and shit in here, and let her use the computer for work.”

“Whatever, man.”

“Eddie, wait!”

Thunderous footsteps and a seething, “Fuck this,” followed the heightened emotions, and before you could straighten your spine, you were introduced to your new roommate.

His pace faltered, not expecting you to be standing there. The fine wrinkles in the outer corner of his eyes pinched tighter, and his long hair flowed around a faded black snake tattoo on his throat, stretching across the strained tendons it was inked over, reaching the twitching muscle in his jaw from his clenched teeth. It took him a narrow-eyed glance to sum you and your pink luggage up, and place you firmly in the ‘I don’t like you’ category in his mind, and he continued his march.

“Hi! I’m–”

Your outstretched hand went ignored as he passed you.

He shoved on his boots, and slammed the front door behind him, rattling every piece of metal in the apartment. You stared at where he was just standing, vision marked with a black silhouette of the good guy you’d be sharing intimate space with for the next.. however long, and still with your hand out, you swiveled to Steve. “Yeah, he seems nice.”

————

Eddie Munson glared at your very existence. He wore a permanent crease between his brows when you were in his vicinity. Apprehension tensed his muscles when your soft gaze slid from Steve, to him. There was distaste in his frown. He rolled his eyes when you laughed too loud at the TV. His voice was vitriol, words clipped when he had to speak to you. His shoulders hiked to his ears when you entered the kitchen for a glass of water and caught him mid-chew on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich after he got home from work. When it was your turn to sleep in the bed, he made it a point to come home as loud as possible–yanking open the drawers on the dresser, waking the computer to blazing home screen, and leaving the light on when he went to shower across the hallway, pretending he didn’t hear you grumble at him to turn it off.

You wore a sleep mask to bed after that.

And when you slept on the couch, it was the only time he cooked for himself. Scraping pans across the burners, clinking silverware, gathering his hair off his neck and twisting it between his laced fingers, creating a cradle for him to drop his head back and sigh at the ceiling, just loud enough to stir you from your sleep.

You wore earplugs to bed after that.

Eddie Munson made it known you were not welcomed in his territory, and saw your accidental warm smile thrown vaguely in his direction as a threat to his well being.

But as much as he ensured misery every second you had the fortune of spending in his presence, you weren’t so innocent of terrorizing his every waking moment either..

Soon, Monday through Wednesday, and Thursday through Saturday, and a chance at a lazy Sunday were not enough.

————

When Steve was home, he acted as the mediator when it came to you two being at each other’s throats after another vicious stare-off. Currently, Eddie was standing with his arms crossed, leaned against the counter with his cheeks darkened to a fleshy red, and you were pacing the kitchen, wrapped in a bath towel, stating your case to Steve. You argued since most of the hair clogging the drain belonged to Eddie, he should be the one to clean it. And Steve, not knowing how to interpret Eddie’s steely focus on the fridge as if you didn’t exist, nor the fact a woman was dripping wet and yelling at him, he put his hands up in defense.

He edged away from your ire until he was at the cabinet housing a toothpick dispenser, and depressed the mechanism for one to roll out. He snapped it, put his hands behind his back, and shuffled the two ends into his palm, and had you choose one. Eddie kept his gaze averted, but grasped the other.

You held the long end of the toothpick above your head with a smile to rival the kitchen’s daylight bulbs searing into your retinas. You were the winner, and Eddie was the loser who had to clean the bathroom.

This worked swell when Steve was around to mitigate the tension. But when he was on a business trip, or out on a date, the Bed Schedule was a formality at best, and largely ignored at worst.

Meaning, the bets, deals, and favors began.

They started small: Rock, paper, scissors; winner gets dibs on those just-washed sheets. Flip a coin and see who has to rough it in the living room for the next two nights. Draw the shorter toothpick and try not to stab it in Eddie’s eye when he smirked.

But those were childish games. It was the deals and favors that proved more interesting.

“Can you help me punch holes in these?” you asked, voice high and urgent as you rushed to grab your color coded pie charts from the printer and clip them into a presentation binder.

He scoffed from the bedroom doorway, smelling of fryer oil and bacon grease. “What makes you think I want to help you after cooking for assholes all night?”

“Because you’re nice, and you love me.”

“I despise you,” he corrected, crossing his arms tight over his chest. He shifted his weight from foot to foot while you organized the pages, resisting the bait to give him what he wants, but you knew in your heart it was the only way to not be late for work this morning.

“Fine. You can have the bed tonight.”

He stayed put. “Nope. You know I’m working the overnight shift until Thursday.” That way, he slept while you were at work, and you slept while he was at work.

You glanced at the blue dawn creeping in from the window, then red the time on your watch. “Okay, fine, whatever! Have it all next week. I don’t give a fuck, just help me!”

Reveling in his victory, his plush lips stretched into a wide grin, showing too much teeth. He sauntered at his leisure, closing his eyes half-way, and gazing at you down the long slope of his nose. “Good girl, I knew you could do it,” he mocked.

You wanted to strangle him.

–And another time–

“Shut the fuck up for an entire day, and you can have to whole fucking closet,” Eddie snapped after your fifth instance of complaining about your professional office clothes not having available hangers due to him taking them for his old, ratty band tees.

Centering yourself, you brushed the dust off your favorite pants after finding them wadded up on the floor, and whispered, “I hope a rogue knife finds its way into your thumb again tomorrow.”

You swore you saw his hand flex out the corner of your eye, reacting to your curse.

–And the week after that–

You: come help me bring up these groceries

You: elevators broken

You: we can race up the stairs

You: loser washes dishes and takes out the trash

😒dumb: as long as the loser doesn’t cry about it when she sleeps on the couch

You: whatever

😒dumb: i’ll even give you a head start to make it fair

Struck with being that person grinning down at your phone in the stuffy underground parking garage, you gilded your thumbs over the keyboard in a fluttery tease.

You: you just want an excuse to stare at my ass

It took Eddie longer to reply, fumbling with his phone to find the emoji keyboard, only to send–

😒dumb: 🙄

–And the week after that–

“Get a life, you fucking loser,” you yelled from within the metal cylinder of the dryer, bent over on your hands and knees to wrestle your silk blouse free from where it was tangled in a rope of bedsheets, after you told him–explicitly–to never wash it because he’d do it wrong.

He merely watched you struggle from the sidelines, informing you, “You’re the one who asked me to do laundry. Don’t toss your precious, delicate shirts on the bathroom floor if you don’t want them thrown in with everything else. And by the way, I did my part of the deal, so the room is still mine tonight.” As a bonus, he added as he walked away, “Suck my dick, sweetheart.”

Your gums ached from how hard you clenched your teeth. You didn’t leave your blouse on the floor. He did, when he went hunting for his wallet he left in his jeans, and dumped all the clothes out of both baskets, mixing your work clothes with his.

That night, you locked him out of the bedroom. Fuck him.

————

After tireless days of the same back and forth, the juvenile deals and favors were losing their significance. Someone needed to up the ante. And a certain line you two skirted taunted you both, but remained uncrossed until..

————

The hallway leading to your apartment was stale with inactivity. Most people had been home for hours, or were back from bars and crashed on the couch, drooling on their girlfriend’s favorite decorative pillow–the kind with the pom poms. You thought of them with envy. Snoring, dreaming of some blissful shit like sheep hopping a pasture fence. But not you. Your 9 to 5 extended far past those numbers on the clock. It skipped right over them, just like you were skipped over in meetings, being told the extra burden you were taking on was good for the company, and the programs you were learning would be paid in experience. Bullshit. You were tired, and the last thing you needed was some long haired man stubbing his toe on the coffee table to wake you up–morning or night.

But perhaps you were blessed.

You opened the door to near-darkness. Not a lamp, or TV on inside to show someone was home. Not a groan, sigh, or blast of music funneling from a set of oversized headphones. Not a creak of movement from the hallway, or bathroom; surrendering your heartbeat as the loudest feedback.

It appeared you were alone. What a wonderful thing.

The muffled thud of the low pile rug under your heels gave way to silky sweeps of plush carpet welcoming your aching pantyhose-covered feet. Moving further into the apartment, you knew the shapes to avoid in the dim light coming from above the stove, casting the coffee table and scattered stools at the breakfast bar in shadow.

Groggy from exhaustion, you blinked at the spice cabinet door Eddie left open before leaving for his shift. During a conversation with Steve, you let it slip that people who leave the cabinet doors open annoy you, so of course he began leaving one open as a greeting when you came home.

You closed it with your right hand, swinging your laptop bag wildly, and before you could react, the strap caught the top of the glass sugar jar and knocked it over in a wincing crash. Luckily, after peeping one eye open, you assessed nothing broke, but now there was a streak of glittery white dust on the countertop you definitely weren’t going to clean up.

Maybe you could strike a deal with Eddie to wipe it up for you. It was–in a way–his fault, since he left the cabinet door open. If you didn’t need to close it, none of this would’ve happened..

You made a gagging sound.

Since when did your immediate thought process swing to him, and how do you get it to stop? It was bad enough you peeked around the corner into the hallway, praying, praying, praying the bedroom light was off, and feeling your body slump with utter relief when it was. Being on the same planet as him was hell, you didn’t need your private thoughts to linger on him, too.

