#so I ended up basing her on my personality/looks but taking her into a direction that would fit the game

[ineed-to-sleep]

Blacked out in front of my tablet and woke up with sketches of my Touchstarved mc + Kuras my beloved. woops

[glammiketrash]

Monty didn’t attack Bonnie. Freddy did.

This post is not a joke: Ruin gives us enough clues to know that Bonnie was attacked by Freddy the day he disappeared, and Monty saw the attack.

Word count: 2457 words.

Yup, I wrote an entire essay with pictures to take the blame from a fictional gator that became my comfort character. If someone from Steel Wool is reading this: Yes, I’m ok, thanks for asking. If you want to send a cute Monty picture to my inbox, it is open and I’ll be all over the place if you do it.

Now, let me take you with me on this wild ride, because this theory fits the narrative of both Security Breach and Ruin so well that I have to clap at Steel Wool if it is actually correct and not me playing with the puzzle pieces incorrectly. So, here we go!

Bonnie, judging by the golden eyes and his travel pattern, was protecting someone like Freddy did with Gregory. Important damage was directed to the stomach hatch, where a kid could hide.

He has claw marks there, but Monty didn’t got his until the first was decommissioned and was then modified to play his bass.

The scratches in his hatch are green, but also the cracks over it. It looks like it is his base color instead of paint left by the attacker. The next video is from FazFriends, where they look at every single detail in the Ruin animatronic models. Their analysis are totally worth your attention if you like SB!

Monty has black nails, even before he was modified to play Bonnie’s bass. They also are kinda blunt, and the marks the attacker left seem more clean and sharp in the ends.

Now, there aren’t lots of animatronics that have claws. We have Roxy (and I’m guessing Foxy, if he ever existed as an animatronic different to her), The mimic/Burntrap, who doesn’t really seem an option because he’s slow and in life support in SB and sealed in Ruin, and… there’s Freddy. But, and here’s the twist, not normal Freddy, who couldn’t get through gates like Monty until he got his claws.

I’m talking about this thing.

Not only do we have environmental clues that confirm this attack, but also a key clue that wouldn’t make any sense otherwise.

Let’s start with the Prototype itself!

Check those claws. They are sturdy enough to survive all the damage this model has received, and extremely sharp at the end. Now compare Bonnie and its hand together…

It’s a perfect fit. The metal is a bit bent in the left, but if you could lower it, the finger length, the palm, even the distance and shape between the thumb and index are the same than the hole in Bonnie’s chest.

If that detail is true, all pieces of the narrative fit together. Here’s what happened, which I will explain further adding sources:

Monty saw Freddy’s prototype attacking Bonnie (who was in safe mode) in Gator Golf’s catwalks. The hurricane hole-in-one was activated, causing them both to fall. He could see the prototype losing its head and taking damage to its leg, but Bonnie was nowhere: he was either able to go back to Bonnie Bowl by himself using the distraction or the fall knocked him out and was dragged there, where he was heavily damaged.

This next part is not so clear, so I’ll give you my version of what I think happened that night: Bonnie alerted police that a kid was in danger. They show up, but Vanessa sent them away, claiming she was the only person there and it was a prank call (False Alarm message in SB). Vanny uses Bonnie’s trust on Freddy against him: she sends the prototype to go after the kid and him. He makes it to Monty’s, where the hurricane causes damage to the prototype, and is then finally attacked and disassembled behind his attraction to silence him and bury any clue or what happened (his parts are all over the place, one of his arms has weel marks, and Ruin follows the PQ ending where Freddy is disassembled. In SB, endos come out from the lines to attack us, and in Ruin we see the zone where his vanity is infested with STAFF robots, both in its normal version and in VR, where a giant STAFF robot is seen being dragged to a door while it leaves scratch marks on the floor).

Fazbear Entertainment pretended they actually looked for Bonnie and found nothing at all. As a final punishment for his disobedience he was actively being erased from existence: most of his art was removed, and some ask for a re-theme of his attraction (Re-theme SB message). They make Monty the main bassist, giving him his green room too.

These changes are being quickly pushed after his decommission: Bonnie still has power when we find him, Monty falls from the catwalks “a month ago” and snaps in half, a place where he goes every time he skips a performance (Monty Mischief SB message), people constantly ask for Bonnie and there isn’t an approved answer to give, the bowling alley still wasn’t given a re-theme after taking out most of Bonnie’s images.

Despite FazEnt efforts, Bonnie is remembered, specially by a depressed Monty.

His body was modified, he was given his bass, his glasses, his room, his role. The higher ups clapped thinking about the possibility of him being even more popular than Bonnie, his disappearance becoming yet another opportunity to make money.

And it was Freddy’s prototype’s fault. His normal life, the person he admired the most, his own body, were taken from him because of him.

From that day, and after getting new claws, his attitude becomes obsessive, endlessly searching for what was left of Bonnie after the rest gave up: destroying fences to explore the undergrounds, constantly missing shows and always being found in the catwalks, even after being snapped in half by the hole-in-one bucket, trying to guess where his body was. His last known location was his attraction, so he should still be there somewhere, isn’t it?

Let me repeat this: he prefers looking for Bonnie in the catwalks even at risk of his own integrity than performing.

There are more details that show us he does care for him: there are four official images left of Glamrock Bonnie in the PizzaPlex, three of them in Monty’s ride, the last one at the entrance of his own attraction, where some animations can still be seen. These cutouts are in perfect shape, while Freddy’s is light off.

There is also a headless Freddy statue that once you go to FazerBlast screams “prototype”.

It looks like it’s been decapitated by a hurricane, some “cables” coming out of its head like the prototype, which has cables coming out of its neck.

This damage couldn’t have been caused by the earthquake: the head should had fallen to the ground instead of being pinned on the hurricane. Plus, it doesn’t match the theme of the ride, based on cutouts, and while the rest of the elements are placed in scenarios and their composition is clearly studied, this statue breaks the symmetry of the hurricane’s eye element, that is supposed to give you the illusion that you are entering its eye and being pushed out to the main attraction.

What’s more, in a story exclusively about Monty’s past and how he became a solo bassist in the PizzaPlex thanks to Bonnie, attracting the same amount of people than the Glamrocks themselves, a Freddy statue at the end doesn’t make any sense sense at all… Unless it was put there with a very particular purpose.

I like to think it’s part of an environmental story telling from Steel Wool, specially when you read the rest of clues together.

There’s more to say about this statue than the lack of a head: look at its leg damage, and how it matches the prototype’s heavily damaged one, and how the hand that is visible reflects the light making it look like it has long claws despite Freddy having short ones like the rest of the band.

It also has two blue long lines through his chest that resemble the ones in Bonnie’s.

If you still have doubt about how it is part of a scene representing the night of the attack, then you should know there is an easter egg here: if you follow the part of the tornado that goes up, you can see a Bonnie cutout at the very top of it. He’s far away from the rest of the scene and he looks like if he was being knocked by the tornado. If you zoom to look at his face, you can see he has a worried expression.

Monty didn’t destroy any of the images of Bonnie or his previous iterations, not the cutouts, not this poster, not the bass that belonged to him, even after causing damage to his room.

There is a detail in Gator Golf that is easy to miss: An intact poster of the original Bonnie near a log he uses as a hideout in Ruin (we see him quickly going out of it when we approach it).

He looks similar to the illustration at the entrance of Bonnie Bowl, but this image is not very charming. He looks half dead, yeah...? If you then go to Bonnie’s, some big screens are still on and advertising pizza. When you wear the mask, they change to a glitched version of the Bonnie animation, where his eyes go blank in a similar way to this poster.

This spot couldn’t have been used by Vanny: it is decorated exactly like the rest of Gator Golf in the base game, which ends with us saving Vanessa and exiting the PizzaPlex together.

The poster also has a drawing of Freddy stuck on it. In this chapter you can also find the Bonnie’s piñata collectible, the first time we can see his Glamrock design and the first clue of him having suffered an attack (it has a big gash in his chest).

He could have easily taken it down if he wanted, specially when it is so close to his hideout and he’s in such a volatile state, but he keeps it right beside it.

But the real Freddy (or, at least, things that resemble him) seems to cause some kind of reaction even in the base game, yes?

The most common example in Security Breach is the arcade version of Monty’s Gator Golf. There are two possible readings for it, depending on if you think it represents Monty’s mind or if you think it has been hacked to change his behavior.

Hole 1 depicts Freddy separated from the group, a big distance between them. Hole 9 shows him in a dumpster, and Chica, Roxy and Monty playing together. He’s never part of the group, so either Monty hates him or he was hacked so he would hate him, right?

But the main show were he looks happily at him while playing, the fact that he never attacks him even after being hacked, the presence of images of him on other holes all perfectly light and ok like this balloon, and the eye color difference between Hole 1 and 9, make me think Steel Wool is trying to tell us a way different story.

The Freddy in the dumpster is the only one with golden eyes. Hole 9 represents what is happening the night we play as Gregory, the AR part of the AR-cade, and of the main reasons the Monty taking down theory was so popular.

That night, Roxy, Chica and him are working on finding the kid to the point that their cases crack and get dirty, while Freddy not only glitched at the start of the show hours before, but is now also walking around the PizzaPlex doing NOTHING instead of helping (apparently).

It’s the animatronic equivalent of a group project were one of the members does nothing, so you have to do their part and then they show up and are praised. It makes sense he would be angry at the situation and think he’s trash, but even so, there are no real confrontations between them.

But what about Hole 1, then? The answer is the fireflies. There are some fireflies at the left part, but the right, where Freddy is looking, has other set of lights. If you calculate the distance from Chica to him, the center is almost where the hole is, the part of the arcade that is supposed to drag your attention. Having an empty space there feels uncomfortable and a very questionable decision from whomever designed the scene, but if this one is a reflection from reality or Monty’s current mind state, why aren’t Freddy’s eyes gold?

Well, I don’t think he is separated from his band.

I think someone is missing from the picture instead.

Bonnie was erased from the Arcade.

As it was said, these changes were quick and non-planned: they deleted his model from the arcade, but had no time to move and reprogram the positions of the rest of the characters so the space between them was filled. As a consequence, when you play this level, your attention is taken from the hole to the distance between them.

It is void, awkward, it makes you uncomfortable. You know something is missing, but you can’t quite tell what it is yet. It makes you wish there was one more character there even before you knew there actually was.

Once you learn what happened, how his story ties to the place this scenario represents, the void he left in Freddy and Monty specifically, Hole 1 gains a new meaning, and it hits you. When you go back to the PizzaPlex as Cassie and play the arcade, there’s no joy left there. No fireflies, no Glamrocks, just ruins. Two pairs of red eyes and a pile of Nightmare STAFF bots. That’s all that’s left.

But if you still need one more clue to convince you that the prototype was the one that attacked Bonnie, then let me tell you there is a final one that wouldn’t make sense otherwise:

The AR collectibles dialogue.

Cassie always makes a commentary about the things she finds: Monty’s AR plushie being very glitchy, how she wants to add Roxy’s one to her collection, how the her father wouldn’t tell her why they replaced Bonnie and how he was his dad’s favorite…

But she also asks him what happened to him, and gets an answer when she gets the last collectible.

The AR Golden Bonnie is hidden in Bonnie Bowl, next to a Wet Floor Sign bot.

She hasn’t been to Fazer Blast yet.

But the description answers the question that she asked him: a prototype.

Bonnie was decommissioned by Freddy’s prototype.

And the only ones that know are a kid lead to her death that can hear his agony through the Wet Floor Bots and unreal collectibles, and an animatronic blamed for his death and told he’ll never be him, obsessed with his loss and with finding whatever is left of the person that he admired the most and helped him become the star he once was.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

My Alpha

This is kind of a long one shot (5619 words!), but I thought I'd try my hand at the ABO!/Omegaverse. Hope you like it!

Being an omega wasn’t always a bad thing.  At least that’s what she told herself repeatedly as she religiously took hormone blocking birth control pills and wore scent blockers on the daily.  Y/N hadn’t had a heat in years and wasn’t planning on letting up any time soon.  She had started working as a personal assistant for the Avengers under Tony Stark years before, going through the Sokovia Accords debacle, surviving the Blip, losing Natasha, Tony, Steve, T'Challa, and all the other strange and traumatic things that happened during her tenure.  She had denied her biology to get this job, not wanting it to affect her performance or be a target while being surrounded by literal super Alphas in this field.  And as hard as the job was, she loved it.

One of the greatest highlights was gaining Bucky Barnes as a friend.  While other Alphas she had come across were domineering, he was compassionate and kind.  He very rarely lost his composure like others did during high pressure situations in missions, and never fought over who was in charge.  He was incredibly careful to make sure everyone around him felt comfortable in his presence.  After finally shaking the Winter Soldier programming he didn’t want to ever lose control of himself again, and with the super soldier serum messing with his hormones to the extent that he was nearly feral during ruts, he would isolate himself away to keep her and others safe.  

Y/N felt like she could talk to him about anything, and he felt the same.  She was his sanctuary after rough missions, one of the few people that could break him out of a deep depressive state or the nightmares that still plagued him.  He knew she was an Omega but could barely smell her because of her blockers, which he both loved and hated.  Loved because it made it so they could be friends without the weird biological dynamics getting in the way, and hated because he was super curious about what her scent was.  They had fallen for each other long ago, but were both too afraid to do anything about it.

As they both relaxed during a rare weekend off they got on the topic of Omega versus Alpha traits.  “I get it, Alphas can be rough, but don’t you want to mate someday?  Find someone special to settle down with?  Maybe have a family?”

She sighed.  “Of course I do, Buck.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” he asked gently.

“Not having a clear choice,” she answered simply, giving him a sharp look.  “I don’t want my biology to decide my fate.  So many Omegas get stuck being mated with bad Alphas because their heats were uncontrollable and the Alpha wouldn’t take no for an answer.  I know that I’m predestined to be a nurturer.  Hell, that’s what my job is now, taking care of all of you guys!  But I should get to choose who I end up with based on love, not by body’s reactions.” Bucky nodded in understanding, looking down at his intertwined hands.  “Do you want to settle down someday?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly.  “I just don’t know how it would work out.  This job…my past.  It all points towards disaster at any given time.”

She slid over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders awkwardly as she sat next to him.  “You deserve a happy ever after, Bucky.”

“You do, too, you know,” he reminded her, resting his head on top of hers.

“Mmh, maybe someday,” she said wistfully as she undid her embrace and leaned back against the couch.

“So, anyways,” he cleared his throat.  “Is it true that Omegas have a better sense of smell than Alphas or Betas?  Like you can pick up on others’ scents and identify them really well?”

She laughed.  “Yes, it’s true.”

“Really?  Okay, what does…” he scanned the room as other Avengers milled in and out.  “Peter.  What does Spidey smell like?” He tested her, watching her expectantly.

She took a look at Peter across the room, her nose slightly flaring as she took in a whiff from his direction.  “He always smells like fresh bagels to me.  You know the smell of just-baked bread?  Kinda like that.  Mixed with a little bit of hazelnut.”

Bucky looked at her in awe.  “Yeah I kinda get that off of him.  Alphas can smell and track scents but not to that level.”

“Hm, that’s interesting,” she said as her eyebrows furrowed.  

“Now how about Sam?” he asked excitedly, hoping it would be something not so pleasant he could tease him about.

“Ha, Sam is Cajun seasoning with a sweet lemony undertone.  Like really well done seafood,” she answered quickly with a smile on her face, knowing Bucky would be disappointed in that answer.

Bucky frowned as he thought about who to ask of next.  “Okay, how about…Steve?” He knew it was a long shot.  Steve had been gone for a few years now, so she probably wouldn’t remember.  But she gave him a soft smile.

“Steve was smoky, like fireworks.  A summer night that ends with warm apple crisp and melting vanilla ice cream on top,” she said as she stared out the window, a dazed look in her eyes as she remembered him.

“Wow…” Bucky whispered.  “I always got the fireworks, and something like a picnic.  But now that you say it, yeah, apple with vanilla.”

“Yep, he was truly all American,” she winked at him.

He laughed as he turned towards her on the couch.  “How about, um…me?”

She gazed at him, her expression softening as her nose flared again and she huffed out the breath she’d taken.  “Smoky, like Steve, but different.”

“Like gunpowder?” he asked suddenly, his eyes searching hers.  He had been told that before and was hoping they were wrong.

“No, not gunpowder.  More like…” she sniffed again but frowned.  “Do you mind if I…?” she gestured her finger from herself to him.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he said, opening himself up for her to scoot closer to him.  She leaned in towards his neck, the best place to scent someone, and breathed in a slow sniff of him.  She closed her eyes.

“Campfire.  A campfire on the beach.  And the smell of the ocean after it rains,” she said resolutely, opening her eyes to look at him.  Their faces were close as he stared at her.  “But no, not gunpowder,” she reassured him.

“That’s good,” he breathed, his eyes shifting from her eyes down to her lips and back.

Her eyes suddenly widened, her brow furrowing and she pulled herself away quickly.  “I, um…I need to go…excuse me,” she said hurriedly before she jumped off the couch and power-walked down the hall towards her room.

“Wait, Y/N, are you okay?” Bucky stood from the couch as he watched her leave.

“Yeah!  I’ll talk to you later!” she yelled back without looking, her voice sounded strained.

“What the hell?” he asked himself quietly, looking around him like something had jumped out and spooked her.

Once she was out of sight she ran to her room and had Friday bolt the door.  She doubled over in pain and clutched her stomach.  “No way,” she moaned as she reached for her phone and called for help.

“Hey you, how are ya?” Bruce asked when he answered the call.

“Bruce,” her voice was pained as she held in another moan.  “I need help, something’s wrong.”

“What?  What’s going on?” he sounded worried, the rustling of papers and beeping from a screen by him going off.

“It feels…like a heat?  But that’s not possible, right?  We made sure of it,” she grunted as another cramp shot through her abdomen, and just as suddenly as it all started, it suddenly stopped, leaving her gasping.  “Wait, now it stopped?  What the hell is happening?”

“Come down to the lab, right now.  We’ll get you tested.”

She didn’t need to be told twice as she hung up and crept out of her room towards the elevator.  She was able to get in and down to the lab a few floors away without being caught by Bucky or anybody else.  She ran into the lab in a panic.  Bruce was already setting up the medical bay in the back with everything needed to do a check-up, some vials next to the other instruments.

“Hey, let’s take some blood and see what’s going on,” he called out to her when he heard the doors slide open.  She jogged to the bed and hopped up on it, taking off her cardigan so he could access the veins in her arm better.  After a quick routine check up he took a few vials of her blood then stepped out towards all the equipment he had for medical and scientific tests.  

He worked silently as she sat there deep in thought.  It can’t be, she tried to reassure herself.  I’ve been so careful.  Not missed a single pill ever.  This can’t be happening.  After about an hour Bruce came back with a screen in his hand, his eyebrows hung low over his eyes and a frown on his face.

“Y/N, it’s…it’s not working anymore,” he said softly, his eyes sad and confused as he looked at her.

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, her eyes widening.

“The hormone blockers, the pills…your body isn’t responding to them anymore.  Your hormones are syncing back to normal Omega levels.  Your heats are going to come back.”

“No, no no no no no…NO Bruce!  I can’t.  Please, there’s gotta be another pill to try, a shot, an implant, something?  Anything, please?” she began to cry.  

“I’m sorry Y/N.  We already got you the best blockers that are available out there.  If your body is weaning off of them it means your biology is taking over, probably because you’re getting older and it’s fighting back to have a chance at mating.  I’m so sorry,” he showed her the hormone levels on a chart on the screen, pointing out the differences and then setting it down.  “There’s nothing I can do.  Nothing you can do but prepare yourself for it to start again.  And your first one is probably going to be brutal after avoiding them for so long.  You’ll need help–”

“NO!  No, I can’t do this.  I can’t ask some random Alpha for help.  This isn’t fair!” she cried harder, hiding her face in her hands.  Bruce patted her on the back, trying to help ease her pain by giving off a calming scent.  He was also an Omega and knew how much this meant to her.  

“It will be alright, Y/N.  You have friends here who will help you without making it awkward between you and them, or won’t immediately try mating with you during your heat.  They’re good Alphas.  They won’t hurt you or take advantage of you,” he promised.

She tried to calm the loud beating of her heart that was wringing in her ears, a panic attack trying to settle deep in her bones that she was fighting back.  “How long do I have until it comes?” she sighed as she sniffled.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry.  With it being so long since you last had one it could be next week or it could be in a couple of months,” he answered gravely.

“Ugh, great,” she laughed as she wiped her tears away.  “No choice, whatsoever.  My body ultimately got to decide for me after all.  Wonderful,” she spat as she jumped down off the bed.  “Thank you, Bruce, for testing.  I just…I need to go sleep this off, I don’t know,” she said, giving him a quick hug and then leaving the lab.  

She took the elevator back up to her floor, her eyes stinging from the hot tears still slowly falling down.  Her heat was coming back, and with a vengeance.  She would need help.  Who would she ask?  Any of the unmated superhero Alphas would probably say yes, though she knew she only wanted one.  But how could she ask this of him?  And if he did help, how could she go on with their friendship as if nothing had happened between them afterwards?