Mentally dismissing Eddie Munson from your brainspace, you invited yourself into the bedroom. You sought the cushy mattress to cradle your weary body after a long day, and the nest of cozy fleece blankets to swaddle you as you drifted to sleep. Unfortunately, the idiot’s pillow smelled far too much like him; cigarettes and cheap vanilla cologne combined with his hair products, burning your nose like toasted sugar. Despicable. Just the worst. You should exchange it with your own pillow, but you forgot it on the couch, and the couch was so very, very far away..

~~~

Eddie sat crouched in the alleyway outside of Benny’s Diner with a stubby cigarette balanced between his lips, blowing the smoke out in a slow exhale like a roll of fog on a misty morning. Cold emanated from the bricks pricking the expanse of his shoulders, and the night air chilled his damp shirt to his sticky skin, erupting goosebumps along his forearms. Standing around him were the other cooks on break. He didn’t share a common language with them outside of gestures, curse words, and kitchen lingo, but they gathered in a semi-circle as if to include him.

His shift was over. He’d technically clocked out, but he loitered until their vices were stomped under their shoes, and he snuffed his glowing ash on the wall behind him, and followed them inside.

Washing his hands first, he dried them on the towel tucked under the string of his apron tied around his waist, and set up a space on the flat top for him to occupy since the dinner rush had long since died, and the only patrons on the floor were drunks wandering in for greasy hashbrowns. He grabbed the four quart Cambro from the fridge beneath the prep area, and ladled enough batter for two large pancakes. Borrowing a station, he sliced up a ripe banana from the walk-in, and dropped it into a hot pan with a bit of butter, caramelizing them on the range while he waited for the pancakes to be flipped.

The guys behind him read off the few tickets, and carried their conversation from earlier. Eddie caught some of it, learning a few words here or there, but regardless of the language barrier, he knew they were talking about him. They were snickering with their heads together, pointing at the pancakes he was making despite being clocked out.

Eddie spoke with a sneaky grin, “If I make them for her, she’ll leave me the fuck alone on my day off.”

The guys may not have understood entirely what he meant, but his sunny disposition juxtaposed by his wry gaze communicated a universal plight: girls.

One of their hands landed hard between Eddie’s shoulder blades when they doubled over in a belly laugh, and the other one made whip-cracking sounds, calling him the same slang word he called the married cooks. It wasn’t worth it to attempt to correct them that these pancakes were not for his girl, but for his future migraine, so he hummed along with them, and flipped the pancakes with his right hand while tossing the bananas with a swift jerk of his left.

After their gossip, they went back to work, and Eddie grabbed a to-go container, loading it with the two pancakes and sliding the caramelized bananas on top. He brought it to the prep area to drizzle with chocolate sauce, and finished it off with heart-shaped strawberries, a dusting of powdered sugar, and a sprig of mint. He didn’t cut the strawberries that way with ulterior motives, it was just something he did when he had spare time in the morning. Cutting a wedge out of the stemmed top, and slicing them vertical. The customers liked it. It was cute, supposedly. There were no hidden intentions to him taking his time to place them just so around the box; it was merely him taking pride in how he plated his dish.

Clamping the container shut, he untied his apron, changed his shoes, and left out the back entrance, kicking pebbles under the crescent moon, and walking through the front door of the next building over. Gray concrete, a faulty elevator, ugly rugs to feign elegance, and high rise as far as ‘high rise when you live next a bunch of squatty buildings’ went. It was home, and it was blissfully dark inside.

Eddie worked his feet out of his tied-once-and-never-untied street shoes, and dropped his non-slip clogs next to them in a loud clatter.

He breathed. Inhaled deep. Sighed through his nose.

Quiet. Peaceful respite behind his eyelids.

The adrenaline ebbed. The hours of shouting and being shouted at, metal on metal clangs, timer beeps, and mechanical whirr of a ticket being printed out would never cease haunting his mind, but he should stop flinching from the imaginary sounds after a few hours. The pain stretching the length of his back should ease under a hot shower. The throbbing ache in his knees should lessen once he sleeps. The fatigue, like needles driven into his bones, should heal so he could be on his feet for thirteen more hours tomorrow.

Warmth worked its way beyond the calluses creating a barrier in his palm supporting the styrofoam container. Syrupy sweet hot sugar invaded his nostrils from the pancake bribe, battling the stench of his dried sweat and body odor baked into his t-shirt. The tiled entryway beneath his feet woke him out of his daze, and he slid his heavy-lidded gaze to the vacant couch; the comforter was folded, and the pillow was propped up, unslept on.

Briefly he wondered if you went out with your friends after work. But as he approached the kitchen, his dreams were crushed by a single closed cabinet door.

You were home.

You were home, and you weren’t on the couch, nor in the shower.

Eddie allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he hung his head back. In that position, he rolled the disappointment out of his shoulders, and braced them with something new.

Irritation.

Tamping the frustration in the pit of his stomach from bubbling up, he exhaled another calming breath, and opened the fridge, placing the pancakes exactly front and center amongst the fresh produce he was sometimes excited to create with, and sometimes slammed to the bottom of the trash when he was too exhausted and uninspired to do anything with their rotten corpses.

He prepared his expression into one of unbudging indifference. Flat, and unwilling to back down.

And yet, his nose scrunched when he pushed open the bedroom door, and there you were, as predicted, lounging amongst your hideous blankets spilling out from under you as if you were an opulent pearl nestled within an oyster shell.

The resentment built as he assessed your form delicately painted in a red glow from the ugly neon sign in the shape of a lipstick kiss tacked alongside his favorite band posters. He’d only lived with Steve long enough to feel comfortable decorating the blank walls, and you ruined the Rob Halford flow three days into your invasion. Your face was highlighted by the dim blue light of your laptop resting on your stomach, rising and falling with each gentle breath, and you were haloed by the Himalayan salt lamp crowding the nightstand. It’s trendy, you explained.

With vehemence, he flickered the light switch.

You cringed from the bright assault, and clacked your fingers on the keyboard, pretending you weren’t dozing off a second ago. “Can you go away?”

“What’re you doing in here?”

Unimpressed by his tone, you glazed your response in insolence. “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m minding my own business.” At that, your attitude was solidified, along with how this interaction would go.

Eddie stared at you for a long minute. Not once did you acknowledge him. He watched your eyes dart across the screen, probably watching one of those Youtube videos where girls walked around exciting cities with a camera way too close to their face, and he dragged his gaze downwards, noticing you were still in your work clothes; though, your blouse and skirt were disheveled, and your pantyhose were discarded on the floor, still holding the vague shape of your legs, resembling a flattened rotisserie chicken.

He focused on your eyes again. Bloodshot, rimmed in red with a suggestion of water clinging to the outer corners where your eyelashes met, and sporting a hefty burden of bags beneath them.

“It’s Wednesday,” he reminded you, voice heavy in his chest, but sounding scratchy, and hollow. His throat was shot.

“Mm,” you hummed and glanced at the clock in the corner of your screen, “it’s Thursday, actually.”

White hot anger boiled in his veins, striking his skin like a leather lash. It simmered, popped, sizzled, boiled over. The yelling, the timers, the cacophonous clanging. The ticket machine, the keyboard, the stinging cut on his thumb. Smug fucking brat laying in his bed on his night to have it. It was sudden, it was stark, and it was hatred.

“Make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“A fucking deal,” he repeated. “You know, like we’ve been making?” He stopped himself short of calling you a dirty name, but you must’ve gathered it from his tongue’s hesitation, because you turned your head a few degrees to challenge his temper.

“Oh, lucky for you, there was a two-for-one deal at the store.”

You waved two middle fingers at him, showing a bit of teeth with your crooked grin.

The hatred festered, but not as vicious. The anger was there–oh, the anger was there–but the energy to keep this going hit its peak, and fizzled. There was no sense in reasoning with you. The pancakes in the fridge were for a different occasion, he couldn’t waste them on this, and he was too tired to come up with his own bet, deal, or favor. “Just think of something so we can get this over with,” he nearly begged.

After some consideration, you held your fist out for rock, paper, scissors.

“Where’s the option for a gun in my mouth?”

“Harsh,” you pouted. Instead, you pointed at the 20 sided die on the desk. He inclined his head, shaking it with a slow sort of intention, eyes wide to express his warning to knock it off, and give him a true answer, something to make this worthwhile.

Finding the whole ordeal dull, you returned your attention to your laptop, pressing the white earbud into your ear before unpausing the video.

It took seconds off his life, but you finally spoke again.

“How long were you in prison? Six years? Bet it’s been a while since you’ve seen one of these in the flesh.” Due to your satin cream blouse being unbuttoned at the neck, you dipped your thumb under the collar, and traced the vibrant temptation of your red bra strap in a long, deliberate stroke. You hooked the soft pad of your thumb under the luxury, and brought it out for his viewing pleasure. A moment later, you snapped it to your skin, and went back to typing, not once breaking concentration with your video.

Eddie’s fascination, however, was trained on the dainty crimson gift slipping under the shimmery cream, sliding against the soft slope of your shoulder.

Heat thrummed in his chest. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, sloshing his blood like viscous tidal waves, muting the clacky sound of your keyboard. Anger mixed with something more, something worse. It warmed his cheeks, and reignited the cold sweat prickling his back. It honed his curiosity, sinking every detail of the second tortoiseshell button on your blouse into his mind. Memorizing how the fabric around it went taut, and glinted honey at the height of your breath. Noticing how the bottom of your shirt was wrinkled and pulled slack, but still tucked into your pencil skirt. Remembering how the tight material hugged your thighs when you traipsed around the apartment. Although, the navy blue number was less defined now, fitting looser around your hips.

He didn’t know how long he was fixated by your clothing, until you sighed.

“Not enough for you?”

You asked it with forced casualness, he could tell. Your voice was too even, tone too polite, eyebrows too raised in mock indifference. You were introducing a line that had yet to be crossed. A door which, when opened, would give access to more possibilities than the usual bets, deals, and favors. An enticing offer, and he didn’t deny the nervous flutter of intrigue arousing his blood elsewhere.

But past the line was dangerous territory. Right? That’s where things got muddied, and feelings got involved.

Or maybe not. Because, above all else, he hated you, and you hated him.

This was a deal like any other.

“Maybe this’ll help,” you said, never breaking eyesight from the screen, its colors reflecting in your pupils.

You were the epitome of cool pinching the blouse between your fingers and slotting the buttons through the holes one after the other. Down, down, down to your navel, tugging either side of the shirt open, letting the elegant cream frame the aggressive scarlet.

Eddie was taken off guard.

The bra was more akin to lingerie than he expected. Its cups contained you like a poorly kept secret. Curves of red peonies covered your nipples–hard bud pressing against the center of the flower from the thrill of exploring a new end to your daily arguments. Your areolas peeked from between the petals, where the intricate lacework went see through, granting him a preview to the smooth flesh beneath.

Click clack, click clack, space bar, space bar, space bar, he swore you pressed your arms together to make your breasts rounder. Actually, he didn’t need to second guess. He saw the cusp of cleavage squish before his very eyes.

“Satisfied?” you inquired.

No, he ached.

The voice in his head was so automatic, so sure, he didn’t question it, either.

When he refused to verbalize the things which made him nauseous, his opulent pearl rolled onto her shoulder and lifted the laptop the pillow, turning over onto her stomach to engage with it solely, circling a manicured fingernail over the trackpad, and clicking.

To his surprise, the video on screen wasn’t of the vapid people you watched, but of a troubleshooting guide to the program your company was having you learn in order to teach it to the higher ups next week. (Or so he heard when you told Steve yesterday.) You tabbed out of the video, fixed a property in a column, checked the statistic it was evaluating, and added in an aesthetically pleasing green color before tabbing back.

He couldn’t parse how he felt about you having to do more thankless tasks off the clock, especially when you were clearly tired, but something else stole the last of his fiery anger, and doused his willpower to resist a glance.

Your habit of unzipping your skirt as soon as you walked into the apartment proved evident when you rolled over. The silky polyester lining slipped against your skin, shifting the long zipper from your hip to your backside. The halves parted, showing the end of the cream blouse, and a peek of skin. You adjusted how you laid, rocking your hips back and forth until you sank into the plush blankets, and propped your chin in your palm when you weren’t typing. Small movements working the skirt higher, and higher, bunching the fabric around the fat of your ass. Squirming, and stretching, tugging on your blouse, pulling, pulling, blouse, skirt, blouse, skirt, and then he saw it..

Red.

Delicate, feminine.

Tucked, hidden from anyone’s view but his, were the matching red panties to your bra. Trapped in a valley between thighs and ass, and stretching over the swell of your heat, embellishing the mouth watering desire in opaque lace strained firm against the outline of his treasure.

Eddie swallowed.

“Why’re you still in here?” you asked with a bite of annoyance. “You got to see a girl’s bra for the first time ever, probably. You should be celebrating, throwing yourself a party. In the living room. On the couch.”

The anger had returned like a slap of reality across his cheek. He narrowed his eyes at the back of your head, remembering why he loathed you with every fiber of his being. “I’ve seen a bra before.”

“Pictures don’t count.”

“Whatever, bitch.”

Your body jolted with a snort, and he flung open the door hard enough for it to bounce off the door stop. He heard your infuriating inhale, and slapped the lightswitch off, shutting the door behind him with excessive force before you could ask more demands of him. Gladly, he closed himself out of his own bedroom. The physical barrier under his trembling fist had never felt better, still gripping the knob as if he’d go back in there.

He wouldn’t.

He let go of the chilled metal and stalked down the hall, curbing himself from stomping out his frustration, only to throw himself onto the couch. Stomach burning with hunger, hatred. Chest heaving with rage. Pulse rising in his throat, beating against the ball chain necklace he wore. Breathing so hard, sounding as if he’d ran laps before collapsing onto his bed for the night, crossing his arms to squeeze his biceps, massaging his fingers down the muscle. Occupying himself. Distracting himself.

It wasn’t working.

He was mad.

Furious.

Draping his hand over his eyes, he gave himself a moment to make a decision, and pushed his bangs off his forehead. They stayed in their gravity defying position due to the oil. He needed to shower. He needed to clean himself of this day, and go to sleep. But he couldn’t.

The fever in his veins was too distracting. He needed to take care of it. Get rid of it.

Sitting up, he unfolded the comforter from the end of the couch, and propped the pillow against the armrest to angle his head slightly up, where he could see the hallway.

From his front pocket, he collected his phone and laid it on his stomach while he unbuttoned his pants, pinching the waistband together and pulling the zipper down, sighing through his nose at the relief of the lines he was crossing.

He grasped his phone and brought it close to his face. Cupped in one palm, and using the other hand to tap it twice. A streak of perspiration was left on the screen where he swiped in his passcode, using his index finger to open a private browser and type in a porn site. Any porn site. Whichever variation of the word porn + noun he thought of first. It didn’t matter much to him; that’s not where his preferences lie.

office worker

co-worker

secretary

office worker tight skirt

office worker pov skirt grinding

His brain went stupid for synonyms trying to narrow down his search. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he knew the ultra HD, professionally lit, fakey acting wasn’t it. He scrolled, and scrolled. Narrowed his search again. Ticked off boxes on the side. Tried broader genres. Went back to the results he was on, and traveled down the rabbit hole a few more pages until, at last, he found what suited him.

The thumbnail appeared promising. Dimly lit, sorta bad quality, and clearly shot at home with a woman whose body type wasn’t far off from what he was hoping for. He even appreciated the visual similarities in the amateur actress’ navy blue skirt, and off-white blouse. As long as he scrolled down a tad to crop out her face, it was perfect. Plus, it was easier to insert himself into the scene that way.

He clicked it, and– ”Jesus Christ,” he turned down the volume as quickly as he could, accidentally pressing down the two buttons on the side that took a screenshot and saved it to his gallery.

The video started a little further into the act than he anticipated.

Such a fucking idiot, Eddie, Jesus Christ. Sitting in thick silence, he waited to see if you’d heard, and once his face calmed of the embarrassed flush stinging his cheeks, he moved on.

Eddie worked his right hand under the comforter, but heeded his boxers as a layer of separation. At the first contact with the parts of him he denied aching for the bane of his existence, he allowed his eyes to flutter closed. Gently, he raked his fingernails down the base of his shaft, and over his balls. He cupped them. Felt their heft. Cradled them and dragged them softly upwards, letting them fall and stretch before repeating the motion, enjoying the tickly sensation of being the first thing he touched. His most sensitive, most susceptible part of himself. Meanly ignoring the other part of him twitching, throbbing, begging to be catered to.

He kept some fraction of his brain alert to the hallway, senses sharpened by the spike of adrenaline, listening out for any sound of you exiting the room. But most of him was focused on hitting the play button, sticking to his decision that he couldn’t wait to do this in the shower. He needed it now.

It started with the woman already in motion. Shot from the guy’s point of view laying on the bed, his obvious hardon pressing through his slacks into her pussy grinding down on him. Her skirt lifted with each motion, showing her black underwear. Not that he was complaining they weren’t red, but he didn’t concentrate on them.

He switched from playing with his balls to gripping his cock. Finally. It buzzed with the rush of pleasure, harder than it had ever been, even in his youth. His fingers hardly met through his boxers, but he encircled them the best he could, and started with fast, desperate, stunted strokes, getting himself to where the guy in the video was in a matter of pent-up seconds, clenching his ass to buck his hips up. Heart pounding. Inhales shaky from the speed at which he took care of his problem, exhales interrupted by muted huffs.

Maybe he should be embarrassed, but it didn’t take him long to feel that encouragement to keep going, keep going, keep going. Where each frantic pump along his length was better than the last. Where each accidental graze of his fingers over the lipped edge of his tip sprinted towards his bliss.

In the video, the woman dipped a finger between her lips and moved her panties aside.

There was a low hum in the back of his throat, engrossed by the wet warmth opposed to his dry fist.

Metal knob turning–door creaking–carpet groaning, step, step, step–

It was a fucking miracle he managed to close out of the window in his panic. His thumb missed it the first two times as fear coated him in a cold sweat, and the phone fell out of his palm, smacking him in the chin as you rounded the corner.

You didn’t spare him the time of day as you walked into the kitchen and got a glass from the cabinet. Didn’t bother looking at him as you stood at the fridge with your hip cocked out, holding the cup under the outer dispenser and depressing the button for ice.

The fridge made a mechanical whirr, and filled your glass. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, the ice cubes tinked into the cup for the longest seconds of his life. His hand was frozen mid-tug on his dick, and you were wearing an oversized t-shirt, and nothing else. Truly, it hardly covered your ass. It clung to your hips, brushed the height of your thighs, and suddenly, he was checking how obvious the bulk of the comforter was over his lap, and if it creased when he moved his hand upwards.

Nothing. Not a fold out of place. He could keep it up. Stroke, by stroke, brushing his fingers over the head only, testing his limits to keep discreet while you switched to the other spout on the fridge for water.

Even when you turned to him, he massaged himself over his boxers, soaking the sticky slick beads of precum into the fabric.

“What?”

Your tone didn’t deter him from tracing the underside of his swollen head, caressing the glans with the same sort of sentiment he experienced in the homemade porn between a real couple–all gentle and nice.

He mustered enough brain cells to respond, “What? I’m already sleeping on the couch. Can’t you leave me alone for one night? Or are you that desperate for attention?”

None the wiser, you took a sip from your glass, and folded your other arm across your stomach, making it obvious from the natural sway that you weren’t wearing a bra. Probably weren’t wearing panties either..

Swallowing the ice cold water with a satisfied ‘ah’, you went on your merry way. “Just came to gawk at the bridge troll, is all. Night night!” Your annoying farewell was followed by the creak of the door, and the faint click of it closing.

What a fucking irritating person.

The anger bristled again. Definitely anger. It was there, lurking, when he rubbed at the sore spot on his chin and picked up his phone, unlocking it to stare at the homescreen.

There was no patience within him to find the video. Besides, the sanitized professional thumbnails on the homepage were enough to have him dropping his phone to the cushion crevices beside him, surrendering himself to his imagination. Nothing lived up to the scenarios in his head, anyway.

Before getting ahead of himself, he slid his fingers beneath the elastic waistband, and gripped himself wholly. There was no sense in denying what he wanted: the raw desire of his hand wrapped firmly around his cock, not caring about creating a mess. It could be cleaned up later. He needed this. Now.

He immersed himself in the fantasy.

The visuals took place minutes ago, if he hadn’t backed down. It was based on you refusing to give him the bed, and instead of walking away from your bratty attitude, he lifted his chin, and broadened his chest with a confidence he didn’t possess. Fantasy Eddie had the courage to kneel on the mattress like he belonged there. Your body would dip, rock towards his imposing knees straddling either side of your calves, and in his strongest dreams, he acted out what should’ve happened.

If he had his way, he would begin with your hips. A single strong palm on the curve would have you hiking them up to greet him, and he was a gentleman. As soon as you presented him with the opportunity, he was scrambling to spread your legs so he could dip between them, eager to please. He wanted to know the sensation of coarse red lace scratching across his tongue; it would be a novelty only he would know. His hands would be on your upper thighs, bringing you closer, closer, to where his mouth awaited you. Persuading your face to the sheets. Putting a wicked arch in your back, granting him permission.

He’d angle his mouth to your clothed clit and collect spit to his bottom lip, parting, and lapping his tongue over the pretty thing, suckling it through the fabric. His nose would be to your cunt, inhaling the musky pheromones. Didn’t matter how long you’d been at work, proving yourself to people who would never appreciate you like he did. He cherished every bit of you so much. The heady scent intoxicated him like a drug, the dimples when he smashed the fat of your ass around his face, your silly whine when he pressed kisses up your pretty pussy. The anger was gone. Like that, he adored you. After all, you craved him. And it’d been a long time since he was wanted. It felt nice to not be rejected.

Eddie, Fantasy You gasped when the wet sound of him sucking your clit through your panties grew in fervor. He was drunk on you. Trying hard. Giving more. Licking at the dark patch he created. God, he loved it. He loved the evidence. He could suckle, moan, flatten his tongue like torture and just breathe on you until he fell asleep, waking up to nudge his teeth over the sensitive areas you presented to him. Spending hours getting you to your peak, over and over.

But in reality, he was approaching his end rather quickly.

My turn, sweetheart, he regretfully informed you.

Getting to his knees, he positioned himself behind you. His cock slotted so nicely against you; red lace meeting unzipped gray uniform pants, and he wasted no time stoking the flames from where he left off.

He clapped your cheeks around the hard outline of his cock. His black boxers stretched to their limits to contain him. There was a dark patch at the tip peeking out between your ass, growing with each slow, assertive grind he committed to, fucking himself into the curve of your cunt with ragged breaths. Losing himself. Mouth agape, and eyebrows pinched as his needy head was swallowed when he rocked his hips back, and reappeared with a rough thrust.

Again, it didn’t take long until he needed a break to make himself last longer.

He draped his weight over you as he slid his rough, calloused palms up the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps along the sensitive flesh on his way to your sorry excuse for skirt. He bunched the pitiful thing to your waist, and reached for the hem of your shirt.

You hummed in approval, pressing against his lap.

It was hard to balance, but you supported him as he yanked your blouse up–sucking in a sharp breath when you moaned, and rutted yourself on his length–and he brushed his fingers along your soft skin in search for the bra clasp, and when he found it, he pulled the band tight. The latch gave. He caught sudden heft in his palm, cupping you and the bra together, massaging lightly until your nipple slotted between the base of two of his fingers, and he applied the gentlest pressure.

Oh fuck, you whined so nicely for him.

They’re extra sensitive after being caged all day, you explained.

Yeah? Does it feel good?

You nodded, cheek smashed against the wrinkled sheets.

He pinched harder.

Saliva gathered at the corner of your lips, spilling in a sticky string as you dragged your head in another nod, heavy-lidded eyes just visible through your lashes, open mouth panting for him.

True satisfaction spread like weightlessness from the pit of anger in his stomach. He wasn’t supposed to be making you feel good, not the person ruining the one place he found peace after six years of paranoia, but here he was, wishing the taste of your pussy lasted longer in his mouth. Here he was, anchoring his forearm alongside yours, gripping the same sheet you gripped while he beared his weight down on you, and pressed kisses to your clothed shoulders.

His other hand was trapped between you and the bed, but each pulse around your nipple was another long stroke on his cock.

The scene had been set. The build up and story line were crafted. Now, he could play.

He worked kisses under your collar, tasting the sheen of sweat at your hairline, leaving trails of spit to cool as he lolled his head on top of yours, resting his forehead amongst your hair, and he put his lips to the shell of your ear, feeling you shiver beneath him.

Do you think you can treat me that way, and get away with it? Fantasy Him asked. Think you can boss me around whenever you want? He punctuated his question with a hard, unexpected thrust, earning a gasp from your pretty mouth.

Turn over. He didn’t command it verbally, but when he took away his hand to smack the side of your ass, and sat back, you were aware of his unstated switch in position.

You laid on your back, legs spread for him. Skirt bunched around your hips, blouse fallen open, except for the one button remaining. He grasped his cock, and stroked himself through his boxers for you. His brows were drawn together in a gentle question, gaze locked onto yours. This was supposed to be about him, but he still asked, Is this okay? Is this what you want?

The source of his anger, his rage, his frustration–all the blame, burdens, and negativity he attributed to a single woman–opened her arms to him, and nodded.

He passed over your pussy to praise kisses to your stomach. Deft fingers working to undo the last button on your blouse, and explore upwards. Wet smacks of his sloppy gifts arched your back the higher he traveled, molding his large hands to your body. Brushing his rough fingers to the junction of your inner thigh and hip, and spreading you open so your pussy swallowed the fabric, wedging the red lace tight to your clit for later. Up, up, his kisses covered you, until he nosed at the underwire of your bra, and lifted it out of the way.

Fuck, Eddie.

You pushed his hair out of his face. The shorter curls fell from the low bun at his nape, and you tucked them behind his ear so you could watch his tongue lap and swirl at your nipple. Your fluttery moans were heaven, as were your tits being shoved in his mouth. You squirmed for him, clamored for him. You wanted him, needed him. Did you care that his hair was greasy? Did you care that dried salt crystals from sweat scratched your fingers when you cradled his jaw? Did you care about his smell from thirteen hours of being in a hot kitchen when you cupped him under the armpits, encouraging him with a buck of your hips to get back to business?

He supposed not, since it was his fantasy.

But just like reality, you were trying to boss him around.

Want me to fuck you, sweetheart?

You could hardly meet his gaze, eyes so heavy with lust you couldn’t keep them open long enough to beg.

He aligned himself, nudging the tip of his cock to your clit, and he savored the experience of watching the bliss wash over you. It took him a beat to realize, but he moaned in response to your moan. Watching you react from where he picked up his head from your chest, memorizing the fake vision of your face losing the usual harsh distaste for him. Your lips were better this way–lush, and making an effort to sound out his name as he drew his hips back–not sneering because you had the displeasure of asking him a question.

Still, he drove forward with haste. Cotton on lace. Layers of separation. Anything else was too intimate for how he wanted to fuck you, rough and fast, caring only about himself and not about your poor neglected clit, swollen and pleading for his soft tongue, only to get rough, unmeasured thrusts. Messy, and unintentional, and denying. Until you made them work for you.

You used the meat of his shoulders as leverage. Digging your fingers in, holding tight as you rocked with him and raised your legs, wrapping them around his ass. The squeeze of your thighs, and pressure built from your locked ankles tipped you into a better position, and now, his entire length was flush to your clit, not simply passing over the top of it.

All of him was touching you, touching you, touching you. Trapping his cock between your stomachs, damp with reignited sweat. Back to rutting against one another at a desperate pace, chasing the tension, the high. The snap of his hips. Your stuttered groans for more. The anger, the hatred. Festering under the surface, bubbling in your insolence. Present in his teeth grazing your throat, nipping at the pulse, kissing, sucking, licking, tasting.

You’re gonna make me cum. Even Fantasy You said it in a lower register, reaching where the molten resentment laid dormant.

He found the same gravelly animosity and warned you, “I’m too close, I’m too close.”

You cradled him tighter, burying your heads in each other’s embrace. Muscles quivering from effort, burning with each grind, tensing under curious hands finding new places to cling to, curves to admire. Until they stayed put.

Nails bit flesh. Strong fingers dug painfully at bone. Mouths fell open. Eyes closed. Writhing flesh on fabric, and flesh, you trembled under him.

I’m–mm, Eddie–I’m cumming–

His thrusts faltered, jerking into short bursts, and his gracious moans went high and tight in his throat, spilling out as he panted, “You make me feel so good, baby. Fucked you so good. I can’t–I’m cumming–fuck–”

Fuck, Eddie–Fuck, Eddie–Fuck, Eddie–

–”Fuck,” he babbled aloud.

The climax took him to the dark apartment. The overwhelming shadows of sleeping in the lonely living room on the flat couch under an extra blanket not yet broken of its factory starch, scratchy on the skin. His muscles were still tensed into him curling in on himself, lifting his aching neck and shoulders off the pillow for a few more pumps of his hand sliding over his slick shaft, spreading the warmth oozing towards his hip, no doubt tangling the curly thatch of hair above the base. In lip-biting silence, he stroked himself, not daring to breathe after he knew he said something out loud from his imagination. He listened. Eyes straining to see the hallway.

His bangs stuck to the heavy sweat on his forehead.

His entire body was heated beyond belief.

Anticipation sat heavy on his tongue.

But as he came down from his peak, nothing happened. He stayed lonely. His heartbeat pounded against the guitar pick sticking to his chest, and that was it. Now his head was cleared of distractions, and he could sleep. The fantasy was a fantasy, and in this reality, he wouldn’t do this again. It was too weird to muddy the multitude of negative feelings he had for you with.. whatever this was.

A release, that’s what this was.

Kicking the blanket off, he swung his legs to the side to sit up, socked feet softened by the plush carpet. He pressed his palm over the sticky substance dripping downward, and soaked it up to the best of his ability. And as his cum hit the fresh air, and his inhale was cut short as he smelled his shirt, he thought about the shower he needed. And he thought about the dark patch on his boxers. And he thought about his clothes in the dresser in the bedroom.

Looking down, he inspected his gray pants, and groaned.

They were ruined.

So, so ruined and obvious as to what he was doing.

There was no way he could go into there and grab new clothes for a shower. The thought of facing you after this, and you seeing him in this pathetic state–and God, if you knew it was because of you, and because he couldn’t control himself–he’d rather die than admit you did this to him.

Fuck.

Couldn’t even go to his own room for some fucking clothes so he could shower after working all day.

Yeah, that confirmed it. He fucking hated you.

Hated you even more when he thought about you sleeping on his mattress, wrapped snug in his bedsheets wearing only a t-shirt with nothing else to cover you, and his dick twitched again for that red lace he knew was discarded in the laundry basket.

“Fuck my life.”

[tkaulitzlvr]

Im the type of person that wouldn’t do the silent treatment if Tom got me mad. I would stay out all night and not answer the phone just to make him mad. How would Tom react 👀?

PERSISTENT - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: after a fight with tom, you decide to go out clubbing, much to his annoyance. no matter how many times he calls, you ignore him, bringing him to his own breaking point. and once you come home, he doesn’t plan on going easy on you.

content: angst + mentions of smut, i’ll do a part 2 if u guys want lol

a/n: tom being rough and possessive is so hot like i would purposely piss him off just to see him mad… ANYWAYSS thank u for the req anon!! i’m so sorry if i haven’t done ur request i have like 50 in my inbox so it’s taking me a while but i don’t have an order of how i do them so it’s pretty random what i’ll choose to write but yea pls bare with me!!🙏🙏

“come on, i said i was sorry. you’re being so fucking dramatic.” tom says, standing on the other side of the room as my eyes are fixed on my phone screen, not paying any attention to what he is saying, still liking how the idea of punching his face sounds. he knows that he has fucked up, deciding to forget to show up to my family dinner yesterday, instead rehearsing with the band all day and crashing at bill’s place, not showing up until right now - 8:30pm the next day. and, he had dug himself an even bigger hole, telling me to ‘calm down’ when i expressed my anger towards his incompetence.

“am i?” i mutter sarcastically, refusing to make eye contact. unbeknownst to him, i was texting my friends, making sure that nobody had plans, organising the final details of which bar we would go to, deciding that if tom can stand me up without telling me, then i can go out partying as i please, whether he is aware or not.

he tuts beside me, his slow and tired steps trudging towards me as his figure falls onto the bed, the mattress dipping next to me. he places one hand on my ass, massaging the flesh lightly, his lips meeting my neck as he plants rough, open-mouthed kisses over the skin. i take no notice, continuing to tap the keys of my small smartphone, not at all tempted by his lazy advances.

“please baby…” he mutters against my neck, kissing the skin harshly between his words. “i’m sorry, let me make it up to you, hm? i’ll make you feel so good. just let me touch you princess, you’re so beautiful.”

his shitty attempts to win me over are almost pitiful, my body still as i try to stifle a laugh, a smile spreading across my face as the text that confirms that everyone can make it comes through. i say nothing, detaching tom’s arms from my lower back, getting up from the bed and walking towards the closet, picking out the sluttiest dress that i own, knowing how much tom hates me wearing it.

he watches me from the bed, his eyebrows furrowed, staying silent for a few seconds, yet the second he sees my hands grab hold of that dress, he sits up, his confused voice sounding through the bedroom.

“woah woah woah, what are you doing?” he asks, standing up and moving in front of me, attempting to block my way.

i simply roll my eyes, moving past him and placing the dress on the bed. “going out.” i shrug, my fingers reaching to the hem of my t-shirt, lifting the soft material upwards and over my head, tom watching me do so.

“wearing that? no you’re not.” he scoffs, quickly snatching the dress from the bed and holding it against his chest. i turn around, my upper half now completely bare besides from my bra, tom’s eyes focused on my cleavage, his expression still angry.

“stop playing and give me the fucking dress.” i sigh, holding my hand outwards and trying to snatch it from him.

“you’re not going out. not without me.” he reiterates, his grip on the material staying tight as he looks into my eyes, his tongue poking the inside of his lips.

“yes, i am.” i state, quickly snatching the dress from his hands and running to the bathroom, frantically locking the door before he can get to me, his fists colliding with it as he groans in frustration, a string of curses leaving his lips.

“you’re such a fucking brat, you know that? open the door and quit messing around. this shit isn’t funny.” he yells, repeatedly banging on the door.

however i am too busy slipping the dress onto my figure, adjusting the small straps and brushing my hair into a slick ponytail, applying some extremely rushed makeup, all whilst he continues to shout at me from the other side of the door, pointless apologies and pleads to let him in sounding throughout the bathroom. i hurriedly grab my heels, placing them on my feet and taking one last look at myself in the mirror. i had looked better on nights out, but tonight was about revenge, and whilst i didn’t look my best, i still looked hot. hot enough to drive tom absolutely insane - especially considering that he would have no idea where i was, looking like this all alone his biggest fear, partly out of concern for my safety, but it was mainly because of his jealous tendencies. and whenever i dressed like this, even if he stayed by my side at all times, he became more possessive than ever.

yet right now, i want to make him mad, desperate to get him to the point of utter insanity, seeking some form of payback for what he had done - not caring about the consequences.

i emerge from the bathroom, tom stood inches away from me. he raises his eyebrows, his gaze moving downwards as he studies every inch of my body.

“no fucking way are you leaving looking like this.” he starts, shaking his head as a sarcastic chuckle leaves his lips. “you must be insane if you think i’d let you. do you have any idea of the kind of people out there? fuck that.”

“since when can you tell me what to do?” i laugh, taken aback by his sudden attitude, pissed off at the way he tries to control me, especially after what he has already done.

“since i’m your fucking boyfriend, incase you had forgotten! only i get to see you looking like this, i’m not gonna let you leave the house alone, letting everyone see basically everything. don’t be ridiculous.” he tuts, narrowing his eyes as i can sense the irritation in his tone. “i said i was sorry. if that’s what this is about, then you’ve proven your point, great job. but i’m not letting you leave, not wearing that.”

“you don’t own me, i can do whatever the fuck i want.” i shrug, pulling my dress up a little higher just to frustrate him more, before rushing out of our bedroom and through the house, quickly slipping out of the front door before he can stop me. he frustratedly calls my name from behind, a chorus of curse words and irritated demands all along the lines of telling me to ‘come back’ spilling from his lips until i close the door, running to my friends car and hopping in.

i look at my phone, already seeing five missed calls and a few texts, some apologising again, others telling me to come back inside. i roll my eyes, putting my phone on silent and engaging in conversation until we arrive to the club, spilling out of the car.

the place is completely packed, excitement oozing through my veins as we rush towards the bar, ordering far more shots than necessary, but in the moment i didn’t care - my mind focuses on one thing: pissing tom off. and i know that the more drunk i get, the more angry he will become, the idea satisfying to me as i pick up the small glass. i hold it to my lips, some lipgloss smudging onto it, my head tilting backwards as i allow the liquid to slip downwards, burning the back of my throat. i wince slightly, the taste strong and bitter, yet that doesn’t stop me as i pick up another glass, swallowing the liquid inside of it as fast as i can, eager to feel its effects right now, tired of feeling sober.

my friend takes my hand as i quickly swallow the last of my drink, following her shaky footsteps, all of us beyond tipsy. we find our way to the dance floor, slotting between a couple too focused on swallowing each other’s faces to realise we had pushed them aside. the alcohol finally sinking into my system, bringing along with it a sense of freedom that i had missed so much. i sway my hips to the music, getting lost in the rhythm, a wide grin on my face.

༻❦༺

i have no idea how long i have been dancing for, or how long i have been at the club for. i probably can’t even count the amount of drinks i have had on my fingers, now completely wasted as i sloppily dance to the music, my arms in the air.

“come on, we’ve got more drinks!” i hear my friend call over from the couch area, her words slurred and almost inaudible.

i smile widely, awkwardly shuffling through the crowd and over to the table, my movements all over the place as i stumble towards the couch, flopping onto it. my eyes turn to the large tray of drinks, filled with an array of shots and cocktails, my hands reaching for whatever drink i can touch first - not exactly picky at this point, i’ve probably consumed every cocktail to exist in the past hour. the sweet taste washes over my tastebuds, it’s bitter aftertaste now normal to me as i swallow it with no reaction, drinking the liquid like it is water, feeling happier with each sip. i place the drink down, glancing momentarily to my phone for the first time since i had left, seeing that tom is calling me again, at least twenty unseen messages filling my inbox.

baby i said i was sorry, come on. - 9:52pm

seriously, this isn’t funny anymore. - 9:52pm

come home now, i’m worried about u. - 9:53pm

where the fuck are you?? - 9:54pm

i swear to god if you don’t pick up the fucking phone. - 9:56pm

do u think this is funny? do u know how worried i am?? answer the damn phone. - 9:58pm

answer the fucking phone. i swear to god once i find out where you are. - 10:01pm

i’m coming to find you. - 10:04pm

i roll my eyes, placing my phone back in my purse and picking up my drink, finishing the last of it and putting the empty glass on the table. the place starts to feel increasingly warm as i decide to get some fresh air, standing up slowly from my seat, almost toppling over from the amount of alcohol i had consumed.

“anyone coming for a smoke?” i ask, turning to my friends.