The elevator opened and she trudged into the common room.  The floor was already dark as twilight set in and everyone had split off to their rooms.  She slipped into the kitchen since she missed dinner while down in the lab to grab something to eat, although she wasn’t particularly hungry.  As she made herself a sandwich she turned to grab a knife then saw a figure in the corner at the dining table.

“Jesus!  Fuck, Bucky you scared me,” she gasped, holding a hand over her heart.

“Sorry, honey,” he grunted as he sat watching her.  “Why are you crying?”

She stiffened as she looked at him, trying to act nonchalant as she grabbed the knife and turned back to her sandwich.  “I’m not, I’m just tired,” she waved him off, quickly cutting the sandwich and putting the ingredients and dishes away to escape.

“Don’t lie to me Y/N.  What’s wrong?” he stood, walking towards her.  She reached for the refrigerator door to get a drink, which he quickly shut and stared her down.  She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Come on Buck, I just need a drink,” she complained as she tried to open the door again, reaching for the handle.  Bucky grabbed her wrist firmly and leaned in towards her.

“What’s wrong Y/N?  You ran away earlier and now you smell…off,” he said, searching her eyes as his nose flared at the scent she was radiating.  His frown deepened and his eyes looked worried.  “Why are you afraid?  Was it me?  Did I do something wrong?”

“No!  Oh no, Bucky, it’s not you,” she said, her eyes widening.  “It’s me, it’s just…” her eyes welled up with tears again, spilling onto her cheeks as she sucked in a sharp breath.  “It’s me,” she sobbed, leaning forward til her forehead rested against his chest.

“Oh honey,” Bucky sighed.  He put his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto the counter so she was eye level with him.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in his shoulder, crying harder as he enveloped her, his hands rubbing up and down her back as he whispered reassuring words to her.  They sat holding each other for a while, Bucky letting her cry it out and Y/N relishing the comfort.  As her cries died down and her grip loosened around his neck he pulled back.

“Tell me what’s wrong, please?  You’re breaking an old man’s heart,” he pleaded, hating to see her hurting so much.

Y/N chuckled at him calling himself an old man as she wiped her nose with her sleeve.  Bucky held her face in his hands and wiped her tears away with his thumbs.  She let herself enjoy his touch before she sniffled and finally looked up at him.

“When I was talking to you earlier, I felt this weird pain,” she explained quietly.  Bucky nodded, listening intently as he held her face still.  “That’s why I ran out.  I went to Bruce’s lab to test me because it felt like…like a heat,” she sniffled again, looking down at her lap.  Bucky nodded again, his hands releasing her face and reaching for her hands to hold.  “I haven’t had one in years.”  This surprised him.  He knew there were new ways of birth control for Omegas now, giving them a lot more options than to just mate and reproduce and take care of their Alphas and pups like the old days, which he thought was great.  He just didn’t realize it could be for so long.  “And now, apparently, the hormone blockers aren’t working anymore,” she gripped his fingers tightly.  “My body is rejecting them, weaning off of them and reverting back to normal hormone levels.  My heat is coming,” she sucked in another sharp breath.  “I don’t know when, but he said it’s going to be brutal since I’ve been avoiding them for so long.  He said I’ll need help and…and I don’t know what to do.”  Her voice shook as she looked up at him again.  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

Bucky could feel her panic and gave off what he hoped was a calming scent.  It seemed to help as her eyes fluttered shut and her shoulders visibly relaxed.  The Alpha in him hummed in satisfaction as he swept his thumbs over her knuckles.  “You don’t need to be scared, Y/N.  It’s going to be okay,” he tried to placate her.  “Listen, I know earlier you said you wanted a choice, and now your body’s not giving you one.”  She nodded, a few more tears slipping out the sides of her eyes.  “I…I can help you,” he said, gulping back the lump in his throat.  Her eyes snapped up to him, a look of shock on her face.  “I know that I’m offering something kinda crazy.  But I promise you I won’t hurt you, I won’t make you court me if you don’t want to, and I won’t forcibly mate with you.”  He looked her deep in her eyes to try to get her to understand.  “But I’d be honored to help you.”

Y/N couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.  She had wanted to ask him and now he was offering himself for her to get through this first heat.  She licked her lips and contemplated it.  “I just don’t want it to ruin our friendship,” she sniffed again, her eyes searching his face for hesitation.

“It won’t,” he said earnestly.  

“...Okay,” she agreed.  

Bucky smiled as he squeezed her fingers.  “Okay.”

“Thank you, Bucky.  You’re a good Alpha,” she thanked him, lifting his hands up and kissing his knuckles.

His eyes fluttered shut and he cleared his throat.  “You should probably not call me that, at least not right now.”

Her eyes widened.  “Oh!  God, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay, honey, it’s fine,” he chuckled.  “Whenever it hits you, just call me, and I’ll be there.”

She gave him a warm smile in appreciation.  They were playing with fire, and they both knew it deep down, but were denying it heavily.

***

Y/N could feel her hormones changing her body and mind.  Bruce had advised against wearing scent blockers as well to help her body fully adjust and hopefully not cause as much pain during her upcoming heat, and that was the first thing she noticed.  The Alphas around her, who would normally just give her a friendly greeting or a smile, now watched her hungrily through narrow eyes, giving tight smiles as their noses flared as she passed by.  It made her self-conscious enough to ask Bucky one day, “Do I smell bad?”

Bucky looked away from the book he was reading as she plopped next to him on the couch in the common room again, lifting her feet up to rest on his lap.  She was touching him a lot more lately.  “What do you mean?”

“Do I smell bad?  Omegas can’t really smell themselves very well, and since I took off the scent blockers I’ve been…watched,” she looked around the room warily.  Bucky’s eyes swept across the other Alphas in the room, noting how they were all giving off territorial scents as they tracked her.  He sat up straight, facing each one until they caught his eye and gave off a warning rumble deep in his chest, his eyes flashing dangerously.  They each quickly retreated, shamefully turning back towards their previous tasks.  The air around Y/N seemed to lift and she felt like she could breathe again.  “Thank you, Bucky.”

He sat back on the couch, grabbing his book with one hand and mindlessly rubbing her feet with the other.  “No need to thank me, honey.  And no, you don’t smell bad.  You smell like chai.”

“Chai?” Y/N scoffed.

“Yeah, chai with…” he reached a hand out and grabbed her wrist, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling deeply.  Her eyes widened comically at his brashness in scenting her so publicly.  “Pumpkin.  Chai and pumpkin.  Like Autumn,” he concluded, setting her wrist down and then rubbing her feet again.  He said it so casually that she just stared at him dumbfounded.  

It got worse as the weeks went on.  Her emotions were haywire, one minute she was calm and cool and the next she was agitated and easily crying at anything.  She was nesting anxiously, rearranging her room and her desk in her office, constantly carrying around a large fuzzy cardigan or blanket with her.  Her joints were sore, especially in her hips.  She found herself eating all the time.  Bruce had her come down to the lab each week to check her levels, each time warning her it could happen any day now.  

A month and a half later on a Friday night the team got together for a movie night.  They decided on watching the first Avatar, a movie Bucky hadn’t yet seen.  As it played Y/N kept fidgeting next to him, adjusting her sitting position, wringing her hands in her lap, taking deep breaths periodically.  A scene began of two of the characters connecting in a tree garden and Sam yelled out, “Alien tree sex!”  Everyone laughed but Y/N bolted out of the room.  Bucky watched her run down to her room and shut her door.

He quietly got up and followed her.  He could tell just by her scent changing these last few weeks and how it was getting stronger, the chai smell getting spicier, that her heat was fast approaching.  She had been very touchy with him, following him around and staying close whenever they were in the same room.  He had no claim to her, but it was evident to everyone to stay away from her, otherwise they’d get a growl from him.  He was growing more excited by the day, trying to remind himself that he was just helping out a friend, not staking any claim or bond.  

When he reached her door he pressed his ear against it, listening for her.  He heard her heart rate picking up and her breathing became labored.  He could also smell her, more potent, spicy, the scent of unmated Omega making his hormones sing and call out for her.  A deep rumble emitted from his chest as he felt his cock hardening.  He knocked on her door.

“Y/N,” he called out, just loud enough for her to hear.  A soft moan came from the other side.  His eyelids shut tight at the sound.  It was time.  “I’m coming in,” he warned before opening the door.  He stepped inside and was hit with the scent full force, making his eyes and mouth water simultaneously.  Y/N was laying in the nest she built on her bed in the fetal position, one hand on her stomach and the other in between her legs, not yet touching herself but keeping pressure against her core.  “Honey…” he groaned as he locked the door behind himself and walked towards the bed.

“Alpha,” she breathed, her brow furrowed and eyes shut tight.  A cramp wracked through her whole body and she yelped in pain.  “It’s starting.  It hurts…hurts so bad,” she cried as she could feel a small gush of slick pour from her pussy as her body recognized the Alpha in the room.

“It’s gonna be okay, honey, I’m here,” he cooed at her, reaching his hand out and running his fingers along her leg from her ankle to her thigh.  “Let’s get you out of these, huh?” he said while lifting the hem of her shorts up slightly.  She nodded and blindly started pulling at her clothes.  Bucky helped her strip out of her layers then undressed himself, giving her naked body an appreciative glance.  He lay behind her on the bed, cocooning her in his arms and leaning his head into the crook of her neck and scenting her.  He could feel himself getting drunk off of her heat.  She was sending him into an early rut as his hips rocked against her ass slowly.  Y/N keened at that, her back arching and pushing her ass into his crotch further.  He moaned at the sensation, his arms tightening around her.  “Shh, Omega.  I got you,” he said as his voice dropped further, the Alpha coming through more prominently now.

“Bucky…” she sighed, her hands gripping his arms around her.  “Please…Alpha please,” she begged, her legs shaking as another cramp hit her.

Bucky moaned at the sound of his name said that way coming from her lips.  He started to lick and suck and kiss at the scent gland on her throat, making her gasp loudly.  His scent mixed with hers, and they quickly got lost in each other.  His hands found her breasts and massaged them firmly, his fingers tweaking her nipples and making her hips buck back into him again.  He twisted her body around to face him.  She quickly molded herself back to him, hiking her leg up and over his hip, her hands scratching down his chest.  He tried to remind himself one last time that this was just a friend helping a friend.  Then she kissed him.

The kiss broke the dam of hesitancy he was holding to desperately.  He quickly responded, his mouth opening and their tongues tangling as they tasted each other.  Bucky climbed on top of her, his knees forcing hers apart.  His fingers probed her lower lips, finding her clit and giving it all his attention.  Y/N’s hips writhed as he riled her up.  She watched his fingers dip into her, making her breath stutter.  She was already dripping for him so he plunged two fingers into her, thrusting them in and out while his thumb rubbed and flicked her clit.  

“Fuck Alpha,” she groaned.  “Just like that, shit!”