they all decline apart from one, resuming their conversation over the loud music as the two of us head outside, pushing the doors open, the cold air hitting my face and cooling me down immediately. i open my purse, taking a cig out and lighting it, bringing it to my lips as i inhale, closing my eyes. the smoke fills my lungs, bringing a small moment of calm despite the low buzz still in my body. i exhale slowly, watching the smoke pour from my lips, disappearing into the night as i lean backwards against the cold wall, it’s harshness causing me to shiver a little.

i take a few more drags, holding the cig in between my fingers, enjoying the small moment of peace. the streets are practically empty, apart from the large queue of people waiting to be let into the club beside me, the diluted thumping of music drowned out slightly. the roar of a car engine, one that sounds strangely familiar, pulls me out of my hazy moment, my eyes turning to the source of the sound. i can recognise that car from anywhere - it’s headlights getting closer and closer as i roll my eyes, turning around and attempting to blend in with the small crowd of people outside.

i sigh in relief as my plan is successful - or so i thought. the car drives past me for a few seconds, it’s tyres screeching to a stop as the door opens, tom stepping out of it. his eyes frantically scan the crowd, his entire expression disjointed, chest heaving up and down as he tries to spot me. apparently my attempt at cover doesn’t suffice as his eyes lock with mine, his face softening as he lets out a sigh of relief, rushing towards me.

i groan, knowing that there is no point in running - he will always catch me, wasting my energy trying to escape would be useless. he comes closer, pushing the drunken bodies aside until he is standing in front of me, his face angry.

“jesus fucking christ do you know how scared i was?” he shouts, roughly grabbing me by my waist and smashing his lips to mine. though i can tell that this isn’t to show his affection, rather it is a way for him to release a small amount of his frustration, this not even the beginning of it.

“no way, really?” i question sarcastically, gasping as i pretend to be shocked, still furious for the shit he pulled lastnight, not interested in his feeling right now.

“lose the fucking attitude. don’t think that you’re gonna get away with this. we’re leaving, get in the fucking car.” he says, clenching his jaw and grabbing my hand. though he is clearly furious, he takes it gently, maintaining a steady grip, still careful not to hurt me.

“what if i don’t want to leave?” i challenge, a satisfied smile on my face as i know exactly how to further his anger.

“you don’t have a choice.” he states, rolling his eyes as he begins to pull me towards his car, his breathing heavy, face stern. i know that i have pissed him off, and perhaps gone too far.

he opens the passenger door, and i step in sulkily, knowing that i have pushed my boundaries. i fold my arms, rolling my eyes as he slams the door shut, quickly walking around to the driver’s side, angrily getting in.

“never fucking good enough for you is it?” he mutters, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip as he sighs, roughly clicking his seatbelt on. “i told you i was sorry, but you had to be a brat about it.”

i stay silent, sinking further into my seat as he places his hand firmly on the gearstick, beginning to drive away.

“where’s your fucking attitude now, hm? pathetic.” he scoffs, turning to face me for a second as i refuse to make eye contact, embarrassed at my change in persona, slightly scared by his tone, knowing that i have fucked up.

his foot presses harshly against the accelerator, speeding up, letting out his anger as his hand clenches the gearstick, tugging it roughly, his veins flexing with each motion.

“just wait until we get home. i’m gonna fuck that attitude out of you, maybe it’ll teach you to stop being so stubborn all the damn time.”

i sense the sincerity in his tone, recognising that he is completely serious, deciding to stay quiet to avoid pissing him off further. yet i cannot ignore the aching between my thighs, slightly excited at his threat, secretly desperate to get home so that he can execute his promise.

time seems to work against me, each second feeling like hours as the silence between us only fuels the tension. i have never been so relieved to see our house come into view, waiting patiently as tom pulls in, turning the engine off and staying in his seat. he takes a deep breath, his tongue messing with the metal of his lip piercing before he opens his mouth to speak, refusing to make eye contact.

“upstairs. and do as i say this time, if you want to be walking tomorrow.”

requests are open! as i said veryyy full atm but if i like ur req i’ll do it straight away so keep sending them in!!

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Yes, yes, we love a bit of hero whump, though may I suggest if it is not too much.... some villain whump? 👀

-💜

Most of the time, the villain could deal with injuries perfectly. In fact, they'd been in med school for several years and had perfected stitching up nearly every inch of their own body. Usually, they wouldn't accept help under any circumstances.

Partly because it felt wrong to bother someone else with their troubles, partly because they were terrified of other people's (non-existing) skills. They couldn't risk it.

But they assumed being placed under house arrest with the hero watching them wasn't exactly usual.

It happened in the middle of a card game between the two of them. A week ago, they would have never agreed to such silly things but after a few days, they had realised there wasn't much to do. No internet connection. No smartphone, no TV. Just this house and a hyperactive hero that couldn't sit still.

Once a week they got to call their parents.

In the exact moment as they put another card onto the stack, the villain felt the stitches open one by one. At first, they simply denied it, made themselves think that it wasn't that bad. They were simply mistaken; it was surely just the usual pain and they were exaggerating.

But the pain increased and they could feel the wetness of the blood trickle down their back. A week ago, before the hero had captured them, they'd been in a pretty rough shape. A swollen face, several nasty bruises and this one stab wound that kept reopening. And stitching their own back? That was more than a little challenge. They hated it, they loathed it.

"I think I have to use the washroom," they said.

"Oh, really? Now that you're losing, huh?" The hero raised an eyebrow. They took these games a little too serious. "Do you seriously expect me to go easy on you because I am the hero? I've been playing this game for years. I have mastered it and I will destroy you, no matter what it takes. No matter what you try, I will-"

"Okay, you win, oh almighty hero." They threw their cards onto the table. It was getting worse. They didn't even know if they could stand up without tripping. Their vision blurred. Everything seemed to turn upside down.

"'Hey, that's not how this works," the hero said. "You can't just give up like that. I was supposed to defeat you."

"M-hm." The villain stood up and for a second, they really thought they would pass out. They took in a deep breath.

"Wait, are you okay?"

"Hm?" The villain didn't find the hero's eyes right away and they could feel their own body sway. God, they needed painkillers, rubbing alcohol, thread, needle... "Yeah, be right back."

They walked past the hero, always in search for something to hold onto but they didn't come very far.

"Oh my god." The hero sounded a little too concerned. The villain thought themselves to be quite a good actor and they weren't even swaying that much. "What the...?"

The hero was next to them in seconds, their hand on the villain's arm. They held onto them.

"What did you do...?"

"What? Nothing, I...oh fuck..." Involuntarily, they grabbed the hero a little too harshly when they felt the wound pulsating.

"Your entire shirt is drenched in blood!" The hero's gaze had hardened and a more concentrated look had replaced their playful smile.

"I got it, it's alright," the villain mumbled. They let go of the hero to drag themselves to the bathroom but the hero had other plans.

"Lay down on the couch," they said.

"You're not my boss," the villain argued. Sometimes, they hated themselves for their stubborness but being nursed by the hero sounded like a greater punishment than even house arrest. Being vulnerable around them, letting someone else take care of them...it sounded like actual hell.

"Please," the hero said. They took the villain's hand and the villain was so confused by this gentle approach that they almost forgot about the pain. They were sure no one else would ever beg to take care of them. When they remembered how violent their capture had been and how many heroes had punched them, they got goosebumps.

They would never tell anyone but they were having nightmares about their fights. Anxiety was eating them up. So, they were almost glad that the hero was observing them at their home.

"It's fine, really," the villain mumbled. "I got it."

"You are bleeding out. You're not fine. Sit down." More or less of their own volition, the villain eventually sat down on the couch. "I'll take your shirt off now, alright?"

The villain's hand was still in theirs.

"Okay," the villain agreed. Their breath hitched and they prepared themselves for the inevitable pain that would follow. However, the hero wasn't rough with them.

"Isn't that from last week?" the hero asked while they pulled the bloody shirt over the villain's head.

"Yeah."

"They gave me an entire protocol about your injuries. There wasn't anything about a stab wound. Just your ankle and your face."

The villain smiled tiredly. "Sounds about right."

It wasn't a big secret that the agency preferred to be silent on how exactly they caught their villains.

Against the villain's burning back, the hero's cold fingers felt heavenly. They put their palm against the villain's skin and pushed them a little forward to see the injury better.

"Did you stitch that yourself?"

"I tried, yeah."

"It looks pretty good," the hero said. "Just give me a second, I will grab everything."

The hero stood up and left for the bathroom.

And the villain sat there, perplexed. When had they ever allowed someone else to even touch them? When had they ever undressed in front of someone else?

What was happening? Were they really this desperate loser who needed comfort that bad?

The villain stared at their hands, their trembling hands. There was no way they could stitch any wound like this, not even if it was on their thigh.

It was more than frustrating, more than a little annoying.

"Is there anything else I should know about? Allergies maybe?" the hero asked. The villain turned around and was surprised to see the hero with all the things they would have grabbed too. There were even painkillers and a glass of water in their hand. The villain shook their head. "Alright. Take this."

All of it was a little...too good to be true. What the hero asked seemed reasonable and their actions were too. The villain swallowed the painkillers and watched as the hero sat on the couch. They pressed a clean towel against the villain's wound and despite their carefulness, the villain hissed.

"Your pain from one to ten? How bad is it?"

"I..." the villain realised they had never thought about it. Usually when they tended to their own wounds they were like a machine, following instructions they had burnt into their system a long time ago. It didn't matter if it burnt or hurt, as long as the wound was closed. But the hero was actually communicating, they were careful and gentle. "...maybe a three?"

"Are you sure?"

"Okay, it's a five." The hero seemed to be another person completely, their jokes and their cheery manner were long gone, yet they were friendly and soft. Apparently, this was the professional side of the hero.

"Do you think it was a clean knife? Your wound doesn't seem to be infected."

"It should have been. Heroes clean their knives regularly, don't they?" For a moment, the hero was quiet and the villain wasn't sure if they had said the wrong thing. They cleared their throat. "Uhm, I can also stitch the wound, if you..."

"No, it's okay. It looks pretty clean, so I'm not going to put any alcohol on it. Don't want to damage your tissue." Woah. The villain had never really cared about that. They'd just drench their wounds in alcohol to kill any infection causing thing, even if that damaged their tissue. "One more thing before I start stitching."

"Yeah?"

"Just out of curiosity. Do you know whom of my colleagues did this to you?"

The villain's stomach tingled. The hero was probably not asking out of pure curiosity.

[riri0000i]

Choso had always been the easy target. Since kindergarten. He was mentally weak, anti-social, and never responded to any provocation. Girls called him creepy, a freak, while boys raised their hands at him as a "joke". He spent mornings at school trying to not be noticed by people like you, without any success, of course. He had no one to hang out with and the only thing he did outside school was taking care of his siblings and pulling all-nighters in front of the computer, talking to the only people who could understand his loneliness.

A real loser.

" Oops, my bad Choso!" You chimed with a fake guilty face. Your friends were all laughing, some even taking pictures with their smartphones. Choso didn't move an inch from his chair, letting you pour the probably expired milk carton on his head.

" Hey! Don't frame me with this creep too." You said, noticing that a friend of yours was also taking pictures of you.

" It's not like the teacher cares anyway. " She responded. She was right: teachers gained nothing from defending students like Choso. Your school was one of those elite schools, mainly attended by people like you: rich and mean, with disgusting pastimes like making other people's lives miserable. And then there were those like Choso, who had earned the scholarship by studying.

" I know, but today I forgot to put my lashes on." Your answer made your friends laugh again and you joined them. Before class began you looked at Choso, drenched in milk. You met his tired eyes, as soon as he noticed your gaze he looked down. His weakness pissed you off.

“ Pathetic dog.”

౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

The chemistry professor was explaining biomolecules, there were maybe five students who were actually listening to him. You were not one of them: you were scrolling on your phone and the few times you looked up you watched how your friends sitting next to Choso tormented him, by kicking at his chair or throwing pieces of paper at him. Nothing new.

" For this topic I would like you to work in pairs by doing a project. I will select the pairs based on your grades." The teacher said before clearing his throat for the umpteenth time.

Shit, this is the worst.

You had seen the scoreboard from the last chemistry test and you were last while Choso... He was first, just like in any other subject. The teacher began to list the pairs and, as you predicted, you ended up with that loser. When Choso heard your name he felt his stomach turn in anxiety, he feared you more than anyone else. To him you were simply cruel. There was no sign, however slight, of kindness in your soul. To make it worse was your pretty face which, at first glance, was impossible to associate with your awful personality. Choso would be lying if he said he didn't find you attractive. Maybe you were the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on.

" Turn in the project by next week." The teacher concluded before the bell rang.

" Can't believe that you have to do this with that creep!" Your friend laughed.

After a sigh: " Fuck it, I hate that teacher. Bet he did it on purpose." You said with a pissed tone. You noticed that Choso was watching you. You got up from your chair with another annoyed sigh and positioned yourself in front of his desk: hands on your hips and a fake smile on your lips, the usual one you used to make before saying a cruel comment.

" I don't want to be seen hanging around with you, much less in my house." You spat.

Choso replied in his insecure, shaky voice: " We can do it at my house... I warn you I have brothers so—

" Okay. See you later."

౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

Number not Saved : 602. Apartment building X. Near Y station.

You : I'm taking the train rn.

Choso was nervous. It was his first time having a girl at home. Fortunately his brothers were staying late at school that day. He quickly took a shower, getting rid of the smell of milk that earned him several stares by strangers. Being the loser he was, he asked for advice on Reddit to avoid being overly weird.

Knock Knock.

Choso jumped at the knocks on the door, interrupting his reading “How to Look More Sociable in 3 Steps”. You arrived a little late, not expecting the train to take so long.

" Come in..." He said, opening the door for you. You didn’t even say hello, you just sighed, as if you were forced to do the hardest work job on earth. As you looked around (It was the first time you had seen such a small apartment) Choso couldn’t look away from your body. You were so cute in that little outfit. It was the first time he had seen you without your uniform outside school. He would never admit it but Choso stalkled your instagram account several times (resulting in messy erections every time you posted bikini photos). The miniskirt you were wearing was surely going to distract him. He felt something twitching in his pants. Face instantly pink in embarrassment.

Oh. Oh no. No. God, no.

“ Are we doing this stupid project or what?” You asked, breaking the silence. Lucky him, he was wearing loose clothes. You didn’t notice anything.

“ Oh. Yeah… Follow me.” He responded quietly, his body tensing up. You noticed how Choso loses some of his loser appearance without the school uniform. He wore black sweatpants, a baggy sweater and his usual glasses. If he was one of your friends you might have complimented his look.

" Uhh.. You can sit on the bed… Or on the chair, you decide." He said in his usual passive tone. You huffed, sitting on his bed. It smelled like him. You were quite disappointed by the normality of his room (yes, you were expecting an otaku room: full of action figures, bodypillows and posters).

That miniskirt…I bet she did it on purpose. The sight of a pretty girl like you on his bed made Choso’s mouth go dry. He hated you but at the same time it was impossible to not admire your beauty.

" Hope you don't expect me to do anything about that project, do you, Choso?" You said with a smile on your lips. Obviously, Choso knew he would do most, if not all, of the work. He nodded, muttering something to himself. Before you could add any mean comment Choso sat down and started typing on his keyboard. Your initial idea was to find something weird, or childish, in his room and bully him but it was all so… Normal. With the excuse of going to the bathroom you explored the house.

Oh. One of his brothers is Itadori Yuuji? You looked at one of the photos hanging in the hallway. Although he didn't attend your school, Itadori Yuuji was quite popular. And he was popular for good reasons: athletic, generous and nice. You returned to Choso's room, who seemed focused on his work. You looked at him. It annoyed you to admit it but—he had a nice face. Cute, if you had to be honest. But he was unable to maintain a good self-image: he stuttered and couldn't keep eye contact, dark circles partly hidden by the nerdy glasses he wore, hair loose and messy and his posture screamed "I'm weak.”

Ugh. How can Choso be related to Itadori?

After a while: " I'm getting bored." You said as you approached Choso. His heart missed a beat, the last time you had said those words one of your friends put out a cigarette on Choso's palm just to entertain you.

" Uh, umm.. I doubt there's anything fun here..."

" Don't you have any games on your computer?" Choso was taken aback by your question.

" …Y-Yes?" He answered but Choso was sure you had other intentions, like finding another way to bully him. Standing up, you placed yourself beside him, leaning against his chair. Choso could smell a sugary scent from your clothes and hair, it was intoxicating. You watched how his long fingers trembled.

Oh, his hands are so big.

" Uh, uhmm y-you can sit here… I'll get another chair— Before Choso could add another word you sat on his lap. His body froze in surprise. Your ass on his crotch. You rested your back on his muscular chest, waiting for him to start playing. How was he supposed to respond to this?

" Oh, I like this game." You commented as if nothing was wrong.

“ R-Really..? I’ll p,play it then…”

He’s already hard.

To hold the controller Choso had to practically hug you. The way he would struggle to stay still and whisper an "I'm sorry" every time he accidentally touched you was so funny to you. But it was even more fun to rub your warm pussy against his erected sex, feeling his hot breath against the skin of your neck.

“ D-Don’t … P-Please, don’t move like that..” He nervously gulped. Because of that miniskirt Choso could sense the slightest movement you made against his body and thanks to that miniskirt you could feel how Choso's erection throbbed against your panties.

“ Like what?” You teased, shifting your weight again. Choso's body was trembling. You could feel his heartbeat racing. He was squeezing the controller to maintain his calm, feeling his inside burning at the softness of your body against his crotch. The miniskirt you were wearing was not helping at all, allowing Choso the sight of your lacy pink panties. It made his head dizzy and his erection harder, almost painful. How can a girl like you be so naughty?

" I.. S-Stop teasing me." He finally spoke up, trying to sound angry. His voice shaky and weak. You smiled and finally turned your body, now face-to-face with him. The movement resulted in another rubbing against his cock, now covered with a layer of sticky precum. Choso's face was red with embarrassment, his eyes glossy and he tried his best to hold back little moans by biting his lip. He was a mess.

" Choso~" Having you in front of him was wayy worse. You were so pretty and so close , your soft tits pressed against his sweaty chest. On your face that mischievous, almost cruel, smile. Your cheeks pink and your breath left shivers on his skin. His tip poked your wet cunt. You could feel he was big.

Maybe eight inches? It’s always the quiet ones.

" I, I can't take it anymore, p-please..." He whined like a little puppy. You gently moved a few strands of hair behind his ear and took off his glasses, throwing them on the floor. Shit, he was really handsome like that. You kissed him. Choso’s first kiss. Your lips soft and hot, leaving trails of a cherry gloss on his. He moaned inside your mouth, unable to follow your lewd rhythm. Your scent, your taste and your touch were making him obsessed, resulting in a messy and incoherent kiss.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is too much. He reached his limit. The same second you tried to reach the tip of his cock with your fingers he came, sobbing your name and leaving a cum stain on his pants.

“ I,I’m s—sorry…” His voice breathless, dick still twitching in pleasure. He continued to apologize with teary eyes, without knowing how erotic that scene was to you.

I want to fuck him.

[turnertable]

tolerate it

Alex Turner x Reader (am era !)

written by: me, first time doing angst

requested by: @bellaturner <3

music for the fic: tolerate it by Taylor Swift

word count: 1.9k

warnings: angsty, sad, slight sexual references and pushing about

The future looked bleak for them but for Alex, it had never been more bright. He had recently cut his hair short, Y/N hated it. He claimed it was for the new album but all she could see was her teenage love fading away before her eyes. Their love was something the tabloids had praised from the dancefloor days. "The High School Sweethearts of Sheffield" plastered on the front page of newspaper after paper, her face started to come out of print in the last year.

Y/N found herself perched on yet another stool out of the frame of the newest photoshoot of her boyfriend, scrolling her phone aimlessly and barely noticing Alex's next move. If those ridiculous rockabilly sunglasses left his face, Y/N might have taken interest but at Alex's rate, they had likely been surgically screwed to his nose bridge.

He posed relentlessly and attempted to look over at Y/N, realizing she had no idea what was even happening. Once that was clear, Alex huffed and rolled his eyes beneath the shades, remaining focused on the shoot because he couldn't care less about her opinion at this moment. He was Alex Turner: the acquitted persona of rock and roll in Britain; Olympic opener and soon to be Glastonbury sensation yet again.

----------------------------------------------------------

The shoot concluded in due time and Y/N mumbled to herself, "Thank fucking god." as she threw my phone into her bag and stood up. Alex read her lips and huffed slightly with frustration, as he thanked the photographer and went to leave. They met at the door and he nodded at her wordlessly, not wanting to talk to her til they had a minute to discuss her annoyance. She led them out and they stood at the cub by the door of the studio: Alex immediately got his cigarettes out and offered her one,

"Fuck off with that." Y/N scolded him viciously, "It doesn't make you cool." Alex sighed and pulled out his lighter, a silver Zippo with the band's initials carved into it.

"You used t'smoke, me luv. 'member at The Leadmill when you'd pass em owt to anyone?" Alex reflected as he lit the cigarette. Y/N noticed his accent slip at the use of "the" and looked down.

"I was a kid, Al. We found them around Jamie's that one weekend." She muttered in response to try to entertain his idea, not wanting to see that version of her Alex relay nostalgia to her.

He smiled slightly with an exhale as he looked over, "Oh yeh, he still talks about tha, tha knows. Still got ya tho.." He tried to cheer her up because he did love her endlessly but he knew this was a lot for her to process.

----------------------------------------------------------

The last few months had been frequent fights and sex to make up for it all, where Alex would promise nothing had changed and it would be ok until the next designer jacket would come home and rinse repeat. No amount of money could fix it either for Y/N. Yes, it was nice to be personally styled for an awards show but where Alex would come home and laugh all night with her being himself again, the persona never dropped nowadays.

Y/N nodded and went on her phone to call the taxi, letting Alex finish the cigarette in silence as she stepped away and only demonstrated the metaphoric distance between them. She spoke quietly and got the taxi booked, forcing herself not to think of Sheffield, circa 2005. Sitting on the curbside, her lips never leaving Alex's the whole way home. Drunk and giggling at the way the city looked at night from the taxi window. He'd carry her home as she kicked her legs with excitement to be in bed with him yet again. However here she stood with a smartphone and a man she no longer recognised as the love of her life.

As the taxi pulled up, Y/N opened her own door and got in, finally looking over at her boyfriend as she spoke to the taxi driver promptly, desperately wanting to be in solitude. She looked at him with a neutral look of almost curiosity, searching for any and if so, some glimmer of hope in him and love that would last. No dice. Alex looked over and offered her his hand to hold, a common quirk of his. Y/N took it and looked out the window, the tears pricking at her eyes as the taxi pulled off. A solemn silence hung over them like a ghost in the passenger seat the whole journey home. It could be dealt with at the house, like usual.

----------------------------------------------------------

As the taxi rounded the corner by the house, Alex thanked the driver and nodded at Y/N to say, "in we go." Y/N offered the taxi driver a thank you as well and stepped out of the car, letting Alex open the door and not even attempting to get her keys from her bag. Alex unlocked the door and kicked off his shoes, leaving Y/N to shut it and lean on the wall of the hallway.

"What the fuck is up nah?" Alex started the argument, making Y/N prick up. He finished the conflict but it was unusual for him to bring up an issue without prompt. Alex stood arms crossed at the silence before removing his glasses and rubbing his temple. "Just tell me, please Y/N."

"Why did I have to come to that?" Y/N met his tone and removed her own shoes. "That's the third this week…" She continued and reminded him of how much this weighed on her schedule.

"Well excuse meh for bein successful suddenleh, didn't seem t'bother you when I were 19…" Alex retorted to push her buttons yet again with the memories of their relationship. He tried to walk off to go get a drink, he'd been drinking a lot more frequently since the fighting started. While Alex could hold his drink, it was a new habit he had picked up with the look.

"Yeah well my teenage boyfriend with spots had some fucking intellect not to just lap at anyone who offers him a moment in the spotlight!" Y/N raised her voice and rolled her eyes, trying to stop him from drinking, "I swear if I see you drinking again for another night…" she continued in the cold tone.

"Oh fuck off, 'm 27 now and so are you, act it." He said sternly and lightly pushed her out of his way. "I'll do what I wan, babe" He stormed off to the kitchen to get a glass and the bottle of whiskey on the side, half empty from how often he had been consuming it.

Y/N followed in a huff and tried to keep fighting him, "You really wanna talk about acting, Alexander? What the fuck are you wearing?" She scanned his body and outfit of a leather jacket and tight blue jeans, making Alex smirk slightly as he knew what to do.

"Jeans, you like em babeh?" He tried to give her the eyes that said "you want me really" and stood over her to offer her an embrace. "Can get me out of em if you're nice to meh…" He chuckled softly and held her lower back where he was met with a scoff and a push.

"Get off me, James Dean. Tell me when Alex is back…" She went to sit at the table, making Alex huff and turn back to his drink with annoyance.

"You make me fucking drink…" He mumbled to himself quietly enough for her to miss it. "I'm not gonna be tha kid anymore, you do realize tha, reyt?" He announced as he poured the whiskey and recapped the bottle. "I hate who I were, a spotteh teenager with a squeaky voice on stickeh stages an people throwing shit at meh." He turned to her and finally admitted.

"I fell in love with that kid, Alex." Y/N let the truth slip too, "and I still do love him, ok?" he continued as she looked down sadly, sniffling at the words. "My Alex is gone, he was my home, my safety and you're just this husk of who he was. You're everything we mocked in bars while I waited to hear the same 10 songs every night." Her voice trembled at it all as she looked up at him where all his anger had turned to sympathy yet again.

"But babeh…you could make new memories with new Alex." He heard himself and mentally cursed at his words but persisted on: "We could 'ave a famileh and get married and the band will onleh get more famous and you'll reap t'benefits wiv us.." He tried to reassure her as he leaned down to get her level. "We could be happy again one day, me love. This is just a rough patch…"

----------------------------------------------------------

Y/N listened intently and her face soured at the idea that the band was involved with the future of them. She thought and chose her words carefully as she knew the band's importance to him, especially with him bringing it up here.

"Alex, it's not been a rough patch for you though, has it? The tears started welling up in her eyes, continuing through the melancholy. "You'll be ok, babe. I just won't be. My boy is gone and maybe that's the problem. I'm just not happy anymore…"

His face dropped and his chest went tight when he heard her claims, "You're n-not 'appy? As in wiv me or??" His voice shook as he spoke quietly, staring at her with torment. "I can get ya someone to talk ta, I promise babeh please…" He begged at her feet practically.

Y/N shook her head and looked down, "I'm so sorry, Alex…I love you so much but this version of you, I'm not in love with him. Please just make me proud…" She gasped between sobs and watched the tears roll down her chest. Alex's eyes began to water at the realization of the situation, the blunt actuality of her saying that to his face. How long has she been thinking of telling him?

"Are ya sayin what I think you're sayin?" Alex mumbled as he wiped his nose slightly. Y/N simply nodded and he sighed to himself, "Well shit, tha's about 10 years of me life gone. Is there anythin I can do at all to change yer mind?" He pleaded incessantly through his tears. "I love you, Y/N. Please…"

Y/N sat up straight and held his face softly, kissing his head, "It's ok Alex, we're just different people, darling…" She wiped her eyes and smiled gently at him. "I love you too, Al."

The knife stuck in and twisted at the nickname, it was hers from the moment she muttered it at 17 when they met. Alex's eyes were full of sadness but he nodded and tried to smile, "I understand and I respect yer decision but you do realize t' next album is gonna be so bloodeh sad nah…" He managed a laugh that Y/N echoed.

"Oh yeah, I want sad proses about me now…" She cupped his face and delivered the last kiss, "if that boy ever wants to come back to see me again, he's more than welcome…" She said softly and wiped his eyes with a smile. He nodded and smiled back.

"I think this might be t' soppiest breakup ever…" Alex hums, stands up to get his drink and reaching for another glass before turning to her,

"One for the road?"

[katapotato55]

my theory as to why doomers exist (and how to break that mentality to be a better writer)

yesterday my sibling texted me "hey can you list me what major historical events you experienced in life for an assignment? " of course I listed the big ones like COVID and other depressing shit I went through in my life but most of the ones i listed were not super depressing. here are some of them: -the rise of steve jobs and the popularity of modern OS -the rise of smartphones -new technology completely changing the world that I thought I would never see in my lifetime, like VR and self driving cars. -massive cultural impacts such as spongebob being created affecting pop culture -the start of facebook and modern social media -pluto being declared not a planet yknow stuff on the top of my head that I thought would be interesting to write about.

then my sibling came home to tell me that most of what I sent was not helpful at all and that they meant "world events" And i asked "how the hell is the invention of the smart phone and the beginning of modern social media not considered "world events" by these standards" they said "idk just not that"

I think what they meant to say was "my teacher only wants the really depressing miserable shit the media thinks is headline worthy"

You know, I think this is why my generation is full of so many doomers. God forbid we have a positive outlook on this world and try and look at the bright side of things. god forbid we try to be optimistic for both the future and our current lives. we seem to have this thin veil of maturity that depressing=mature somehow. That the only way to make anything of nuance is to basically spam "look how shit everything is! look how enlightened I am" like you are Steve cutts.

well you know what ?

I hate art like the stuff steve cutts makes, and I hate this redundant "look how shit the world is" mentality

I plan on making an analysis post later on about Mr. Cutts, but for now let's stay on point this mentality is redundant and helps no one. yes. we do need to be aware of the bad parts of life. But being a pathetic miserable sod and ignoring the upsides is just as immature and childish as an aggressive optimist thinking the world is all sunshine and rainbows. you know why I like undertale so much ? Undertale knows when to be optimistic and has a mature take on a happy ending. Undertale ALLOWS itself to be happy. enough with the rick and morty level of writing where everything sucks and "fuck you in particular for being hopeful" only edgy 14 year olds think being depressing is the same as being mature. Maturity is understanding that there is nuance to everything and understanding that things are what they are. Do you want to be a good writer ? stop overly relying on being a sad doomer. Even the darkest writers in history like Edgar Allen Poe knew how to lighten the fuck up, because you need to understand the positives in life to effectively create dark writing.

thank you for reading this ironically negative rant, I plan to expand more on the subject later on.

EDIT

ngl i was honestly scared this post would open me up to harassment. I was genuinely terrified of attracting the psycho political crowd that treats politics like religious doctrine. first of all, shout out to this person:

I feel like this would be the perfect opportunity to talk about my struggle with depression as an artist and the stereotype behind it. the stereotype is that only the best artists are emotionally tortured people constantly struggling in agony and putting that into their art. now as someone who has been battling depression for 10 years let me tell you: that mentality is a load of horse shit. the greatest artists in history such as Van Gogh were not great artists because they were depressed they were great artists because they had a combination of passion and unique life experience. It just so happens that depression is a unique life experience to go through. being depressed does not make you deep, it just makes you feel empty and possibly sad depending on what flavor of depression you have. all the great stories about depression are not great because its about depression, but because its about the writers personal experiences and the love and hard work that went into making it. if Van gogh got treatment for his mental health issues, he would have still created art. Yes he created art as his job, but he also did it because he loved it and put his personal feelings and passion into his work. the biggest reason why I detest Steve Cutts is because there is no passion nor personal experience in his work. yes he is talented but most of his animations are just regurgitating all the bad things he could think of and nothing personal is going into it. (again I plan on making an analysis post about steve cutts sooner or later) What makes the art of Van Gogh deep and Steve Cutts as deep as a dry puddle is the fact that you can tell who put their own soul and personality into their work. heed my warning new artists and writers depression =/= deep all depression does is cripple you. Seek out life experience to be the best artist you can be.

[oensible]

metro hockey au

khan is actually good at hockey and went pro under a different name when he was younger, but is so bad at teaching artyom because he's intentionally vague and mysterious and philosophical about it and artyom doesn't really understand what he's talking about. he probably told artyom some shit about lying in wait for the right opportunity like a wolf and waiting for your pack to set you up for the kill and artyom went ok 👍. and then went to practice and started panicking because he doesn't know what a screen is yet. miller hates him so fucking bad because he's artyom's amateur league team coach and captain and organizer and fundraiser etc. etc. and he's really hoping artyom will be able to take over for him so he can finally retire

(abbreviated id in alt, full descriptions under the cut)

[ Image description 1: Digital color drawing of Artyom from Metro 2033 in ice hockey gear and trembling with big, cartoonishly miserable and wet eyes. Colonel Miller/Mel'nik from Metro 2033 is in the foreground, wearing a hockey helmet, pointing at Artyom and yelling "Shoot the fucking puck" (written in all caps). Both of them are wearing black hockey gloves with the red M logo associated with the Spartan Order in Metro: Last Light on the backs of their hands, indicating they are both members of the same hockey club. Neither of their helmets have face protection because I forgot to draw it. The background is low detail but they seem to be on a nondescript ice surface. Image description 1 end.]

[ Image description 2: Digital color drawing of Colonel Miller sitting with his hands clasped on a desk and talking to Artyom in front of him. There is a cartoon drop of sweat on his forehead to show awkwardness. Artyom's back is turned to the viewer and he can be seen slouching, sweating, and putting his pointer fingers together over his shoulder, showing he is plaintive and nervous. Above them is the dialogue—

Miller: "No I'm not mad."

Artyom: (drawing of an exasperated face)

Miller: "No you're still on the team."

Artyom: (drawing of a face exaggeratedly sighing)

Miller: "...Who told you that."

Artyom: (drawing of a face looking awkwardly to the side)

Artyom is implied to be talking to Miller, but his words are represented by facial expressions. Image description 2 end. ]

[ Image description 3: Digital color drawing of Khan from Metro 2033 looking down at a smartphone in his hand with a slight smile and look on his face where it doesn't look like he's paying attention. He is wearing a shirt with a detailed picture of a wolf and the word "Alpha" written above it in all caps. Above Khan is the dialogue (implied to be a phone call from Miller)—

Miller: "Stop giving him weird advice you're messing up his development if you keep this up I am going—" (written in red all caps. The word "Stop" in written larger and in a darker color than the rest of the text)

Non-attributed text: "beep. (Khan hung up.)" (written in black.)

Image description 3 end. ]

[potatothots]

This Coffee is Gonna be Good

02.26.2023

Genre: Comedy

Rating: Teen, for some minor language and a tiny bit of angst themed

Pairings: bucky x reader, nat x reader (platonic)

Warnings: it's waaay to cute for it to have come from my brain. No cheating, no nothing like that. Just fluff and a stupid lie. Also, the game "Among Us." If you don't know that game then what are you even doing? It's so much fun. Go play and piss people off. ;)

Summary: Bucky is a liar. You're tired of keeping up with it. 

Bucky knows technology*. You know this, he knows this. Why does no one else know? 

The question burns in your head as you stomp down the hallway to your room. It makes you mad how he's fooled everyone. It's even worse when you're forced to run an errand during work hours to give him a message. It doesn't matter if you work in the same building you live in - he should have the common decency to at least admit to having fundamental knowledge so people stop using you as his messenger. 

You're his girlfriend, not a carrier pigeon! 

You slam open your door. You're greeted by the sight of Bucky laughing his tight little ass off. His personal laptop in his lap, the best/worst game ever made called "Among Us" open on the screen. He has the audacity to look sheepish when he glances over at you. 

"Hey, doll. Off work early?"

You look from him to the coffee table and see his dumb, prehistoric flip phone laying there. 

"Explain to me how no one realizes you can use technology perfectly fine?" You snap at him as you close the door harder than needed. 

He raises an eyebrow in question before looking down at the offending items. 

"I just, you know - "

You cut him off before he could continue with his stupid reasoning. "Don't start with the shit, James Buchanan Barnes. I know what you do. I both saw and heard you agree with Steve when he said modern technology is so confusing."

He shoots in a quick "But it is!" 

"You play Among Us! On your own laptop! You begged me to get for you under my own name but with all your stupid customizations. You can't bullshit a bullshitter, James Buchanan Barnes." 

He opens his mouth again, but you point a finger at him. "No. There is no excuse. You have a laptop, a pc, a fucking smartphone, a smart car, and yet you have the audacity, the nerve, to complain texting is too hard for you?"

"My thumbs are too big and my arm -"

"No excuses! You have a stylus! The screen can pick up your fingers thanks to help from Suri! Who, by the way, you've also fooled. Ayo seems to be the only person, besides me, who knows your tech obsession. 

"Like, how did you fool Tony? The stuff is mostly his tech! And Natasha? She sent me on this little errand because she's tired of garbled texts and you never messaging or calling her back."

His mouth opens and closes, then he shrugs. Bucky lets out a sigh through his nose. "I just hate the idea of people knowing everything. I hate social media. I only go on it to see you guys." 

He pauses so he can close his laptop and set it on the coffee table. 

"I love you so much. The thought of Hydra, or something else, fucking us over again gives me panic attacks. You know this, babe. You know why I ask for everything to be made a certain way. 

"I mean, I can barely eat comfortably at new places or change my room around. I need security, even if that means using the flip phone you don't even know how to text from."

You glared at him as he smirked at that truth. Those phones sucked. The last time you used one was…decades ago. Your job was current technology, not archaic bricks. 

"Fine. But, you need to get a hold of Nat."

He nodded. "I will." 

You looked him up and down, then turned to leave. 

"Don't I get a hug?"

"No. I'm working. You owe me a coffee for this." 

You open the door. Natasha is leaning against the wall. She gives you her signature sly smile. You wink. 

"I'll buy you two coffees for a hug. Three for a kiss? Look, I got the app up, let me know what you want…" Bucky's voice trails away when he walks out of his room after you. "Oh, shit."

"Barnes." Natasha crosses her arms, glaring at him. 

"I expect a coffee on my desk in an hour. You know what I like." You smirk at your boyfriend as you speak. "It's in the app you love to use."

He looks over a highly angry Nat's shoulder at you. It reminds you of a lost puppy. You wave to him before you turn and leave, your steps a little lighter now as you hear your friend chew out the former Winter Soldier. 

You can't wait for that coffee.

*I am under the belief that he knows how to use technology of nearly all types. Fight me. *

WHAT DOES GOOGLE SAY, BUCKET BARNIES BOI?? HUH?

[maithefluffychicken]

Taste of love

"You must admit, he's charismatic," Robin says, a sly grin curling her lips.

"Yeah, he's the new favorite, fucking great," Steve laments, jealously evident in his tone.

Truth is, Steve can admit that Eddie is charismatic, and good at his job, and he's stupidly hot doing said job. It’s not fair, talented and good looking, with bright doe eyes as dark as the chocolate he likes to use in most of his creations?

Steve hates him. He hates the way he can’t stop staring at him when Eddie is in, well, in full Eddie mode like he is right now.