Bucky smiled as she cursed, her legs shaking against his.  She reached down and took his cock in her hand, giving him lazy pumps as he got her closer to her release.  He huffed a sharp breath.  “Damn, honey, oooh that’s good,” he said lowly.  “Give it to me, love, come on, you can do it.  Be such a good Omega for me,” he encouraged her as he curled his fingers as deep as he could reach.  

The tension in her core finally snapped, her first orgasm ripping through her at lightning speed, squirting slick all over his hand and his hips.  She let out a guttural moan, the sound reverberating through the air, making the Alpha inside of him scream to claim her.  He had to physically restrain himself as he pulled his fingers out of her.  She smiled as she watched him with hooded eyes.  He put his wet fingers in his mouth and licked them clean of her slick, his eyes rolling back at the taste.

“Alpha please, I need you.  Bucky, I want your big cock inside me…please!” Y/N begged again.  Normally it would embarrass her to be acting like this, she would have never dreamed of speaking to Bucky this way.  But they were beyond the point of no return.

“Condom first, Omega,” he reminded her in his authoritative voice.  “As much as I’d love to fill you up, I don’t think that’s what you want just yet.”

Y/N pouted, but the first orgasm had helped clear her brain a little bit, and pointed to the nightstand next to the bed.  Bucky quickly reached over and pulled open the top drawer, finding the box and pulling a few of them out.  He unwrapped one and slipped it on himself before settling back between her legs, backing up a little bit.  “Present, please, Omega.”

Y/N twisted herself onto her stomach, lifting her hips high and pressing the side of her face into the bed.  Bucky almost whimpered at the sight of her sweet pussy, seeing the way he had made her drip with slick, the skin softly puckering in anticipation.  “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen Y/N, goddamn,” he whispered huskily.  She preened at his praise, her ass raising a little higher.  He gave her ass a quick slap, making her yelp and shiver.  “You ready?” he asked, making sure she was still wanting this.

“Yes, please Alpha, Bucky…please!”

“You’re so sexy when you beg,” he slapped her ass again, then grabbed her hips and aimed himself at her entrance.  He slowly pushed in the tip of his cock, the fat head catching just past her lower lips, making them both groan.  He kept pushing until he was fully seated inside her, letting her adjust to his size.  Y/N was keening again, a high pitched tone ringing through the air.  After a moment she wriggled her hips, silently asking him to thrust.  A deep growl emanated from Bucky’s throat and he pulled back until it was just the tip inside, then snapped his hips back into her hard. 

Y/N was making the sweetest noises he’d ever heard as he pummeled his cock into her.  She whimpered and moaned, making him hook an arm around her hips and lay his stomach across her back, quick huffs of his breath warming her shoulder.  He could feel her walls fluttering around him, making the rhythm of his hips stutter.  “Fuck, honey, you gonna cum?”  She nodded as her moans got louder.  He flipped her back over onto her back so he could watch her release, leaving barely any room between them as he hovered over her.  Her hands wound around the back of his neck, scratching his scalp with her nails.  “Goddammit, do that again,” he heard himself whimpering this time.  She scratched from the top of his head down to his neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

He reached between their bodies and started flicking her clit as he chased his own high.  “Bucky, oh my God,” she squealed against his lips as her back arched and her legs clung to his hips.  “Yes, yes, yes, shit…mark me.”

Bucky didn’t stop thrusting but tensed at her words.  “No, Y/N, you don’t want that.”

“Yes, I do, with you, Bucky,” she gasped.

“Omega,” he warned her, his eyes flashing.  “We can talk about that when I’m not balls deep inside you.”

Y/N tensed at his Alpha command, her legs loosening around him.  “I want you to be my Alpha, my mate.”

“God fucking dammit,” Bucky stopped thrusting and leaned on his elbows above her.  “Y/N, listen to me, you don’t want that.  You said you wanted a clear choice, remember?”  Y/N was silent and wide eyed as she watched him, slightly nodding her head.  “This isn’t a clear choice.  Your first heat in how many years?  It’s your hormones talking, honey.  And believe me, I’d love to mark you, claim you, bond and mate with you.  Stuff you full of me,” he thrust again, making her eyes roll back, “and breed you with my pups.  But we can talk about all that later.  Right now, I’m here to help you through this, because you’re my best friend, and…I’m ridiculously in love with you.”  He finally said it.  “I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.  But when it’s both of us with clear heads and a clear choice.  Okay?”

Y/N’s eyes were watery as she listened to him.  “You’re in love with me?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, “Is that all you got out of that?”

She shook her head, “No, but it’s the most important thing.  I’m in love with you.”

He smiled wide and leaned down to give a quick kiss to her nose.  “Can I continue now?”

She nodded again, and he gave her another thrust to get her going again.  Her slick started to make squelching noises as he picked up the pace again, his knot starting to catch at her entrance, his hand reaching to her clit again and trailing kisses down her throat to her scent gland, licking and sucking at it again.

“One day, if you’ll have me, I’ll bite this pretty neck,” he moaned in her ear as her fingers dug into his back.  “Make you mine.”

“Yours, all yours, Bucky…Alpha,” Y/N groaned, leaning her head up and scenting him back.  Her soft lips and her tongue against his gland had his eyes rolling in his head again and his fingers gripping her hips harshly.  “That’s right.  Mine.  Mine…mine,” he thrusted harder and faster, angling her hips up to hit deeper.

Y/N screamed his name as she finally came, her hands digging into the flesh between his neck and shoulder, scratching his scent gland and making him see stars as he came with a yell, his knot fully inflating and latching him to her as she nearly squeezed the dear life out of him.  He fell on top of her, and she held him as he calmed down, both of them panting and sweaty.  

A heady scent filled the air, a smell that screamed satisfied mates.  Bucky pulled himself to his side, holding her close so it wouldn’t hurt her to move with him, and covered them with the blankets from her nest.  Y/N was delirious after this first round of her heat, her head lolling with exhaustion.  “Rest, Omega.  We’ve still got a few days, and forever after that.”

She smiled sleepily, “Hmmm, my Alpha.”

[ladcedes]

controversial!

summary f1 heartthrob lando norris starts dating a hot, up-and-coming celebrity with a not-so-hot personality and some fans protest…

disclaimer reminder this is completely fictional!!! the “faceclaim” (very loosely) may be rachel zegler but in no way am i basing it off her personality!!! no hate to her at all i love her sm

the tweet:

comments

user-1 isn't this lando norris' new gf

user-2 no way she's featuring on a DRAKE album 💀💀

yourusername

Liked by bellahadid and 223,449 others

yourusername one thing about me and red carpets... i'll always be serving cunt ❤️‍🔥

view all 442 comments

hunterschafer yess always serving the best looks

bairdballad absolute icon!!

(liked by lando norris)

⤷ bairdballad wtf lando liked this

⤷ snowangel @.bairdballad lando is so real for that

landonorris always a stunner

⤷ yndefender so can we take this as confirmation that they're together

⤷ ynmyloves @/yndefender if this isnt confirmation idk what is 💀

ln4life her language is so vulgar why would lando be with her

⤷ futuref1w4g ikr she's such a bad influence

⤷ angelyns icb you actually said vulgar 💀 lando norris is a fully grown!! BRITISH!! man!!

⤷ milcedes @.ln4life @.futuref1w4g average instagram comments...

lewishamilton 👏👏👏

⤷ ylnstars LEWIS??? lando you better get tf up

⤷ ultraviolenced ariana what are you doing here

2007wdc we should expect lando of all drivers to be with a girl like her most tbf

⤷ 9thwdc aside from lewis

lando.jpg

tagged: yourusername

Liked by daniel3.jpg and 342.112 others

lando.jpg and that marks the end of the 2023 season ✨

view 4 comments

yourusername not a single pic of my face yet you tag me... someone tell him that's not how soft launches usually work

⤷ lando.jpg @.yourusername who says i'm trying to do a soft launch

⤷ yourusername @.lando.jpg you showed me hundreds of other 8K HD pictures of me with my face and only post faceless ones?

⤷ lando.jpg @.yourusername maybe i'm just gatekeeping your face

⤷ yourusername @.lando.jpg it's ok lan, you can stop trying to cover up your loser soft launch attempt, i'll still love you

comments have been disabled

yourusername

tagged landonorris

yourusername cheers to the haters 🥂 he still loves me xx

3 December 2023

view 316 comments

georgerussell63 @ landonorris Your gf is scary help

landonorris you tell em babe

norrislclrc queen behaviour i say

ln4life can’t believe he’d get with you

⤷ ynloml and? you think he’d ever look in your direction?

⤷ ynvfx literally get a life how are you still out here yapping about them even on insta??

ladcedes using this "comment" as an author's note! this is so scuffed im sorry i started it back in early december planning to do more for it but i got busy and atp just wanted to get it done 😭

⤷ ladcedes so for anyone confused about the drake album randomly being there… yeah…

[alexias-putellas]

centre of attention // a.bonmatí x reader

a.bonmatí x reader

based on this request! wanted to get something out for you guys so voila. not proofread as per usual

-

despite being named as one of the greatest of your generation, you were incredibly humble. you always credited others before yourself, always mentioning the person who gave the assist whenever asked about a goal you scored in post match interviews.

most people assumed it was because of how genuinely nice of a person you were and how much you adored your teammates, which was true, but really it was because you absolutely loathed being the centre of attention and this fact was known by your club and country teammates—who made it their mission to tease you about it to no end.

your girlfriend however never took part in it so you were thankful that you had at least one person on your side. of course she poked a little bit of fun at your shyness but aitana knew when to stop.

so when you walked up to take a corner during a game, booted it with all your might and accidentally curled it straight into the top corner securing your hattrick, you wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow you up.

but that couldn’t happen so you plastered a smile onto your face and approached your celebrating teammates. their grins almost made you scowl and you took their congratulatory comments in jest, knowing that they were holding back until after the game.

“buen trabajo.” aitana whispered to you and the smile that grew on your face was a genuine one.

“gracias, my love.”

barcelona won the game and since you were subbed off not long after the corner, you were wrapped up in a big puffer jacket as you made your way back onto the pitch. you headed straight for your girlfriend, throwing your arms around her.

“here she is!” lucy shouted before her arms were around your waist and she lifted you up. “little miss hattrick!”

“oh my god! lucia roberta, put me down now!” you hissed loudly, your face growing warmer with every laughing teammate you passed.

as soon as your feet touched the ground again, you shot straight over to aitana, tucking yourself into her side whilst glaring at lucy.

“i think you are wanted over there cariño.” aitana pointed over her shoulder and you groaned.

“oh, aita, no! don’t make me go over there.”

your girlfriend giggled before gently pushing you in the direction of the interviewer. you greeted her politely and took the outstretched microphone.