He’s recording himself, the pretentious little shit, with an improvised but somehow extremely professional set up, a whole fucking tripod for his nextgen smartphone as a camera. He has the two long counters for himself, it’s his fucking stage and he’s the rockstar: he looks like one, with the long hair tied up in a messy bun that Steve wants to undo, and all those tattoos covering his arms. He’s not even wearing a fucking chef’s jacket, no. The cocky bastard is wearing a tight black t-shirt, Steve can see the ripple of his muscles when he moves. Again, stupidly hot.

He claims to not need help, and yet, Henderson - pastry chef junior and a traitor - is cheerfully helping him to set everything out and clean the counters between scenes.

On the street, bystanders stop to look through the store window, recording the mess Eddie is doing with their own personal phones, and fucking enjoying the show that is Eddie Munson creating a masterpiece of a cake.

“I still don’t see how this is going to help us,” Steve sighs, leaning against the doorframe of his own kitchen, staring - ogling - at Eddie, watching him peeling limes, oranges and grapefruits for this new dessert he’s making.

“He’ll post it on instagram and whatnot, get the people interested in us,” Robin explains to him, as patiently and lovingly as ever.

“The whole process?” Steve asks, now a bit concerned. “Everyone will know the recipe, and then who’ll come to buy?”

Steve and Robin had worked hard and spent all their money in this little cake shop, which it is, in fact, a fucking monster of a pâtisserie and the fanciest café. This was their dream, and it still is their dream. And it’s also a fucking risk if it fails, so excuse him if he doesn’t want everyone to know how to recreate their goods.

“No, no, dingus, just the pretty parts, like a montage, like a film.”

“Good lord, is this one of those Wes Anderson’s vibes or whatever?” Steve says, and his face must be doing something funny because Robin laughs openly now.

“God, no, but that would be awesome, you should tell him to do that!” Robin says, and then adds. “Or you should do it yourself, join Eddie, make us famous and rich!”

Steve frowns and grunts. To be honest, he should be working too, there’s another completely functional kitchen where he could be baking his own things. But for some reason, watching Eddie is mesmerizing, and Steve is not sure he’ll be able to stop looking and leave to be alone in the other kitchen.

So he stays, and follows Eddie to the oven when the puff pastry is ready to be baked. And then he stays a bit longer to witness the filling. And then- Well, he stays until Eddie finishes with the decoration.

Eddie doesn’t talk to the camera, not once, he just works, he doesn’t seem to notice Steve and Robin at all.

When the stupidly good looking dessert, painted in lime green, is done, Eddie does the second most stupid thing ever. He cuts it evenly and walks out to the street to share it with his audience, Dustin follows him, recording the whole thing. Free samples of a dessert that is, well, it’s expensive as fuck. Eddie smiles and comes back to the kitchen, two spare portions, one for Steve and the other for Robin.

“Come on, chef,” he grins at Steve, far too mischievously for Steve’s liking. “I know you want a taste of this.”

The words sound sinful to Steve’s ears, the way Eddie says it. Fuck, he even swayed his hips while he was speaking! Steve’s mouth goes dry, trying to think of a retort and win whatever battle they’re having. But Robin interrupts them with a groan, her mouth full of the lime tart Eddie saved for them.

“Oh my god,” she says before even swallowing. “Phteef, eat it. Now”

Steve sighs, his gaze locks with Eddie’s when he reaches for his portion, the last on the silver tray Eddie is holding patiently. It’s not solid at all, silky and cold at the touch, and the first thing Steve notices is the aroma. Citrics and burnt sugar, fresh and intense. Steve takes it to his mouth and bites, the lemon praliné breaks easily under the pressure and it melts on his tongue among the softest mousse Steve has ever tasted. The sugar is there but it doesn’t ruin the citrus flavor, the real hero. Grapefruit and orange jam and the soft biscuit join them, a counterpart for the ethereal texture of the mousse.

Steve tries to hold back the involuntary moan that escapes his mouth, but it’s too late. Eddie is grinning wolfishly at him. Steve blushes, fiercely. He’s a thirty year old man, the chef of his own pâtissery, he shouldn’t be moaning and blushing like this, but fuck, the lime tart is absurdly good and he knows he’s going to eat the whole portion. What a fucking shame.

“And?” Eddie asks, nervously buzzing in front of them both, unashamedly fishing for praise he doesn’t need at all. Cocky bastard, again. “Is it good, right? Do you like it, chef?”

Steve swallows, the taste and scents lingering on his tongue and palate. Fucking delicious.

“Yeah, it’s ok,” Steve shrugs, as if he just didn’t fucking moan because of the best lime tart he has ever tasted.

“Come on, Steve,” Robin nudges him.

“Chef, please,” Eddie begs and it does something to Steve, something he can’t - and doesn’t want to - name yet. “Please, I need to know, have I passed my trial month?”

Steve really really wants to say no, that Eddie has an attitude and a temper that Steve doubts is good for the business. Eddie, who is giving free samples to people on the street. Eddie who decided to record himself in Steve’s kitchen to post it on social media. Eddie, who doesn’t wear proper clothes for his kitchen.

Steve wants to bid him farewell.

But the lime praliné is slowly melting with the warmth of his fingers, green painting his fingertips, the smooth mousse giving away, Steve wants to finish his portion, and as the greedy son of a bitch he is, Steve wants more of this even more than he wants Eddie out of his kitchen.

Steve wants to tell Eddie to fuck off, but he’s curious about what else he can to do. A month is not enough to know the enigma that is chef Edward Munson.

“Ok, ok, you’re hired, chef,” Steve says, and Eddie punches the air in victory. Steve holds back a smile. “Six months, and then we’ll see, ok?”

“Fuck, yes! I mean,” Eddie clears his throat, he’s the one blushing now. “Yes, chef. Thank you, chef.”

Six months.

-

Steve is used to being alone in the morning, opening up in the early hours and enjoying the bakery’s calm quietness, the buzzing sound of the fridges and ovens his only company while he works., He spends the time trying out old and new recipes, practicing techniques to apply in future desserts.

That was, of course, before Eddie.

It’s Robin’s fault, anyway, she convinced Steve to give this new, eccentric pastry chef a chance to work in their bakery. It’s true that they both needed help, they both needed a right hand man to keep the bakery and the staff going while they designed new recipes. Dustin Henderson is a talented kid, controlling the dough like a pro, but he’s still learning - under Steve and Robin’s supervision, of course -, and Erica Sinclair is even younger than Dustin, but man, that girl knows how to decorate a wedding cake.

The other staff they hired are just as good. The kitchen is alive and buzzing with energy, Steve loves it. He’s grateful that he gets to have this; his own place, with people he loves.

Stobin Pastry and Cakes started as a humble bakery when Keith closed Family Video, where they used to work as teens. They took all their savings and bought the place, and transformed it into what it is today.

The kids Steve babysat for years applied to work with them. Will left to study art, and Mike followed him blindly, in love. Lucas and Max decided to take a gap year abroad, sending them postcards regularly and texting Steve and Robin about the recipes they find on their journey.

Dustin and Erica decided to stick around and learn from Steve and Robin, now Stobin’s youngest chefs, with the honorary title of Junior Pastry Chef for the both of them.

So, Steve loved to be the first one in, turning on the ovens and getting the bakery ready for the day, while Robin took Dustin to the market at dawn, picking out new products of the season and sending Steve silly pics while doing it. Erica arrived in time to meet the providers, standing by Steve’s side and supervising that everything was in perfect conditions.

Steve could have never imagined that he’d get to work with his family, and he loves it. He once feared he’d end up working for his father, but this? As exhausting and sometimes stressful as it is, this is Steve’s dream.

But of course, now they have Eddie. Eddie, overqualified to be anything less than a pastry chef, with his tattoos and long hair and toned biceps… Steve is still getting used to doing his own job while Eddie is right there with him, kneading fresh dough or whatever. Between the ripple of his muscles and the music Eddie enjoys, it’s hard for Steve to focus.

Because that’s the other thing that had\s changed. The music. Steve loved to work in silence, but Eddie came and asked if they minded listening to music while working: heavy fucking metal and rock from the eighties is now the soundtrack to Steve’s life, since Robin, Dustin and Erica agreed with Eddie, effectively out voting him.

Things have changed for Steve and for Stobin Pastry. Not everything is bad, though, Eddie and whatever he’s posting on social media is also attracting customers to them, as Robin said it would. Steve can’t really complain.

-

“What’s this?” Steve asks, stepping into his office to find Robin and Erica, heads pressed together looking at the bright screen of Erica’s phone. There’s a weird look on Robin’s face, eyes wide open and lips curled in disgust, while Erica is biting her lower lip, holding back a smirk. “What are you-”

“Shh!” Erica shushes at him, and Steve grunts in surprise.

“I think I’m going to puke,” Robin says, her eyes still focused on whatever is playing on the screen.

“Imagine it’s a hot girl, Robs,” Erica replies, half laughing.

“That’s not the problem, Sinclair-”

“Ok, you two, what are you watching?” Steve snaps, rounds his desk to stand behind the girls and frowns, focusing his sight on whatever they’re watching.

“Oh,” Steve whispers.

On the screen, a younger version of Eddie is-

He is-

“I know, right?” Erica giggles. Giggles. “He’s so weirdly hot.”

“Well, at least now we know that he’s alway loved being in front of the camera, right?” Robin adds jokingly, as if that could help Steve to assimilate the images he’s watching right now.

Eddie is wearing a loose black shirt, far too open to be in any kitchen, Steve can see the barest hint of soft hair on his chest, and the tattoos he has there. For a brief second, Steve has the need to see them in real life. But the Eddie in the video, rewound by Erica, is flexing his arms to tie his curly hair in a messy bun, and winks at the camera.

And then, the weirdest things happen. It’s a video showing Eddie making cannoli, but it’s- It’s so sexual it’s almost explicit. He kneads the dough, making sure the camera frames his biceps and his swelling chest, and spanks it, cuts it and digs his fingers into both parts, making it look like it’s a- Good lord. Next, Eddie sinks two fingers into the cream to lick them, tongue curling sinfully around them.

Steve feels his blood simmering in his veins with a new need that startles him, mortified at the realization that he is getting hard.

"Ok, enough, Erica, we've seen enough," he says with a weak, pathetic voice.

He has to watch the whole video, but not here, not with… the girls around, no, definitely.

"Thank god," Robin sighs when Erica closes the video and locks her phone with a pout.

The girls stand up and are ready to leave Steve's office, not noticing his internal turmoil.

"Say what you want, Robs, he is hot, a bit disgusting in a way that only a guy can be, but hot nonetheless."

Steve looks at their backs, Erica's words echoing in his mind. He is hot.

"Don't let Dustin hear you saying that, Erica," Robin teases her.

"He'd agree with me…"

"Ha! That's what you think, but I tell you his reaction will be sooo much different if he hears you talking about a hot guy," Robin singsongs.

"What? Robin! What are you saying?" Erica leaves and closes the door behind her.

Steve thinks he should care about that exchange, but Eddie's video is replaying in his mind. He sits at his desk and hides his face behind his hands, muffling a groan.

The door opens again and Steve looks up to see a flustered Erica showing her head, smiling shyly.

"Chef?"

"Yeah?"

"His youtube channel," Erica says in a low voice. "Is 'demon in the kitchen', chef. I thought you’d be interested, you know, for academic purposes."

Erica shrugs before Steve can answer her, and closes the door again, leaving Steve all alone with his thoughts and his body’s reactions.

When Steve finally gets out of his office - once he’s calm and feeling ready to look everyone in the eye again, and his knees aren’t shaking - the kitchen is the coordinated chaos that it always is. No one bats an eye at him. Robin is glazing the mirror gateaux, Erica is focused on the wedding cake she’s decorating.

Dustin is talking with the staff about a new order that must be ready for the next day, and Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Steve lets out a relieved sigh, maybe he can survive the day.

-

On Monday, Stobin Pastry and Cakes is closed so everyone can rest.

Steve spends the morning in bed, his laptop on his thighs and Eddie’s old videos playing nonstop. The videos are the ultimate thirst trap, and Steve feels helpless when, during the fourth video, Eddie is glazing a doughnut and Steve imagines himself, half deliriously, licking Eddie’s fingers clean. The long haired chef pressing them against Steve’s tongue, pushing them back and forth with Steve’s lips wrapping around them, saliva dripping for his chin while Eddie’s eyes are dark and hungry for Steve-

“Oh, for fucks’ sake!” Steve exclaims, closing the laptop with more force than intended.

Steve gets up, his cock tenting the pajamas he’s wearing, and crosses his bedroom to have a shower, his heart beating hard and fast when he undresses and steps into his shower, steam surrounding him.

He tries not to think at all, but he’s aching and leaking, cock throbbing stubbornly, with the steamy hot water falling over his shoulders. Behind his eyelids, Steve can visualize the Eddie he knows, older than the Eddie in the videos, but with a mischievous smile and his big doe eyes. Steve shakes his head before wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock, squeezing it with a little bit more strength than necessary.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, stroking himself slowly and trying to think about- anyone, except his dark haired chef pastry Eddie.

Steve tries to think about broad hands roaming all over his wet body, he pinches his left nipple, moaning throatily. Soft lips that could trail kisses all along his neck, the hot breath of a faceless lover, a solid invisible body pressing against him.

And it works, for a moment.

Steve flicks his wrist during the upstroke and in that lustful second when his mind is blissfully quiet, his fantasy changes: Eddie’s tattooed hands and arms are the ones touching him, his pink, full lips - oh, Steve can see them so clearly - wrapping around the leaking head of his throbbing cock instead of around his fingers, like in that stupid video. And those eyes, those big chocolate eyes focused on him, hungry for Steve-

“Ah, shit!” Steve grunts when, ridiculously soon, his orgasm coils deep in his core and he’s unable to stop himself or to stop the new fantasy.

“Well, fuck,” he sighs at last, letting the water clean his shame. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

-

After their day off, the kitchen is once again alive and buzzing, but Steve feels like shit. Disgusted with himself, disgusted with the fact that he spent his day off fantasizing about his pastry chef. Eddie. Ugh.

Fucking ugh.

Steve feels far more exhausted than ever, with Eddie’s music playing through the speakers while they all work frantically to satisfy the customers.

Eddie, of course, ignores Steve’s inner turmoil and the effect he has on his boss.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” Eddie says to Steve, flirty and out of the blue. Steve wants to punch him. In his mouth. With his lips. Fuck.

“That’s not how we do things here-,” Steve starts protesting, but Eddie simply laughs.

If only Eddie knew how hard Steve is trying to keep things professional, for both of them. If only Steve could yell at Eddie and tell him he’s seen his videos, his sinfully hot and weird and sometimes disgusting videos; but fuck, Steve is completely obsessed with them. If only Steve could flirt back with Eddie and be selfish.

“Ok, ok, then, close your eyes and open your mouth, chef,” he repeats, and somehow it sounds even dirtier. Steve has to suppress a shiver.

Steve takes a look, making sure no one’s paying attention to them before reluctantly opening his mouth and feeling filthy for it. Filthy and far too aroused thanks to Eddie’s antics.

Eddie tsks when Steve doesn’t close his eyes, but raises a spoonful to his mouth and places it gently on Steve’s tongue. The flavor explosion is immediate when Steve wraps his lips around the spoon and Eddie drags it out: kiwi and pineapple, nutmeg, cinnamon, a touch of rum. Creamy salted caramel and something crunchy, pistachio. Steve closes his eyes now, tasting it, pressing it with his tongue against his palate. He doesn’t moan this time, but he wants to, he really really fucking needs to groan. Eddie’s ego doesn’t need another boost, though.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks him, biting his lower lip, all doe eyed and searching for Steve’s expressions. Opening his eyes to see Eddie looking at him like that doesn’t help to calm his heart beat.

“It’s good, Eddie, it’s really good,” Steve admits, feeling his cheeks burning and taking a second to wonder if he’s going crazy when Eddie’s eyes drop to his lips for a split second. “What are you working on?”

“Do you know that cake for that tropical themed wedding?” Eddie asks, cheeks turning red under Steve’s gaze. Steve nods. “I thought… Maybe this could be the filling, since the bride wants something different and all that, you know.”

Steve shouldn’t find Eddie as endearing as he does right now, bashful and competent and with an extraordinary mind to mix flavors and themes. Fuck.

“With a Madagascar vanilla biscuit?” Steve points up. “What about the icing?”

“Pineapple and rum?” Eddie suggests.

“Try it,” Steve smiles at Eddie. “If it’s good, you’ll be the one making the cake, take Erica with you.”

Eddie beams at him, his smile so wide that his dimples appear, and Steve feels suddenly weak on the knees. Fuck.

“Yes, chef,” he says so softly that it could be a whisper, and Steve sighs, focusing back on the gateau he was making, completely distracted by the whole interaction.

-

Three months into Steve’s life with Eddie in it, and Steve is finally, finally accepting the fact that he’s working with an extremely hot and talented man, and that he has developed something like a crush for him.

Not a big deal, Steve is a professional and he can work with Eddie. He’s even learning to flirt back, still testing the waters, not wanting to push any of Eddie’s boundaries. Eddie seems to enjoy their little interactions.

It’s just that, well, Eddie is touching Steve now. Small touches, pats in his shoulder, hands on his waist whenever Eddie has to pass behind him; it’s nothing really, silly little innocent touches that maybe, maybe linger more than they should.

Two weeks ago, Steve was holding a spoon for Eddie to grab it, and when he did, Eddie’s finger traced Steve’s knuckles and he smiled at him before he grabbed the spoon. Steve felt like swooning, like a fair maiden being courted or whatever. He had to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes after that because he was hyperventilating.

The fact that Steve’s love life is nonexistent doesn’t help either, but it’s not like Steve has time or will to meet someone new. Nor does he want to meet someone else, not when his stupid heart harbors this new and stupid hope.

Hoping that maybe Eddie’s flirting means something. Hoping that Eddie, with his hard work for Stobin Pastry, with his videos for the bakery’s instagram - gaining more and more subscribers everyday - and his new ideas. All of this means that Eddie is earnest in his intentions.

They haven’t talked about this, of course. Fuck, Steve hasn’t even told Robin about his crush. He can’t admit it out loud, it’d be so real if he does it. For the last three months Steve has been nursing these new feelings alone and silently.

Steve enters the pastry like usual, turns on the ovens to preheat them, checks the different doughs for the day… He even plays the music so Eddie’s playlist starts blasting through the speakers. And he waits.

Erica comes, showing Steve a ridiculously artistic photograph that Robin sent her using an eggplant and a peach, and they both laugh, but Steve is feeling antsy. Eddie isn’t here, and usually Eddie is already there, waiting for Steve to open the back door of the bakery, scrolling his phone idly. Eddie is never late.

The providers come and go, Erica’s in charge today, Steve’s barely paying attention to her or the providers. It’s been an hour and a half and still no sign of Eddie. Not even a text or a call.

Robin and Dustin arrive with fresh figs and some more fresh fruit, but Steve ignores them, his fingers hovering over his phone, wondering if he should call Eddie.

“Where’s Eddie?” Dustin asks, looking around the kitchen.

“I- I don’t know, he didn’t show up this morning,” Steve answers with a tremor in his voice.

What if he’s hurt? What if something terrible has happened to Eddie? Steve decides to call the guy, maybe it’s a silly thing. The alarm didn’t ring this morning, or some stupid thing that could happen to everyone. And yet, Steve presses Eddie’s number with shaking hands.

No signal.

Steve sighs, hands tugging at his hair and feeling desperate.

This is completely absurd, Eddie is probably ok, Steve just has to be patient and Eddie will explain to him once he arrives, that’ll be any moment now.

And he does, when he finally arrives and enters the kitchen half an hour later, sweating and red faced, with a small blonde girl in his arms, clinging to his neck, glassy bright blue eyes looking everywhere.

Steve looks at the little girl and then Eddie, not realizing he has dropped his jaw until Eddie’s eyes lock with his.

“Hello everyone, sorry I’m so late,” Eddie says, voice trembling. His eyes never leave Steve’s. “This little girl is CJ, she’s- She’s my kid.”

The kitchen seems haunted by an eerie, tense silence. Dustin is gaping, Erica’s jaw drops just as Steve and Robin’s eyes are wide open in a shell shocked expression.

“Your kid?” She manages to ask, darting glances to Steve.

“Yeah, well-” Eddie’s eyes are still locked with Steve, cheeks burning red. “I just…”

Steve feels - stupid, hopeless, helpless, betrayed, heartbroken, angry, desperate, miserable, incredibly relieved that Eddie is safe - like dying inside.

“Almost three hours late, Munson,” Steve grits through his teeth, his voice harsh and far too sharp. Also, Munson? He hadn’t called Eddie by his surname like, ever, and definitely not in this tone. “What do you think this place is? Your own personal playground?”

Eddie’s eyes flicker and show a thousand little expressions in the fraction of a second, his brows frowned in pain and confusion.

“I- Steve, let me explain-” Eddie’s voice is frail and Steve hates it. Steve hates that such a small detail breaks his heart a bit more, while Eddie’s kid is right there, looking at Steve with fear in her beautiful blue eyes.