“what a game that was!” she said and you nodded in agreement. “barcelona have been unstoppable this season, it’s incredible.”

“i know. the girls have been amazing, it’s such an honour to play alongside them all. we’re having so much at the moment with each other and with the fans and we can’t wait to get more results like this for them.”

“before we do anything else, we have to talk about the hattrick, right? we have to.”

you felt your face heat up and smiled shyly. “i don’t think we have to–“

“of course we do!” the interviewer laughed as you scrunched up your nose. “oh we have another guest!”

you made a noise of confusion before looking over your shoulder, beaming at an approaching aitana. she smiled and stood next to you, holding something out.

“for you,” she said and you furrowed your eyebrows, looking down at her hands. “player of the match!”

you rolled your eyes fondly but took it from her hands, feeling the heat on your face worsen. the far sound of your teammates cheering had you hiding in the collar of your coat and the interviewer was laughing again. “well deserved if you ask me.”

“exactly,” aitana agreed, throwing her arm over your shoulder. “nobody else scored a hattrick, did they? and did you see that last goal? asombrosa, tan asombrosa.”

you didn’t think it was possible for your face to get any hotter than it already was as aitana praised you. taking a peek, you scowled as she grinned at you.

“and she had two assists,” your girlfriend continued and you silently prayed for the ground to swallow you up. “two assists, three goals, and she was all over the pitch. we can talk about that corner goal again if you want.”

you shook your head frantically as aitana laughed, feeling utterly grateful when the interviewer spoke up again. “well it was lovely to speak with you ladies. congratulations on a great win and we’ll let you celebrate now.”

“gracias, gracias,” you spluttered out, waving quickly before shooting out of the cameras view. aitana was quick to follow after saying her own goodbye and you were quick to shove her away. “i should kill you with this aita!”

“but you won’t amor.”

“i should,” you muttered, glaring at her halfheartedly. “but you’re right. i won’t.”

aitana smiled and wrapped her arm around you again, pulling you into her side. “you know you are really cute when you are shy.”

“cállate or i really will kill you with this.”

[longing-for-the-past-times]

The four times you fell asleep on Ghost and the one time Ghost fell asleep on you - two.

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

word count: 3,157 (got a bit carried away)

synopsis: after a mission, you and Ghost end up in a safe house, waiting for exfil. Both of you are exhausted after two days of being under the fire, but will any of you give in to exhaustion?

notes: I definitely did not expect so much support on the first part, so thank you very much, I really don't know what to say. I hope you enjoy this as much as the first part!

reader's callsign is Bambi (she/her)

find it on ao3 part one part two part three part four part five

masterlist

two.

You hadn't slept properly in two days, but at least the mission was a success. As successful as a mission can be when you have to spend the night in a deserted safe-house, in the middle of nowhere, waiting for exfil.

At least you were not alone, you reasoned, as you lay on the ragged couch and pulled out your sniper rifle. And perhaps you could get some shut-eye before dawn if your partner would assign you to the first watch.

There was a catch though. The person you ended up in the safe house with was none other than your Lieutenant, Ghost. And after the embarrassing scene where you fell asleep on him on base last week, you were mortified to be in his presence, especially when you were alone and there was no one there to fill the awkward silence that would settle in. He hadn't even teased you about it—only that one time, immediately after you groggily awoke on his shoulder.

The memory of the moment lingered in the back of your mind: the exaggerated way in which he rolled his shoulder, as if to emphasize your weight almost put his arm to sleep, and the glint in his eyes, perhaps delighted to catch you off-guard. If you hadn’t been so busy avoiding him for the following days, you would have noticed his slight shift in demeanour towards you. Whenever you were in the same room, his gaze would linger on you, his eyes visibly softening as if he was silently reliving the scene. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but after he had the time to fully process the interaction, he’d felt oddly satisfied with himself - he made you feel safe and protected, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.

So why wouldn’t you look him in the eye when he tried to speak with you?

“You can go rest, L.T., I’ll take the first watch!”

He definitely did not want to give you that look, not when it had been two days since you’d last exchanged any words with him. But he was stubborn, and you were also stubborn, and the last thing he wanted was to argue with you.

“There’s a bed in the other room. You can rest there till they get us out.”

So he chose his preferred tactic: deflect your words, plainly overlook them, as if they were merely a background noise in the conversation.

He did not miss the way your shoulders tensed up or that you’d stopped cleaning your sniper riffle. The fact that your breath stilled was not lost on him, but he kept pretending he was busy checking his own riffle as if it would determine you to listen to his words and get some well-deserved rest. And yes, he was stubborn. But you were more than stubborn. And you had also won several debate competitions in high school:

“I was only involved in surveillance, I believe I am rested enough to take at least the first watch!" “We are not having this conversation, Sergeant!”, Simon rolled his eyes in annoyance, all too aware that you were only beginning your argument. “You haven't slept in two days!” “Well, technically I was in a position that allowed me to rest more than you! I was literally resting on my belly for most of the time while you were out there, in the line of fire!” "We both know that's not how it works, Bambi!", he let out a frustrated groan that made you widen your eyes in his direction. It was the second time he expressed himself in such an uncharacteristic way, not even seeming to be bothered afterwards by the sudden display of emotion.

But that did not make you back down. Instead, you propped your sniper riffle on the small coffee table, purposefully ignoring him as you busied yourself making the necessary adjustments so that it pointed towards the middle of the wooden door. Anyone who would try to barge in without identifying themselves would be pierced by your bullets before realising what was actually going on. Ghost placed his skull mask on the same table and discarded most of his heavy gear, until he remained in the tactical vest, a basic black balaclava covering his face. As he got up from the couch to check on his ammo, you also started to get rid of the heavy layers of your sniper gear, most of which was covered in grass and dirt. You wouldn't even bother to clean it up when you got back to the base - the messier it was, the more realistic it looked on the field. As you were checking that all knives were in their sheaths, your gaze fell on the skull plate casually tossed next to your riffle. You were so used to it being plastered to Ghost’s face that seeing it carelessly thrown on the table seemed out of place, inexplicably domestic even. The more you thought of it, the more you realised that you’d never seen it anywhere but on his face - he must have kept it stowed away somewhere when you were stationed at the base.

If you were sane and did not have a death wish, you would have at least asked for permission before leaning in to touch it. No, scratch that, the thought of the action itself would not even cross your mind: no one touched L.T.'s mask, whether it was on his face or not. But you were exhausted, the two days of constantly being on the lookout, with little news of your team, starting to take a toll on you. And the sight of splattered blood across the cracked white surface was troubling enough to make you let your guard down and start scrubbing the mask vigorously with your sleeve, in a seemingly futile effort.

You were so concentrated on the task at hand, eyebrows etched into a deep frown, that you did not notice the creeping silhouette that was lingering in the doorway. The sight of a 6'2" man, coming to stand directly in front of you with his arms crossed in a suggestive stance was completely lost on you as you kept rubbing your palm against the red stains, huffing in annoyance when they did not seem to go away. He must have been involved in some form of close combat as the blood clearly wasn’t his and although you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself, the thoughts of what could have been if he hadn’t paid enough attention, or if he’d been outnumbered plagued your mind. You were not supposed to worry about him like that. He was just your superior.

And also the person you fell asleep on once.

In the meantime, Simon was at a loss for words. He too was tired, having spent the last 48 hours being shot at and almost stabbed a couple of times. And perhaps, if he had to spend the night with someone like Soap, he might have gone to sleep for a couple of hours, letting the demolition expert keep watch. But he couldn’t allow himself such a liberty when you came into the equation- the need to protect you, to keep you from harm’s way was too intense, almost burning inside him. He could not fathom the thought of trying to rest with you having to spend the night in alert, on the lookout for any potential enemies. It was not that he did trust you with such a task, he was aware you were fully capable of it, but it just didn't sit well with him.

Yet there you were, your hands holding a piece of him. More than a couple of years have passed since he'd donned the persona of Ghost and the mask that you rubbed your knuckles against was an integral part of it. Never before had someone dared to touch his mask, he knew that everyone was too scared of it, of the persona he'd created through countless missions and stories. He was used to hearing people whispering behind his back, scrawny recruits sloppily pointing at the skull plate he'd spent an entire night stitching to a balaclava. He was also aware of the bets made on that topic and the gossip that claimed he must have been some kind of mutant, his physical features too grotesque to be displayed to the world.

There was a time when he himself did not know why he was wearing it, but the familiar weight on his face was a comforting sensation, a lover's embrace. That was the moment he knew he was becoming one with Ghost. That, and the fact that people couldn't tell his mood based on his facial expressions anymore. It was sort of liberating, not having to be judged based on what your face looked like at a certain moment.

He slightly tilted his head to the side, both amazed and alarmed that you hadn't noticed him yet. He hoped it was because you didn't think of him as a threat, not because your situational awareness was dimmed as your exhaustion increased. And he had to bite back a smile when he heard you mutter a string of curses under your breath when the crimson stains didn't seem to go away. Should he tell you only bleach does the job?

He decided to keep that secret to himself, loudly clearing his throat to get your attention. At that point, he was willing his eyes to stay inexpressive in spite of his lips twitching as your reaction to him was worthy of your callsign.

You couldn't help but flinch at the sudden intrusion, quickly placing the mask back on the table. You gave Ghost a tight-lipped smile, all too aware of the heat that was spreading across your face, your eyes resembling those of a deer caught in the headlights.

"I'm so sorry, Lieutenant, definitely did not mean to pry like that!', you profusely apologised, trying, but failing, to not look into his dark orbs.

Those damned eyelashes, why did they have to be so perfect?

But Ghost was too distracted by your doe eyes that he did not process your words properly. He wouldn't ask you to repeat whatever you'd just said, but he also did not want to ignore you, not when you spoke to him more than you did in a week, so he said the first thing that came to his mind: one of his army puns.

"Why did the mask go to therapy?"

You blinked back at him, not quite accepting that he'd simply brush it off like that. But his look was so expectant, almost willing you to answer what you knew was going to be one of his bad dad jokes, that you had no choice but to gesture him he could go on.

“It had too much 'bloody' emotional baggage.”

You cringed visibly at the reply, letting out a small sigh as you sat back on the couch, with him plopping next to you:

"Not gonna lie, but that was really bad, Ghost!"

He gave you his usual unimpressed look and you could see his balaclava shifting as he opened his mouth to answer, but a huge yawn interrupted him. A huge yawn that you tried to cover with both of your hands and that made you give him a sheepish look, that of a naughty child who pretends to be innocent.

"Wanna hear another?" "Oh God, spare me-" "Why did the tired operator try to stay awake during the mission?"

It was your turn to look unimpressed. He was definitely making it up on the go.

"Because she thought falling asleep on the job would be a 'mission impossible'."

His balaclava may have been on, but his eyes were sparkling again, a small glimpse of amusement in them. You wished you'd known a couple of one-liners just to be able to keep that glimmer as it was.

"You're really enjoying yourself, aren't you?" "All I'm trying to say is that you should get some rest, Bambi. I know you think I'm also tired, and believe me, I am, but you know what do two tired operators make?"

If you were taken aback by the amount of words he put into that sentence, you did not let it show. Instead, you caught on the quip and dutifully replied:

"Two dead ones." "You're a quick learner. So just get some sleep, even half an hour would do it. In the bed, on the couch, hell, even on the floor if that's what you want-" "Ok, ok, you got me, Ghost! But on one condition!" "Let's hear it." "When I wake up, it's your turn to rest. Two tired operators are dead operators, but one rested and one tired operator are just as much!"

The defeated mumble that you got as a response made you smirk, purposefully avoiding his determined gaze, currently set on you. Shaking your head in defeat, you trudged to the bedroom, took the weighted blanket from the bed and placed it on the couch, unaware that Ghost had scooted over to make you more space. It was not a complete success, he'd rather you took the bed that at least had a mattress more comfortable than the springs from the couch, but he would make the compromise. And you would be sleeping in his presence again, not that he had any feelings, good or bad, towards it. He would just relish in the vulnerability of the moment and his role as your protector.

"Alright, wake me up in 30!", you warned him as you got under the blanket, leaning on the arm of the couch, bracing your knees to your chest.

The deep hum you got as an answer sent a soothing sensation down your spine, and you couldn't help but smile as you cuddled up in the fetal position you chose. Deep down, a part of you felt selfish for giving in to the weariness, but the Lieutenant was right: fatigue led to mistakes which could lead to getting you killed.

Besides, you would also make sure he got some rest before morning. You were confident you could do it, you just didn't know how. Yet.

***

The mark of half an hour came and went, but Simon did not shift from his rigid position facing the entry of the safe house. He couldn't bring himself to wake you, not when the faint noises you occasionally let out were a testament to how much you needed the break. And it was not like he could have slept as peacefully as you did - now that he had time to think and reassess the mission, his mind was plagued by alternate scenarios and what-ifs. What if Laswell's intel pointed them to the second building in the compound instead of the first, and they would have been blown up to pieces as soon as they'd broken in? What if Soap hadn't warned him through comms of the two hostiles that were headed towards him, from his blind spot? What if someone had noticed that their men were falling even when no one in the building was shooting at them, and sent someone to look for the sniper positioned nearby?

His trail of thoughts was interrupted when he felt a familiar weight near his leg. He momentarily froze and had to make an effort to look down at the couch and see that your head was resting dangerously close to his leg, your hair gently brushing against his worn-down tactical pants. You must have somehow shifted in your sleep, as the weighted blanket you covered yourself with was forgotten on the floor, your left arm hanging limply on one side of the couch. You were lying on your back, soft snores leaving from your half-open mouth, and all Simon could think of was that your head was almost in his lap.

Why did he want it to be there? He recalled your embarrassment when you fell asleep on his shoulder, back at the base. You would be mortified if you woke up with your head in his lap, and tactically speaking, it would make it harder for him to react to an immediate threat. Then why was he craving the contact like he craved the feeling of the sun on his face on those first days he wore the mask?

**

Another hour passed and Ghost had no intent of waking you up. You truly must have been exhausted, he thought to himself, as he took in your soft snores and occasionally small sighs. The night was dark and silent, and the only source of light that trickled into the room was a dingy lamppost from across the road.

Eventually, Ghost let his eyes wander over your sleeping silhouette, hooded eyes hungrily lingering over the delicate details accentuated by the faint glow. And in that moment, you were as boundless as the sea and vast as the universe. You were lost in a world woven from your dreams, while he, awake and aware, found himself trapped in a dream of his own. And he was in deep that he did not realise when he let his arm rest above yours, leaning his head onto the back of the couch. The grip on his combat knife remained firm, ready to jump into action if needed, but his eyelids were heavy, too heavy for his liking and the soft cadence of your breathing was too inviting. He would only rest his eyes for a bit, not that he could fall asleep like this. He shouldn’t fall asleep like this, not when he is supposed to keep you safe.

**

The faint crackling of your communications could be heard across the room, mingling with the sunbeams that filtered through the heavy curtains. Grunting in annoyance, you rolled on your side, looking for the blanket you’d covered yourself in earlier. It took your mind a moment to register you were not in your bed, but on a couch, yet it was too late to prevent you from rolling into thin air, the heavy thud of you falling on the floor reverberating across the room.

Ghost opened his eyes in an instant, eyes promptly directed to where you had been sleeping. The absence of your body sent his half-asleep mind into a frenzy, hands scrambling for a weapon which he pointed to the floor. His cold gaze softened when he saw your bleary-eyed figure, a smile dancing on his lips as he took in the string of curses you kept muttering under your breath.

“Watcher 1 to Bravo 0-7, how copy? Exfil’s inbound your way. I say again, exfil’s inbound your way.”

Not taking his eyes off you, Ghost pressed the button on his comms, wishing he had Soap’s Polaroid at hand:

“Bravo 0-7 to Watcher 1, copy.”

taglist: @neoarchipelago

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 1 | jjk

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers / fluff / angst / smut (in later chapters)

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 7.5k

chapter 1 ► when i open my eyes to the future, i can hear you say my name

There was virtually not a single person left on the entire fourth floor of the company building, despite it being a Monday afternoon. Normally, two other managers worked in offices adjacent to yours, so the noise in the hallways never settled below a pleasant hum: producers, promoters, and publicists – the three cursed Ps – shuffled in and out, heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

This funeral silence was unusual, but you knew it was only a calm before the storm.

Rated Riot were going on their first-ever European tour in two days to promote their sophomore album – named aptly, “ready, set, RIOT” – and today was the final day of meetings. Evidently, the executives at Jett Records assumed that the band deserved to have a whole floor to themselves, so everyone else got a half-day, leaving you and the Floor Administrator, Rue, all by yourselves until the band got here.

This unsettling silence was exactly why you heard them arrive as soon as the door of the building opened four floors below. Rated Riot lived up to their name by making themselves heard before they were seen.

As soon as the sharp ding! of the elevator reached you in your office—your door was always open on meeting days, because the four members of one of the most promising rock bands in the world at the moment lacked any sense of direction—you could immediately feel the atmosphere lighten, the previous silence long gone.

“Rue! The apple of my eye!” Hoseok, the drummer and the de facto mood setter of Rated Riot, exclaimed as you listened to the familiar sounds of the band as they exited the elevator and, based on the repeated clicking of shoes in the lobby, momentarily got disoriented.

“Always looking good, Rue!” Jungkook, the vocalist, as well as the new Golden Boy of Jett Records followed after.

“Good to see you again,” Taehyung, the always well-mannered bassist, said. Silence followed and you assumed he shook Rue’s hand.

“Hello,” Yoongi, who was, technically, the guitarist of the band, but, really, played any instrument he could get his hands on, was the last to speak. He’d always been very well-spoken in songwriting, but quieter and more careful in most everyday conversations.

“Welcome, guys,” Rue greeted them. You couldn’t see any of them from where your office was located, but you’ve been in a similar situation countless times before and you could imagine what was happening without needing to witness it first-hand.

Rue would stand up from her seat and point her right hand down the hallway, reminding them—yet again—that they needed to walk down the hall and take a right turn. The members of Rated Riot, in turn, would walk down the hall. At least one of the four of them would turn left instead, causing a pause as the group gathered back together, exchanging confused glances. Then, they would turn back to Rue—who would still be standing there, her right hand extended like a helpful Statue of Liberty. They’d laugh at themselves, nod at Rue, and take the correct turn.

If things were going well, they’d find your office on first try—they’d just need to find the open door and peer inside; your desk was right in front. More often than not, however, they stumbled around, knocking and chuckling to themselves as they continuously interrupted the offices of everyone else, but you.

They were special. Not just because they looked like loose ducklings, separated from the Mother Duck, whenever they entered the company building, but also because, in spite of their own lack of coordination, they still managed to get things done.

And they brightened the day of everyone they came across. Which was almost ironic—as you realised by watching the four of them enter your office—considering the effortless rockstar aura that surrounded them.

Jungkook walked in first. That was typical because he usually did: sometimes because he was the only one who remembered where your office was, but usually because the other members offered him as a sacrificial lamb when they went knocking around every office on the floor in search of yours.

He was dressed in all-black—always—adorned with silver chains and necklaces that often gave you a start when you looked up, because he had a very specific way of entering the room: he seemed to make sure to position himself in just a way that the light, coming in from the window behind you, always reflected off his jewellery and momentarily blinded you.

Sure enough, you blinked, cringing into yourself as the brightness hit your eyes, and when you opened them again, he was already grinning.

“Hi,” he said and the rest of the members followed in after him—a brighter palette of colours.

Even Yoongi, who was the only one who could have given Jungkook a run for his money if you had to count which one had more black items of clothing in their closet, was wearing a beige, loosely buttoned shirt.

Despite that, however, you could tell they were rock artists as soon as you looked at them—all tattoos, piercings, intense eye make-up behind sunglasses, and old band tees—and you stood up, excited to let them know that, finally, every last loose thread had been found and tightened. They’d get to introduce their artistry on a different continent, and you’d make sure it’d go smoothly.

“We’re leaving for Prague tomorrow morning,” you told them once the five of you settled down at the round table in the back of your office. “So, if you were planning a going away party, I strongly advise against it.”

“We weren’t,” Yoongi said, lifting his glass of lemon water—there was a jug on the table—and giving you a reassuring look. “This is the strongest drink I’m having tonight.”

“Thanks,” you said paradoxically enough, but being grateful when the members of the band you managed didn’t get drunk before an important day was part of the job. “I’d also appreciate it if—”

“Hold on a second, though,” Jungkook interrupted—you’d been anticipating it. “I’m going to a gig tonight, Reconnaissance are in town again. And there’s obviously an after-party—”

Despite Reconnaissance being, arguably, one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now, you were definite when you cut him off, “No.”

“—so, I—wait. No?” he paused. “I never miss their shows, you know that. And I don’t get drunk easily. You know that, too.”

“That’s why you drink so much,” you rebutted. The rest of the band members got their phones out, knowing well enough at this point that this would take a while. “And then I have to come get you out of trouble.”

“You absolutely do not have to do that,” Jungkook insisted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Have we?” you argued. “Because I keep telling you it’s my job to keep you from passing out in a dirty bar bathroom, but you don’t care enough to hear me.”

“Well, you’re not very convincing. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll wake up again.”

You were used to having this conversation with him—you’ve argued about this way before he became a singer and you ended up as his manager. And yet, the lax way he said this made you clench your fists.