“Chef,” Steve reminds him, feeling completely stupid and on the verge of a panic attack, anxiety crawling over his skin.

“Chef, please,” Eddie whispers at him, eyes pleading.

“This is not a kindergarten,” Steve snaps finally. “Take the day off if you need it. Everyone, get back to work, now!”

Steve storms out of the kitchen to hide in his office, falling into his chair with despair and hiding his face in his hands, feeling completely out of control.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck was that, chef?” Robin, of course, followed him and is now closing the door behind her so she can reprimand Steve.

“Robs-”

“Since when are you a complete moron, Steve?” Robin demands, pacing in front of him. He can hear her furious steps, but he still can’t look at his best friend. “The poor man has been trying to impress you since he stepped into the bakery, his work is impeccable, and you treat him like shit, Steve, have you noticed?”

Steve grunts.

“Since when is my best friend a jerk?” Robin asks, oh, she’s really angry at Steve, but not as angry as Steve is with himself. “This is not a kindergarten? Really? Have you seen-”

“I freaked out, ok?!” Steve spits at last, looking at her like the desperate man he is. “I thought he had an accident! I called him and- And then he appears with his kid? I didn’t know he’s married with children, ok? I didn’t know!”

Steve knows he’s making no sense, and yet, he’s letting out more than he wants. His own heartache takes control of his words, all the bottled up feelings spilling out now.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, I just-,” Steve sighs, defeated. “It’s absurd, I know, I’m being absurd.”

Robin sits in the chair in front of Steve, sighing too, far too quiet for Steve’s liking, and he knows she’s already connecting all the dots.

“So, it’s not that you hate Eddie, as Dustin and Eddie himself believe,” Robin guesses, and fuck, she guesses right.

“He thinks I hate him?” Steve asks with a strangled voice.

“That’s all the proof I needed,” Robin smiles sadly at him. “I’m sorry, Steve, it must be difficult for you, Eddie never mentioned a wife or a kid, I thought he was-”

“Yeah, me too, I think it was like, wishful thinking for me, you know?” Steve tries to laugh, but it sounds like a sad bark.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Robin says sincerely, leaning in to pat Steve’s hand. “I think you two have chemistry, like, I was convinced that it was going to happen, sooner or later.”

“You never told me that.”

Robin simply shrugs at that, and to be honest, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“You still owe him an apology, Steve, you were a jerk to him, and his kid, and a broken heart is not really an excuse, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Steve gets up. “I hate you, my little moral compass.”

“Aw, babe, but I’m so good at it.”

-

Once Steve comes back to the kitchen, the initial commotion has faded and everything is again in movement. More or less.

Robin has everyone working the moment she steps out of the office, she’s good at it, far better than Steve. He always enjoyed the creative part more than the boss part. Maybe that’s why Steve doesn’t know how to hire new people or how to face Eddie now, after his little scene just minutes ago.

Dustin and Erica are together, with Eddie’s little girl on the countertop in front of them, making her giggle and - Steve squints at them - giving her chocolate mousse. Dustin is holding the spoon for the kid, CJ, while Erica is looking fondly at Dustin.

Steve sighs, thinking that probably he’ll have to deal with whatever is blooming between these two, but not now. Now he has to find Eddie and apologize to him, and meanwhile he can accept the fact that Eddie is a taken man.

Before he can take a step forward, Robin is already looking at him and points with her chin towards the adjacent kitchen, the one where Eddie records the videos. Steve nods at her sharply, takes a deep breath, and goes to find Eddie.

The long haired chef is there, looking miserable. He has his face hidden in the crook of his arms, slumped against the clean, empty counter, his curls wild and loose, covering his head and shoulders.

He doesn’t notice Steve when he enters the kitchen. Steve opens his mouth, but closes it again, unsure about what to say. The words feel heavy in his sore chest, all that crumpled hope like a bitter ache, making everything a bit more difficult for Steve,

But Robin is right. Eddie never made a move towards Steve, not really. What if the man is flirty by nature? Steve is the one with the stupid crush, and the one that let things get this far.

Deciding to do the right thing, Steve clears his throat, loud enough for Eddie to hear him. Steve grimaces at the startled long haired chef when he looks up, straightening in his spot as a militar. His big doe eyes are glassy and his brows are pinched, his whole pretty face contorted in a painful expression.

Well done, Harrington, Steve thinks.

“Steve!” Eddie squeaks. “I mean, chef, I’m sorry, I- It would never happen again, I just-”

Steve shakes his head, taking a step forward. Seeing Eddie like this shouldn’t hurt him this much, and knowing that he made it worse it’s actually killing Steve from the inside.

“No, Eddie, I am sorry,” Steve sighs, forcing himself to be an adult and look at Eddie’s eyes while he apologizes. “That was completely out of place, I should have asked you if you were ok, if everything was ok, not- I didn’t handle it well, and I’m sorry for that.”

Eddie makes a throaty sound that sounds like a very confused frog.

“Well, you’re the boss and I was late-” Eddie starts to say, sounding defeated. His next words he says them in a rush, as if Steve wouldn’t listen to him if he takes too much time saying them. “I don’t want to lose my job, chef, I love my job, I love working here, please-”

“What?” Steve frowns. “Eddie, I’m not firing you, and please, stop calling me chef.”

Steve decides that today they need to talk, today he has to properly meet Eddie Munson, pastry chef of Stobin, instead of assuming things and let his crush take the best of him.

He leads Eddie to the office, but of course, Dustin has to be the annoying nosy kid - now taller and broader and with stubble, but still a kid for Steve - and jumps in front of them.

“You can’t fire him, Steve!” He says, in that strangled tone he uses whenever he’s chastising Steve. That is, more often than it should be. “That’s not cool, just because-”

“Shouldn’t you be working on that order of cinnamon rolls?” Steve interrupts him, putting a hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “Take Erica and CJ with you if that’s what you want, and we both can talk later, in the office.”

Dustin opens his mouth again, but Steve smiles at him.

“I’m not going to fire Eddie, dude, relax,” Steve promises. Dustin is looking at him with those puppy eyes, lips pressed together in a fine line, but nods sharply after a moment.

“Yes, chef,” Dustin says before leaving, trotting towards Erica, who is still with Eddie’s kid.

Steve closes the door of the office behind them. It’s a simple space, a few chairs, the desk with the computer on top, a couch with a cozy blanket. There are a few shelves, full of cooking books and notebooks written by hand, Steve and Robin’s own recipes and tips, techniques and ideas.

There’s also a coffee machine and a lot of mismatched, novelty mugs. Steve doesn’t waste a moment and picks two of them, pouring coffee onto them.

“Milk and sugar?” Steve asks Eddie, and points at him to sit on the couch.

“Just sugar is ok, thank you.”

It hurts to see Eddie like this, deflated and sad and nothing like his usual self. Steve’s heart clenches at the sight, but he’s decided to ask and to know who Eddie Munson is.

Steve puts one of the mugs in front of Eddie, Dustin’s mug, with yellow ducklings painted on it. Steve holds his own mug, his favorite, the one the kids bought him long ago for father’s day. It says Steve #1 Dad, a private joke between them all.

“Well,” Steve drags one of the chairs until he can sit in front of Eddie. “I know I should have done this when we hired you months ago, but, as you can see I’m terrible at this.”

“You’re not the worst boss I’ve ever had, Steve,” Eddie manages to smile shyly, and it calms Steve’s nerves a bit.

“Yeah, well, I can be better,” Steve smiles back at him. “Ok, Edward Munson, tell me a bit about you.”

[cute-bag-of-bones]

Can't Trust A Supe

Part 12: Homelander Apology

Masterlist

Warnings: Just general obsessive behavior and some abuse.

        

    My hand shook as I held the note. I was so delicate with it like it might disintegrate in my touch. It was written on a flimsy napkin. All it said was left couch cushion. 7777 Love uncle Billy. It was short and sweet. I knew if I got up now Homelander would hear. The wait for my captor to sleep was always the worst. I never knew if he was going to come into my room to just stand and stare. 

         Soon I was pretty sure he was asleep. I couldn't hear his footsteps in his room. My crutches were nowhere to be seen and my wheelchair was at the table. I was going to have to crawl. 

          The humiliating act was worth seeing what Billy had done to the cushion. I got to the living room with minimal noise. I patted the cushion and nothing happened. So I lifted it, taped on the bottom of the cushion was a smartphone. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. How did they get in his penthouse? It had to be when we were at the party. 

          I crawl back to my room and close the door fully. Naively I pull the covers over my head as if it would hide me. It had a pass code, I typed in the code on the note and the phone opened. Inside there was only one contact, it was one number under the name (Limey Prick). I sent it a text.

        "Hello?"

        "Turn your phone on silent then facetime." I turn the ringer off and then I call. It rang for 3 rings then picked up. In the frame was a shady looking ceiling. The phone shook as Billy came into frame. He just grinned and ended the call. 

         It was probably just to check I was the one they were talking to. I received a text shortly after. 

       "We are working on something big. Are you whole?"

       "Mostly, when can you get me?" 

       "We are working on it. I saw the news. I need you to do a little undercover work for your uncle Billy. 😈" Oh God, who taught him how to use emojis? Was he serious? I can't stay here for one second longer.

        "No, I need to get out of here. He broke my ankle. He's going to do alot worse. I need you to get me out."

        "No can do. Your name is public, to millions of his cocksucking fans you are his daughter. We can use that to undermine all of Vaught, not just him."

       "I'm not his daughter though!"

       "I know that cunt, you have a golden opportunity. Homelander America's hero, isn't going to hurt his daughter who's in the public eye. His need for power and frame just handed you your biggest weapon against him." I hated that Billy was making sense. I knew where this was going. 

       "You want me to stay with him. You are going to leave me with this animal?"

        "I didn't give you to him. You got caught. I'm looking at the silver lining, we can't get your ass out of there yet. It's too risky. Play the public against him, kiss ass till I say. I promise you we will pull you out before anything goes to hell. Trust your uncle Billy. Only use this phone at night to update me and the boys, better hide it well you're not getting another. Delete all of the conversation as soon as we get done talking. Text me tomorrow night." I wanted to cry, I had built my hopes up so high. I thought this was my saving grace. I thought I was getting out.

        With tears in my eyes I deleted all our texts and looked for somewhere to hide the damn thing. I thought about just calling the press. I had the phone, I had the ability to but I'd have no protection. Only the boys could stop Homelander and if I fuck up Billy's plans there is no way he'd hide me. I'd just have to play along for a bit. Even if it killed me.

        Using the wall I shuffle my way to the desk. I take some tape from the art kit in the room and tape the phone under one of the drawers. My cast started to slip out from under me and I pulled down a cup of pencils as I fell. I froze in place. Homelander's bed frame creaked as he rolled over. 

         "Simone?" He called from the other room. I had to think of something quick. If I made him get out of bed to check he'd be pissed. I dragged myself to the hall and used his door frame to pull myself up. My ankle was a blaze with pain as I put weight on it. I pushed his door open and looked into his dimly lit room. 

         "I had a nightmare." I say softly. He was laying on his side looking at me. I could tell he was trying to see my game. "I'm going to go back to bed sorry for waking you."

       "If you are scared you can sleep in bed with me. Come lay down." He pulled down the covers for me to get in. He even slept in his suit. What a fucking weirdo.

        "No, I'm fine. I'm not scared I was just startled." 

        "I said come lay down." His tone darkened and I knew he wasn't offering, he was demanding. I couldn't argue with him but sharing a bed with this unstable individual didn't sound like a good idea. He patted the spot next to him growing impatient. 

         I nod and use the wall to hobble my way to the tall bed. It was huge. California king, it was at least 3 ½ feet off the ground. It was a bitch to climb up in. Finally I was able to hoist my leg high enough to roll in. One good thing about such a big bed was I could have lots of space from Homelander.

         The far right side of the bed, facing away from him seemed like the safest spot from him. I took the pillow I was using and put it between us. He chuckles and puts it back at the top of the bed.

        "Don't be so dramatic, I'm not going to hurt you." He says as he pulls me to him. I try to dig my fingertips into the edge of the bed but of course that does nothing to stop him. He wraps his arms around my body. One across my waist and the other just under my arms around my chest. 

        "This is too close." I say as I try to wiggle free from him. He buried his face in my hair and took a deep breath. He wasn't trying to be subtle about his creepy behavior, he didn't have to be. How was I going to stop him?

         "You even smell like her…" He whispers as he nozzles his face deeper. I froze up yet again. I was fairly sure he didn't want me in any other way than as a daughter, but the way his voice sounded made my stomach drop. 

          Crying was all I could think to do. He seemed to not want me near him when I cried so maybe he would have the same reaction this time. 

          I start to sob and he lifts his head from my hair. I thought it had worked. 

          "Poor thing that nightmare really did scare you. It's alright, your Homelander is here." My sob became a gag as he spoke. He laughed a little and let go of me. "Goodnight, angel face." He said as he rolled over and gave me some space. He was just fucking with me again. My nerves couldn't take much more of his games. 

        Even though I was freezing there was no way I was going to get under the covers with him. 

        At some point I fell asleep. It wasn't a restful night, I kept waking up half panicked and checking where he was in the bed. He never got closer than his back touching mine. 

        The next time I woke up to look for Homelander he was gone. There wasn't a trace of him in the room. I heard voices in the living room speaking. My crutches were resting against the nightstand. Those were not there last night. 

        Using them I made my way to the living room. Homelander was talking to an older man. 

         "Oh good Simone, this is Stan Edgar. He's the big cheese around these parts." Homelander was trying to sound cheerful but I could hear the venom in his words. 

        "Good to finally meet you Simone, your father here seemed to have been hiding you away for some time." Edgar said this like it was a joke but he had no idea how right he was.

         "You could say that." I say with a chuckle as I shake his hand. He looked down at my cast. 

         "Wow you really don't have your father's strength." I look down at it as well. 

          "Oh yeah, it should be healed soon though. Is it a problem? I was looking forward to getting out there and doing my part as soon as possible." I say as I take a seat at the table with the men. Homelander gives me a look. He was likely wondering why I was so eager all of a sudden I needed to tone it down a bit.

       "No, not at all. You are polling great with teens and young adults, actually and no one's even seen you in your suit yet. I think the cast works for you. Real underdog story, you are more fragile than the average supe, it's relatable, inspirational almost. The child of Homelander can get a broken bone. It gives an element of danger when you go out there. The creative team is very excited to flush out your image more." Edgar said as he poured himself some tea. 

        "Sure, the kids got a bit of a glass jaw but do you really think marketing her as just like a human is a good idea. She's powerful, she has so much potential as a full fledged 7 member. She's a real killer, Stan." Homelander was quick to question the idea. Something about his pseudo child being portrayed as an everyday Joe rubbed him the wrong way.

        "Oh I have no doubt She's a killer given who her mother and father are." His friendly exterior dropped as he sipped his tea. It was like someone pressed pause on Homelander and I. It was funny seeing him get tripped up the way I do. 

        "I don't kno-"

        "Don't play dumb Homelander, it's pathetic. Did you really think I didn't recognize her? That's Alphonse Bishop's kid through and through. Luckily for her I don't believe that the sins of the father should affect the child. That being said I'm sure she is not against a little blood shed to get her why, just like her thief of a mother." Both Homelander and I had a physical reaction to his slander of my mom. 

        "Are you going to tell on me, Stan? She should have been my kid. It's only right I took her in." Homelander said, getting defensive. Edgar looked across the table at me. He didn't seem pleased. 

         "No, don't be so short sighted. If I sell you out the press might start looking deeper into the unpleasantness at the bishop family compound. I'd be implicated in a massive cover-up. I can't have that. I don't care what you are doing with her. So long as she is there with a smiling face for the camera's. What I don't understand is; You have a biological son, why keep her around? Don't tell me it's because of her mother." This asshole talked so callously about a slaughter. I wanted to pop his ribcage in but I knew that wouldn't help me any. Not yet at least. There was a more pressing matter. 

        "You have a son?" I ask looking up at a seething Homelander.

        "It was supposed to be a surprise, Stan. She was going to meet him today. And why I keep her is between me and myself."

          "This is very messy, Homelander. Very foolish. I expect better of you. She's not Diana, you killed her remember? Like a pestilent child you threw a tantrum. That we all had to clean up for you." Was Edgar trying to get him to snap? What was he thinking? 

        Homelander picked up his fists to slam on the table but stopped himself as he stared at Edgar. He slowly brought them down and rested them on his thighs. 

         Edgar didn't look worried in the slightest. He was just a man, how could he feel safe talking to Homelander like that? If I didn't hate him so much I'd almost admire him.

        "If you guys hadn't fired her she would have never ran off with that Unabomber wannabe." Homelander say through gritted teeth.

         "Oh please, you know as well as anyone she was seeing Alphonse long before we had to fire her for stealing vials of compound V. You couldn't stand the idea of someone not wanting you anymore so you killed her. That's on you." Edgar didn't mince words when speaking. I wanted to interject to defend my family but  he was starting to fill in some pieces of information I never knew.  

          "No! I had to! She was throwing away her life with him! I told her to come back with me. I begged her,  sh-" Edgar interrupted him.

         "And she decided she would rather die than be with you. I know it all is probably so tragic for you. My heart bleeds for you, honestly Homelander but that doesn't change what you did. It was no one else's fault but your own." Homelander's eyes glowed red. I was sure I was about to witness a murder. Edgar just looked at him. 

          He had to have some kind of fail-safe put into place otherwise he wouldn't be so bold. I wasn't sure what it could be but it had to be solid. No sane man would talk this way to Homelander without an airtight plan in the event of his death. 

          "He's not worth it. You might win the battle but the war would be his." I say softly looking over at Homelander. He must have agreed because his eyes went back to normal. 

       "Look at that she's got her mother's wit as well. Lucky you." Edgar said as he stood up. "I'll be in touch. Everything is all set for her to join Vaught officially." He pulled a pen from his suit jacket and got out a contract of some kind from his briefcase. He laid it down in front of me and handed me the pen. 

         "Go ahead, my team already looked at it. Mr. Edgar was very generous on the conditions." Homelander says never taking his eyes from him. Homelander's face twitched with anger. He wanted to kill him so badly it was palpable. 

         Edgar didn't seem to care death himself was chomping at the bit to end his life. He was a poisoned piece of meat just waiting for a rabid dog like Homelander to eat it. I was certain killing him would cause a bigger problem for us both. 

          I signed as soon as Homelander gave the okay. Edgar took his pen and contract and tucked them away. Part of me couldn't help but to feel like I just signed away my soul. 

       "It's going to be a pleasure working with you. We are going to make a lot of money together." Edgar says as he shakes my hand. 

        Stan Edgar left soon after thanking Homelander for the hospitality. I have never seen Homelander look so helpless. If it was anyone else I might want to root for him. That Edgar guy was so pompous and sure of himself it made my skin crawl.  

        Homelander just sat looking out the window for a while. I wasn't sure if I should act like nothing happened. I wasn't sure I could. 

         "So you have a kid? Like one that's related to you?" 

         "Yep" He said with a slight nod. He was thinking about something. Probably fantasizing about how he'd kill Edgar if given the chance. 

         "You said I was going to meet them? That might cheer you up." I said as I leaned back in the chair. He finally gave up on his staring contest with himself in the window's reflection and looked at me. 

        "You are interested in meeting my boy?" I just nod. If he was treating him anything like me, maybe some solidarity between victims would be good for us. I could get this kid some help if Billy ever gets me out of here. 

          Homelander smiled at me and nodded back. He stood up and handed me my crutches. "Go get around. We can leave as soon as you are ready." I was so surprised by how his mood changed just by offering to go see his son. 

          I took the crutches and got around like I was told. I couldn't help but wonder what a son of Homelander would be like. What if he was as cruel as his father, as if that was even possible. 