Despite being mostly introverted, Jungkook did enjoy getting drinks with friends: even if said friends enjoyed his celebrity status more than they enjoyed the drinks.

“And if you don’t?” you threatened. “Rated Riot’s vocalist gets his stomach pumped. A catchy headline.”

“Yeah, man,” Hoseok interjected, putting his phone screen down on the table and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t go well with the vibe we’re going for. Don’t get your stomach pumped.”

“Fine, I—”

“What he meant was, don’t drink so much that you’d need your stomach pumped,” you clarified because Jungkook moonlighted as a Loophole Finder.

“I never have!” he insisted. “Seriously, you treat me like I’m still nineteen. Have some faith.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other members of the group look up from their phones. The band had only formed a few years ago, so you were the only person in this room who knew what Jungkook was like when he was nineteen. You never spoke about it – that was likely why everyone was so curious.

In any case, Jungkook was wrong. You did have faith—that’s why you spent so many of your off-duty nights driving down deserted streets to pick him up after his asshole friends convinced him it was a good idea to try the biker bar on the outskirts of town, and he’d gotten in an altercation with a burly redneck that was twice his size.

There was no time for that now, not when he was supposed to be on stage in Prague in three days.

“Well,” Taehyung spoke up. “I was thinking of going to the show as well. Not so much the after-party, I have better plans. But, uh, I could come, after all.”

You appreciated the offer, but you knew that these better plans involved him spending time with his girlfriend, Luna, who was going to join him for a few weeks of the European tour, but after that, the two of them were going to be apart for several months.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, not trying very much to hide the hopeful undertones in your voice. Jungkook’s friends felt intimidated by all the members of Rated Riot; they’d be on their best behaviour if Taehyung was there.

“No, I think it might be fun,” Taehyung said. You exhaled quietly and he could sense your gratitude without words. He turned to his younger bandmate. “Should we go together?”

Jungkook groaned and mumbled under his breath, “not if I have to third-wheel again.”

“When have you ever third-wheeled anyone?” you asked rhetorically, but he was already opening his mouth to reply. Quickly, you added, “be careful, is what I’m saying, okay? I am complaining about having to pick you up from all kinds of holes, but if you need me to bring NDAs, I will bring them. So, ask.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but chose to stay quiet. He knew better now – the one time he did not make anyone sign a non-disclosure agreement after an impromptu, drunken busking session in New York, pictures of him, half-dressed and giving a lap dance to a random, equally as drunk, groupie, were on every rock page on Instagram. Accompanied with detailed retellings of how it came to happen, of course; all of them more ridiculous than the next. Your personal favourite story was that he was recruiting members for a sex cult.

“We’ll call you,” Taehyung gave you a nod, “if we have to.”

“Perfect,” you said, glancing at Jungkook again, even though expecting him to confirm that he, too, would call you if he had to, was wishful thinking.

Every time you reminded him how he needed to start going out with a less destructive crowd, he’d treat his phone like a poisonous snake – and he’d been doing that even before you became his manager. His friends seemed to get their pleasure fix from watching you arrive and rip him a new one, so they were the ones who called you most of the time, always laughing into their phones like true accomplices.

It was funny how Jungkook was the only one who passed out or got so wasted, he ended up on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. His friends always walked away unscathed and, usually, only called you by the time they were back in their bedrooms – “when we left, he was ordering mint and honey daiquiris, you should probably go over there and check up on him.”

It was like they loved pushing him into danger and purposefully bringing the two of you together again, and Jungkook either didn’t realise or didn’t care anymore. It’s been a while, after all.

You and Jungkook had been broken up for almost two years when you got the unbelievable offer to manage an up-and-coming rock band. This was over two years ago now and you were only twenty-four back then. Up until that point, you had worked as an assistant manager for various indie artists, so that offer was massive.

You figured the downside that your ex-boyfriend happened to be in this particular band was worth it, considering the huge leap in your career you’d make by accepting this job.

And, for the most part (excluding the first two months that were pure chaos of repressed feelings), you and Jungkook both made this work, drawing a strict line between your relationship before Rated Riot (back when he still had your phone number saved as “❌”) and after he met you again as Rated Riot’s new manager (ironically, now your name on his phone was “❌❌❌”).

You’ve managed Rated Riot for almost exactly two years now, and if you’d asked the band – which you wouldn’t, partially out of humbleness, but also because you were scared – you’d know that they loved working with you as much as you loved working with them. So, in the end, it all really had been worth it.

“Check your emails for the descriptive itineraries,” you continued smoothly enough. The guys at the table put their phones down and returned their attention to you. “Now, who else is coming with us?”

Technically, the band wasn’t supposed to bring anyone – the label was explicitly clear about that. They wanted the first European tour to go “without a hitch” (meaning, without distractions), but you held a more liberal view here.

You didn’t think loved ones coming on the road were a distraction; if anything, they were a firm support mechanism that made touring easier for the artists.

“I know Luna’s staying until the Barcelona show, yeah?” you asked, double-checking the notes on your laptop.

Taehyung nodded, a small smile on his lips at the mention of the girl. “She flies out the next day, yeah.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, Sid and Jude are coming,” Jungkook spoke up and, after seeing your eyes roll back, added, quieter, “and Minjun isn’t sure.”

The three musketeer-wannabes – Sid, Jude, and Minjun – were on speed dial on your work and personal phones, because if Rated Riot had a performance and the vocalist wasn’t there, it was likely those three who were to blame. They were the only ones who knew Jungkook longer than you did, and they seemed to take pride in the fact that they had successfully been causing you headaches for seven years now.

“Sid and Jude,” you repeated, “aren’t worried they’ll lose their jobs if they travel to Europe abruptly?”

“No, they’re cool,” Jungkook shrugged, not catching the mockery in your voice. “I’ll text Minjun right now. Maybe he’ll come when we’re in Poland…”

“I needed confirmation by last week,” you reminded him. “At the latest.”

He glanced at you from his phone and then went back to texting. “So, why’d you ask now?”

“To double-check,” you said. “They’re going to have to book the hotels themselves. Or sleep on the street. Honestly, I don’t really—”

“So, uh,” Yoongi interrupted before another argument could begin, “how many hotels this time?”

“Prague, Amsterdam, and Paris. And, depending on flight time, maybe two nights in London,” you said with an apologetic smile. “Bring your favourite blankets. We’re living on buses for the next three months.”

None of them minded – if anything, you could see a little glitter in their eyes as they listened to you. Being on the road and having to sleep on the tour bus every night was an experience they’d missed. They hadn’t gone on an actual tour in almost a year – as someone who thrived on live performances, they had obviously missed this.

Really, you’ve missed it, too. Rated Riot may have been a riot to look after as their manager – pun fully intended – especially on tour, but they were your riot to deal with.

You liked your job and the challenges that came with it, because, in the end, you overcame most of them: starting with your previous relationship with Jungkook (no one in the band had a problem with it, and the label miraculously seemed not to know about it) and ending with your relatively young age (Jungkook was the only one who had a problem with you being his age, but he had a problem with almost everything).

Hopefully, one day you’d manage to overcome the challenge that was getting Jungkook to open his eyes and realise that the people he surrounded himself with were more groupies than his friends. But all in due time.

“If you have questions,” you said as the meeting approached its’ conclusion, “go right ahead.”

“Wake-up calls,” Yoongi said. “Any possibility of arranging those?”

You smiled – this had been traditional practice ever since you started to work with them.

“I’ll call,” you said and then remembered a particularly frustrating way in which this had backfired. You added, “and keep you on the phone until you’re out of bed.”

Back when you were an assistant manager to a different band, this had been your main task. And, you supposed, if Rated Riot had assistant managers, they’d be the ones making wake-up calls, too – however, the band had only started to live up to their potential now. Before you booked the European tour for them, Jett Records thought they barely needed one manager to begin with.

You’ve made it this far. If the tour went well, maybe you’d get to expand your team as the band gained popularity.

Jungkook felt giddy the whole night. The Reconnaissance show with Taehyung and Luna was a lot of fun, as expected—he’d seen the band five times before tonight, and they never failed to let him down.

When he arrived at the after-party, he was nearly vibrating with excitement—on top of everything, he was going on tour tomorrow and he knew he might lose his mind over it—and this was usually the time when he tended to get reckless.

He did drink a little too much to retain a completely sober mind, but he stayed true to his word and did not wander anywhere or caused any—serious—trouble. You would have said that’s because Sid and Jude weren’t with him, but Jungkook was convinced it was because he simply had great self-control when he put his mind to it.

The only place he went to after the party was his family’s house, so he could say goodbye to his grandma. She probably wouldn’t even hear him—and if she would, then she probably wouldn’t recognise him—but he couldn’t leave to Europe without saying goodbye to her.

He thought he’d take his Katana to the house, but then remembered immediately the last time he got on his motorcycle drunk – his grandma had, literally, smacked him on the back with a rolling pin, yelling about how careless he was. She didn’t say that she hit him out of concern for his safety—that was obvious—and, instead, she focused on how hard he’d worked on restoring the bike after he’d bought it; his first purchase with the money that he made off Rated Riot’s music.

“Don’t you want it to last?” she had said then. She’d been the only person who believed he could bring the bike to life, despite it not having a single properly functioning part, least of all the engine. “You worked so hard on it. Do you want to wreck it in one night?”

Tonight, however, everyone in the house was asleep when he arrived. It was quiet, so he tried to be silent as he went up the stairs to her room—and then knocked over a picture frame after his feet fumbled on the carpet in the hallway. But no one went out to check who was making the noise—which was dangerous, he realised for a brief, semi-sober second; but the house had security, so he figured they were safe from outsiders—and he gently lowered the handle on his grandma’s door, peering inside.

The room was painted in blue hues from the night light next to the bed where his grandma was sleeping. He approached—really trying to be quiet this time—and carefully pulled her comforter up, so she wouldn’t get cold, even though the room felt warm.

It was always warm here and Jungkook had to bite his lip when he realised how much he missed sitting here as a child while dozens of his cousins ran around the house and wreaked loud, childish havoc. How much he missed his grandma reading him books—never children’s stories, he always insisted she read him the thickest, most boring books he could find on her shelves, just so he could stay in her room longer, listening to her soothing voice and feeling her comforting warmth.

Sniffling quietly, he leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of white hair from her face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, unaware of his presence.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised in a whisper as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn’t wake. “We will talk again then.”

He knew he’d keep this promise even if she didn’t hear it, even if she didn’t remember. But leaving her room felt painful and he was far less excited now. The alcohol had begun to wear off and heaviness settled in his chest instead. This happened sometimes when he was left alone with his thoughts, especially after he visited his grandma.