          We left once I was finished. He said we could have breakfast at his boy's house. He seemed so excited by the idea. We flew over a certain point and Homelander covered my eyes. 

          "No peeking, it's kinda a secret." He said with a playful tone. It wasn't long before he descended from the sky. He pulled his hand away and let me see again. It was a normal house. I wasn't sure what I was expecting but it wasn't this. "I don't have to tell you not to act like a bitch right?" He asked as we walked to the steps. 

           "Of course, I'll behave." I say with a fake grin. He seemed satisfied with my promise and opened the door. The house was so normal. The kind you see on TV in a sitcom. 

         "Honey I'm home!" He called through the house. A woman poked her head around the corner. 

         "I thought we talked about you not just dropping by. Who's she?" She asked as he looked me up and down. 

         "This is my daughter Simone. Remember when I told you I had experience with kids? I figured she and Ryan should get to know each other." He said as he walked further into the living room. The woman looked scared and uncomfortable. She folded her arms and looked at me. She was trying to figure out what I was; can she be trusted? 

        "Why would they need to know each other? Who's your mom?" The last part was clearly directed at me. 

         "Because they are half siblings, Becca, that's why. And don't worry about who her mom is. She was the love of my life. That's all you need to know. Now where is my boy?" He asked as he looked around the general area as if his son might be hidden somewhere.

         Whenever Homelander would turn his back Becca and I would stare at each other. It was becoming increasingly obvious she was just as much of a captive as me. 

          "He's in the back." Becca finally answered. She turned and opened a sliding glass door. Homelander and I followed. Outside playing with a ball and mit was a young blonde boy. He looked just like Homelander; it was almost uncanny. 

            "Hey Ryan. I want you to meet someone. This is Simone, my daughter. Simone, this is Ryan." Homelander said with a big grin. I look at Homelander then back at this boy. He seemed hesitant as well. 

           I have to take the initiative and hold out my hand. 

            "Hey, nice to meet you." I say as I look at him almost pleadingly. I knew Homelander would get restless if we took too long. 

          "Right, hi." He said as he finally took my hand. 

          "I like your shirt." I say trying to make small talk. Ryan looks down at his shirt then back to me with a wide grin.

         "Thanks, it's my favorite show! You know it?" 

          "Of course I do!" I say with a chuckle. I didn't have a clue what cartoon was on his shirt but he seemed to be happy so I wasn't going to pop his bubble. 

        "Look at you two! Already best friends. Ryan, she's like your big sister. She just has a different mom." Homelander said as he patted me on the back. Ryan looked up at me with stars in his eyes. He looked like he was actually happy to have me as a sister. It felt kinda nice. 

        "Sweet! Wanna play catch with me and hom- I mean dad?" He seemed a little embarrassed he almost called him Homelander. Before I could answer, Homelander stopped me. 

        "Oh no kido she's not like us. She has different powers. We don't want her getting hurt any more." He said as he pointed down to my cast and crutches. 

          "Oh…. What can you do?" He asked, sounding disappointed. I hated that fucking question at least there wasn't many people around for him to make me demonstration on. Come to think of it, this culdesac didn't have any people walking around. It was eerily quiet. It was a gorgeous day out and the next door neighbor wasn't in their pool, no one was walking any dogs. 

          "Well champ she has a really cool power she'll show you some other time." Homelander said, looking down at me. He was trying to protect Ryan. He really seemed to care for him in his own fucked up way.

       "I'm making pancakes. You wanna help Simone?" Becca called from the sliding glass door. I looked at Homelander who looked a little annoyed but he still nodded. 

        "Yeah sure, I'll talk to you later Ryan." I said as I walked inside. Ryan waved before starting to play with his dad. 

        Becca smiled at me and motioned for me to come closer. I gave her a strange look but obliged. She held her hand down to her side. Inside was a little bit of paper. I make sure Homelander was still focused on Ryan before taking it. 

          Written in shaky handwriting, the note was simple.

         You here willingly? It confirmed my suspension, he took them as well. I shake my head no as I stare at her. She looked like she might cry. She nodded slowly and lit a blunt on the stove top. We turn our backs to the window as she takes a drag then hands it to me. We didn't have to say much. There wasn't a lot to say. Not a lot we could say either with him right outside. 

        We passed the blunt around a few times before she snuffed it and finished up the pancakes. They had blueberries just like the ones he made in the morning. 

        "Oh you like blueberry pancakes too?" I ask out loud deeming it inconspicuous enough.  

         "Fucking hate them. But him and Ryan like them." She says as she hands me plates to set the table with. She waves her hand at me to get my attention then mouths "You really his?" While motioning her head towards Homelander. I shake my head no again. Her nose wrinkles up a bit in disgust as she shakes her head. "Sick bastard." She whispers just as Homelander and Ryan walk in. 

        "What was that?" Homelander asked as he took a seat across from Ryan. 

         "Nothing, just chatting. Here, sit down, Simone." She says as she kisses Ryan on the forehead before giving him a pancake. I sit down next to Homelander begrudgingly. At least Becca wouldn't have to if you did. 

         Homelander talked while we all ate. Even Ryan seemed hesitant around him. On some level he could tell his dad was a monster. Kids are smart, they pick up on when one parent is scared of the other. 

         It probably wasn't right but I had to know it's it was probable. looked through Ryan using my vision. He seemed to be in perfect health. I wonder if he was as strong as Homelander. I knew he had his dad's powers but maybe because he wasn't fully grown I'd be able to do something. I quickly closed my eyes, what was wrong with me? Was I seriously considering trying to hurt this innocent kid just for a shot at escaping Homelander. 

         "You alright sweetheart?" Homelander asked as he patted back back a bit too hard. My eyes pop open as I nod.

        "Yep, just a headache."

        "Oh no. Ryan, why don't you get your sister an Aleve?" 

         "Sure dad. I'll be right back." He said as he hopped down from his seat and ran to the bathroom. Once he was out of earshot Homelander's face changed. 

         "So why am I a sick bastard?" He asked, looking between Becca and I. She didn't seem shy once her son was out of the room. 

        "Because you kidnapped someone's kid!" Her tone was a mix between a whisper and a shout. Homelander looked at me, I knew I was in some deep shit.

        "Is that what she said? I kidnapped her." 

        "No, of course not. She's not stupid and neither am I. I could see it in her eyes. Where and who are your parents, Simone?" She asked, looking at me. Homelander had a self assured smile. 

       "No go on, tell her. Don't let me stop your guy's little girl talk."

        "They are out of the picture, I'm 18." I say trying to ease her mind as much as I could. 

        "That's even worse Homelander what the fuck she's not-"

         "Found it!" Ryan said as he ran back into the room holding out two Aleve.

          "Thank you so much." I say with a big grin as I take them. He smiled and walked back to his seat. 

           "Good job baby" Becca says as she rubs his back. She kept her eyes on Homelander. She was pretty brave when Ryan was out of the room. She is just trying to protect him, keep him out of it all. She seemed like a good woman. I hated that she was pulled into something like this. I couldn't imagine a lady like her falling for Homelander, well I guess my mom did.

         After breakfast we all played monopoly. We couldn't finish it because Homelander was losing so he decided we all should play battle ship. When Ryan sank his cruiser he quit that as well. It would have been funny if I wasn't scared he'd flip on us all. 

        It was almost time to leave. We were all outside saying our goodbyes. Ryan was pretty sad. I'd imagine so he's probably lonely there doesn't seem to be many kids in the neighborhood. 

         "Alright buddy we are gonna get going. I'll be back soon" Homelander said as he hugged Ryan.

          "Will you bring Simone?" He asked looking up at Homelander. 

        "Well I don't know I'll see. Her leg is pretty bad. Maybe once it's all better." He said as the corner of his lip twitched. Was Homelander seriously mad Ryan wants to see me again?

        "I'll miss you Simone. Make dad bring you along." He said as he gave me a big hug. He almost lifted me off my feet. The little guy really was Homelander's kid. I squeeze him back and laugh. 

       "I'll try, you know how he can be. But I'll miss you too, kid." I say as I look up at Becca. She looked like she was gonna cry again but forced the tears back when Ryan came over to her. 

        "I want a hug too. It was good to meet you." She said as she hugged me as well. Being tormented by the same manchild God will make you bond fast. 

        "Good to meet you too. I'll see you around." I say as I pat her back. 

         "Alright come on its time to go." Homelander said as he grabbed me and lifted off. He wasn't quick enough to cover my eyes and I got a pretty good look at the neighborhood. It looked like it was walled off. He was keeping them insome kind of compound. He covered my eyes after a few seconds and I couldn't see much else. His grip was tight as he flew. I could feel his hand over my eyes tighten ever so often.

        Soon we were home. He sat me down and stood in front of me. He looked pissed. I knew my mistake was being too well liked by his other victims. 

         "Well you three were cozy. The way you girls laughed when I had to pay taxes on monopoly. Really sweet." He had his hands on his hips. I would have laughed at him again if he didn't scare me so much. 

       "I thought I was supposed to behave. Isn't it good Ryan and you ex like me?"

       "She's not an ex we had sex once." He said as his foot tapped. He looked like a mother who just caught their kid sneaking a cookie. 

         "Okay so? It should be good Ryan likes me. Are you jealous?" I asked as I lean back and lift my foot up on the chair in front me to elevate it. Without warning Homelander pushed my leg off the chair making it slam down onto the hardwood floor. I scream and fall out of my chair to hold my ankle. 

           "No of course I'm not jealous of a weakling like you. How dumb are you. I'm his dad. He could never like you more." He sounded horst. I don't even listen to him as I cry and hold my ankle. Walking on it all day made it sore enough but this sent me over the edge. 

         He sucked his teeth as he looked down at me. He picked me up under my arm pits and put me back in my seat. 

         "Stop being such a baby. It doesn't hurt that bad, let me see." He said as he sat down across from me and grabbed my cast and rested it on his leg. 

         "No just stop! It hurts enough!" I yell as I try to pull my leg from him. He used his X-ray vision to look at the bone. I was too busy crying and squirming to watch him. 

        "It doesn't seem broken anymore then before. I'm gonna have the doc come in and suspend this thing from the ceiling so it can be elevated properly. Maybe he'll even put a bolt in the thing to make sure it stays in place."

        "My cast doesn't need a bolt just stop please." I beg as I reach to hold my ankle again. 

         "No I meant a bolt in your bone to hook the suspension up to." He didn't seem to realize why I wouldn't want that.

          "Absolutely not! Just get me a pillow I can elevate it myself no bolt needed. I'm sorry you think your kid likes me more then he likes you but that doesn't mean you can mutilate my ankle further!" He gave me a strange look as I spoke. He shook his head slowly. 

          "I'm not doing this to mutilate you. I want to make sure this is healed up for you." He said as he rubbed a spot below my knee just above the cast where it had been swollen. I squirmed a bit more but gave up on trying to get my leg back. The steady pressure against the swelling almost felt nice but it also was so sore. 

        "Just stop acting like you care. I know you just like to see me suffer." I say as I lean my upper body against the table. He looked almost hurt. 

         "Is that what you think? I mean sure it feels good to hurt you but I don't like that. I really do want you to get better. I don't like seeing this cast on you." He says as his eyes softened. I couldn't take his head games I just lay my head down on the table and give up.

        "Oh and the doc has to come tomorrow anyway. Stan wants you to be chipped." He says as he reaches down to my other foot and takes my shoe off for me. I lift my head up. 

         "What? Like a dog? Why am I getting chipped?"

         "All of the 7 are. It's just for insurance. It goes in your arm." He says as he lifts me up and carries me to my bed.  

         "You have one?" I ask as he gently lays me down. 

         "Nope, my skins too tough." He grabbed a few pillows from the couch and lifts my foot up with them. Vaught really seemed like they had trust issues. I guess I wouldn't trust the 7 either.

          "I meant it you know, I don't like seeing you suffer." Homelander said as he crouched down next to my bed. He's completely ignoring the part where he said he likes to hurt me. I don't want to start a fight so I just agree.

          "Yeah alright."

          "I'm going to watch a movie want me to put it on in here and we can watch it together?" 

           "No thanks. I'm going to just play on the switch or something." I say as I pull out the gift from A-train. Homelander walked to the door before stopping. 

           "Hey you um you did good today. And I'm sorry about your ankle… not the breaking it part but I mean when I pushed it off the chair. That wasn't fair, sorry." I looked up at him stunned. This was the first apology I ever got from him. It wasn't the best, kind of a Homelander apology but he sounded like he meant it. I just nod at him wide eyed. 

        "Yeah no problem no harm done." I say with a small smile. He nods back and grins before walking out. That wasn't like him, it almost scared me more then his normal self. 

        I had to wait till he went to sleep before I could update Billy. He's going to loose it when I tell him about Homelander's kid. Maybe they can find the location and get them out.   

          I looked through my leg. I had to do something about this as well. I'm vulnerable enough, I don't need to be bolted down to a bed for a few weeks. I wasn't sure how good I'd be repairing bone. I stare at the crack in my ankle and try to get the bone marrow to seal it. It feels like a hot poker was pressed against my bone. It never hurts when I heal a cut. I wince and have to stop.

         The fracture did seem to be a bit smaller. If I did this slowly enough I could have this thing fixed in no time. That's not so bad. As always Homelander was my biggest threat. 

        His kindness tonight scared me. He seemed so genuine. He wasn't like that before. What happened?

[applesontheground]

no returns 🎠

and last but not least for my protagonist triad, our beautiful angel...angel :') i felt seen by him as someone who also hates her retail job, talks aliens with acquaintances, and was having a really fucking weird summer in 2022. since it's been a sec (and if you're curious/had bisexual panic during this movie when not faced with the Horrors), you can find my OJ and Em blurbs here!

and listen. if i knew how to tackle cosmic romance with jean jacket along with these guys i would've done it. get back to me on that. or don't. i have a lot of wips already.

SFW | Word Count: 795 | Angel Torres x GN Reader 🎼: x

“Hey, not here to bust your balls or whatever, but I just wanted to ask about a good pair of wireless headphones.”

You couldn’t help the casual tone when seeing someone your age behind the counter, because he looked like the type that could take it without a hitch. Still, he almost looked startled, fumbling a suspiciously smartphone-shaped bundle under the counter before you got too close. He hadn’t even seemed to have heard you, finding his customer service voice before anything else.

“Sure-“ He waltzed out from behind a swinging door that kept him closed off to the public, which you imagined was pleasant during busy hours.  He put a hand on his hip and asked as the two of you started walking towards the correct section, you mostly following where he was leading, “Were you looking for wired or wireless?”

Silent, a smile grew on your face as his brain caught up with his mouth. He almost jumped at his own realization: “Right, wireless…”

You nodded along, and he slipped over to the even more precise section of the aisle you had been walking towards. He put a hand up to where the headphones would be, pursing his lips in a stiff expression. Everything about him screamed uncomfortable, so you returned the neutered movement with your own affirming wave, a signal that he didn’t have to linger.

Your eyes kept scanning over the colors, the prices… the packaging, even. You weren't too sure what would work. Earbuds were something you kept for a good three or four years then lost tragically to some freak accident.

Maybe you merely washed them with your jeans one too many times, but no one needed to know the details.

He was almost erratic, perfectly fine to leave but seeming as though his soles had been screwed into the floor. His eyes couldn’t help wandering, catching the outfit you had on. “…I saw those guys live a couple years ago.” At first, you weren’t sure if he was even talking to you, but then looked over in surprise. He abruptly gestured at your shirt, and when it clicked you tried not to laugh, “Oh yeah? How was that?”

“Nuts. Like, in a good way.” He was then whipping his phone out at light speed, but you didn’t mind, curiosity over asking for assistance giving way to the favor of seeing what sort of concert videos he took.

After all, you did like the band on your shirt.

Over the brief conversation, you had learned his name was Angel. The chat that followed had been interesting, laughing about wild concert stories, what kind of music you had to own physically, and you even got a few of his own favorites out of him.

He held a hand out, almost like he wasn’t about to jump back behind the counter and do his job while speaking. “Code Orange, ever heard of them?”

You scoffed, “Of course I have, I fucking rock with ‘em.” He sighed like a heavy weight had been taken from his body; maybe it was strictly from not knowing he could be someone more genuine until now. “They’re baller, right?”

Silence fell as you stuck your card in the chip reader, and you figured this wasn’t a terrible idea to find a way to get some more music speak out of the guy. “What’s the return policy at Fry’s, again?” You then asked. Angel cleared his throat, and answered without a hitch, “30 Days, standard policy.” You nodded, “Cool, thirty days to come back with a good date to ask the nice clerk with good music taste out on. I’ll consider it. Thank you, Angel.”

His exasperated expression suddenly grew horns, eyes wide as you took your headphones and walked away. You maybe made it three steps before you heard clambering behind the counter again, the man nearly breaking his own ankle trying to run out to catch up to you.

“Wait, wait. Hold on-!” He called, like you hadn’t already stopped in your tracks, beaming at him as he lost all his formality just to run up and say in a breathless hush. There was hesitation, almost a fresh pain at the mention of dating that made you reconsider – not for your sake, but possibly for his. You just met the guy, after all, but he had charmed you. Being in your twenties was all about taking those shots, trying it out.

He continued to fumble, almost dropping his phone as you kept your giggles stifled. "I a-actually lied, we don't fucking have a return policy-" You cocked your head at him, and taking a steadying breath he once again put his hands back on his hips.

“I mean... y-you don’t have to wait, do you?”

[theabyssgazesalsointoyou]

an incredibly personal rating of bmc ship names (ship names only, regardless of my feelings toward the ship itself)

boyf riends - 6/10. cute but so hard to tag. i think i saw backpack boyfriends being used back in the day that's a cute alternative

stagedorks - 9/10. a little basic but a classic it's cute

spicy bis - -5/10. this one is awful. makes zero sense, sounds atrocious, jeremy isn't even canonically bi. the other alternatives were even worse (i don't even wanna say it) but why use any of them when richjer exists

deere - 9/10. i fucking love it it's just their last names smashed together but it's fucking deere (dillinjer is a 4/10 because pronunciation-wise it's too similar to dillinger)

puppy love - 5/10. cute but straying a little into the tired 'jeremy is a furry' joke imo

expensive headphones - 3/10. idk it's just lazy and it's a common enough phrase for me to get violent whiplash when i encounter it in the wild

pins and patches - 5/10. super super cute but soooo niche like how is one supposed to figure this out???

upstage - 10/10. makes complete sense, simple and cute. love it.

playride - 10/10. basically same as above

dramatical theatre - 3/10. it took me so long to get this especially since none of chloe's other ship names involve the word 'drama' (to my knowledge at least??)

cinnabun - 0/10. none of y'all really gave a shit about jenna or christine and it shows

richjake - 10/10. look idc if it's 'boring' it's hilarious that these two out of all the characters got the most basic-ass shipname so ic of them (choosing to ignore arson bros which is a solid 0/10!)

arsonberry - -10/10. including all its other variants like fucking. hot dog. the only acceptable one is richbrooke. what's wrong with richbrooke anyway why are we not using that??

pupgrade - 2/10. just my personal opinion. like c'mon where's the effort

royal pains - 10/10. absolutely immaculate, captures their vibes perfectly. yes they are royal pains indeed.

pinkberry - 6/10. really cute and simple, fits the vibes but it's also the name of an already existing brand it's so hard to search for

iced tea - 7/10. there is a slight problem with searching but it's so clever and cute it makes up for it

gossip gals - 2/10. i always thought this would be more fitting for the smartphone hour girls' polyship??

boardwalk boys - 4/10. makes no sense but eh sounds cool lol

lesbihonest - -10/10. where do i even begin what does lesbihonest even have to do with the bmc girls. none of them are canonically lesbian. god i hate it so much this fandom really didn't care about the girls did they. if you named the boys' polyship boardwalk boys bc new jersey is famous for boardwalks or whatever then obviously the girls' polyship should be garden girls. bc y'know. nj the garden state?? it's literally right there oh my god i'm so salty about this one and i don't even ship it