He'd come back, he knew he would. But as he glanced at his grandma’s sleeping frame one more time—remembering how she hadn’t called him by his name in months; not one glint of recognition in her eyes when she’d see him—he wondered if he’d have anyone to come back to.

Surprising exactly no one, Jungkook was the only one who did not answer your wake-up call the next morning. Having foreseen this, you’d already called Hoseok, Yoongi and Taehyung – in that order, because the first two took the longest to wake up, and by that time, Taehyung was already awake on his own – and only then attempted to reach the one remaining member.

Fifteen minutes later, you were already dressed and ready to drive over to his house and personally wake him up with an icy bath in bed. And just then, your phone rang – his name as the caller’s ID.

“Look who—”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook’s groggy voice cut you off before you could greet him with the appropriate sarcastic remark. “I’m awake. Halfway in the shower.”

“I don’t hear running water.”

He responded with a groan first, then shuffling. You waited patiently, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you unlocked the door of your apartment. Finally, you could hear the water start running on the other end of the call.

“Happy?” Jungkook asked, always the brightest of all rays of sunshine in the morning.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, equally as enthusiastically. “Sending a car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I can drive myself—”

“No driving when you’re hungover,” you said, not for the first time. “In fact, don’t even go near your Katana.”

He considered several ways to respond to you; first and foremost, defending his beloved, navy-coloured Suzuki Katana with a matte coating, custom-made leather seat covers, golden rims, purring engine, and—anyway. He ended up choosing to respond with a question, “how do you know I’m hungover?”

“I’ve known you for almost ten years,” you replied. “If you go out drinking the night before, you’ll wake up hungover.”

“Well, how do you know I drank that much last ni—?”

“Listen,” you cut him off, hoisting your suitcases over the threshold of your front door. You fixed your phone against your cheek and continued, “how about you take that shower, and we’ll resume this nice little Q&A at the airport?”

“No,” he replied and, in a purposefully exaggerated breathy voice said, “I simply can’t stop talking to you.”

“Hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughed as he listened to the beep, indicating the end of the call. Putting his phone on the side of the sink, he took his shirt off and was about to continue undressing when his phone vibrated and nearly fell off the sink.

Scrambling to catch it, he smacked it against the cupboard and exhaled in relief when he saw that the screen hadn’t cracked. He was expecting a text from you – a threat, in case he’d go back to bed – but it was actually Sid, asking for the time of his flight.

His friends were taking a separate flight out to Prague – they weren’t happy about it and neither was he, but at least they’d get to hang out in Europe eventually – and, obviously, they wanted to know what time they’d meet up and where.

He double-checked the itinerary you’d emailed him, got confused about the time zone difference and texted Sid back.

“Gonna be there the day before the show,” his text said, “jetlag. Sleep. Maybe beer? Catch u there.”

Sid was, of course, delighted to hear the mention of beer and Jungkook snickered to himself before he resumed undressing for his shower—knowing from experience that you wouldn’t be above shipping him to Prague in the cargo section on the plane if he was late to the airport.

As it turned out, for the first time in his life, Jungkook was so terribly jet-lagged, that he did not feel like doing anything – not even drinking with friends – but sleeping.

He slept through the whole layover in Paris – and, consequently, through Taehyung and Luna’s stories about the 5 minutes they got to spend in front of the Eiffel Tower before rushing back to the airport (never mind that it was about 2 AM) – as well as the flight to Prague.

He only woke up on the bus ride to the hotel when he felt something nudging his lips and opened his eyes to find an open bottle of Coca-Cola in your hands as you held it by his face.

“Did you just—” he started to say, but his voice sounded brittle, more a croak than a voice, really. He cleared his throat and tried again, “did you just wake me up by making me sniff soda?”

“It worked,” you replied, nudging the bottle at him again. “Drink. You need sugar. You didn’t eat anything on the plane here.”

“I had that bagel on the flight to Paris,” he mumbled, but sat up properly and took the bottle from you.

“That was a croissant,” you clarified. It was almost cute to see him barely awake. “And I warned you about flying with a hangover. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he replied after taking a big gulp of coke. “Not sure which day it is, but other than that, I’m perfect. Do you have anything for headaches?”

Snickering, you nodded. “Yeah, give me a second.”

You went to fetch your carry-on bag and returned with ibuprofen, which allowed him to go back to sleep until you arrived at the hotel. The other members were also in and out of slumber, but that was their own fault. You and the other girls on this tour, which, really, only meant Luna— Taehyung’s girlfriend—and Maggie—the tour photographer—had planned ahead and taken sleeping pills as soon as the plane took off. Meanwhile, every man on this trip thought too much of himself.

By the time you arrived to the hotel and checked in, it was already lunchtime. If this had been your first time travelling with Rated Riot, you would have been beyond surprised to see what effect food had on them: they looked like they'd just returned from the most refreshing vacation in the Caribbean. Lively conversation and cheerful laughter echoed around the table – no one would have guessed that they’d just spent over 13 hours on airplanes. Their recovery was nearly always miraculous.

And, naturally, since they were feeling better, they wanted to do something as soon as the first rehearsal was over. You had far too many things to do before the show tomorrow, so you couldn’t babysit them – again, an assistant manager would have been life-saving – but you knew you’d still have to keep an eye on them.

Taehyung and Luna went sightseeing, but they were the sort who kept you updated on their adventures through pictures, which you were endlessly grateful for. There was never a reason to worry here; if you were a teacher who had to pretend not to have a favourite student, Taehyung would be the student you were pretending about.

Yoongi and Hoseok, initially, went to a record store together, but then split up – one of them returned to the hotel for a nap, and the other one went café-hopping. Those two were also fine – they usually took some members of the crew with them anyway, so you knew that in the worst-case scenario, you’d still have several people you could call to reach them.

Now Jungkook was going to meet up with Sid and Jude, both of whom had, most unfortunately, successfully landed in Prague. The Diabolical Duo would take him out drinking, you had no doubt about it – and this was where you’d have to step in with another warning. You weren’t the angry mother, dragging her children by their ears, but you felt it necessary to remind Jungkook of what was at stake if he allowed his friends to be their usual, obnoxious selves tonight.

However, you didn’t want to ask, so you had to figure out where to find them yourself. You didn’t even have to use the seven years that you’ve known them to deduce two logical, universal-for-all-assholes things: one, Jungkook’s friends wouldn’t be nearly tired enough not to want to drink. Two, they’d be too jet-lagged to look for their usual hole-in-the-wall spot that sold drinks. Therefore, they’d have to settle for the bar of the hotel.

And when you exited the elevator on the ground floor later that night, your assumption was confirmed – you could hear their laughter from where you were standing in the lobby.

You’d texted Jungkook as you arrived, hoping he’d leave his friends and come see you at the back of the bar for a minute, but unfortunately, Sid and Jude noticed you and waved you over with loud cheers.

Embarrassed as the people in booths around you began to turn to look, you swallowed and walked towards the front where Jungkook and his friends were sitting by the bar.

“Wow, it’s been so long!” Jude exclaimed as you approached. In your opinion, it wasn’t nearly long enough, but you only lifted the corners of your lips and did not comment.

“Jungkook, a moment?” you said instead.

“Let’s get you a drink!” Sid suggested as though you hadn’t spoken and extended a hand, clicking his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Can we get some Margaritas here?”

You cringed watching this, but, again, restrained yourself. They could behave like pricks all they wanted; it wasn’t their reputation that you had to protect. Someone else would, hopefully, teach them a lesson.

“Sure,” Jungkook said to you, sliding off the stool. He seemed sober enough to walk without any sort of waddling or stand without swaying, but you could tell by the relaxation behind his eyes, that he was already tipsy.

His friends patted him on the back and whistled as he followed you to a quieter spot in the back of the bar. He shook his head at them—but had a grin on his face, and for that alone you wanted to punch him.

“Can I count on you to take it easy?” you asked, once the two of you were out of earshot. “Not because you’ll make my job much harder if you don’t, but because you have a rehearsal tomorrow at eight, and that’s hard with the jet lag alone, but add a hangover into the mix, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but you’ve heard this song many times before. It was one of his top hits. “I’m actually tired, so I might have a few and then go straight to bed.”

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him, because that was easier than making him sign a contract, swearing not to wake up in a dumpster. “Can you text me when you’re back in your room? So I know you’re not lost somewhere in Prague with Dumb and Dumber.”

His lip twitched in an almost-smile at the nickname, but he resisted – a loyal friend, even if they didn’t deserve it – and gave you a nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll text you. And I won’t get lost.”

“Okay—” you started to say and then squinted your eyes at him, realizing. “I meant don’t go wandering the city streets while drunk.”

He snorted and placed a hand on your left shoulder. Gazing into your eyes, he enunciated very dramatically, “I will not get into trouble. Promise.”

You pursed your lips. “You’d better not.”

“I realise what that would mean, believe it or not,” he said, straightening. “Tomorrow is an important day. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“I know,” you said. “I trust you to make smart choices. I don’t trust them.”

You pointed at the twosome by the bar – both of them watching you like you were the entertainment of the night – and Jungkook turned to look. Sid and Jude both immediately waved at him. Jungkook waved back and, when he looked at you again, he was smiling softly.

Clearly, he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with those two. You’d never believe that there was anything about them that was bearable—let alone enjoyable—so Jungkook’s weird attachment to them had to come from some sort of weird destructive force inside of him.

“I’ll keep them in check,” he said and then, possibly prompted by the skeptical frown on your face, he felt the need to explain, “they help me relax. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be shaking from anxiety all the time. Kind of like you are.”

He winked as he said that last part, grinning at his own wit, but you rolled your eyes in response.

“Goodnight,” you said then. “Don’t forget to text me.”

“Are you going to stay up late waiting for my text?” his tone was humorous and it stopped you from leaving.

“Hopefully not,” you said, ignoring the flirty comment that was obviously meant to rattle your composure. “But it’d do you well to remember that I can make life very difficult for you if you disobey me.”

He lifted his eyebrows at this, but did not lose the grin. “Oh? Will I get punished if I—”

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you said again—louder—and turned away.

You glanced over your shoulder when you reached the archway leading to the lobby and caught him watching you leave—he was still beaming, but he composed himself and nodded when he caught your eye. You nodded back.

Maybe he really would be fine tonight.

And, truly, Jungkook had meant what he’d said – he couldn’t wait for tomorrow and there was nothing he’d do to ruin that. Not even if the smirking faces of his friends prompted him to laugh as soon as he returned to his seat by the bar.

“What do you want, assholes?” he asked, punching Jude on the shoulder as he walked past his friends. As soon as he sat down, leaving Sid in the middle, he took a big gulp of the beer he’d left waiting; only his third one tonight.

“We don’t want anything,” Jude said, still smirking. “What did she want? Another moral how you’re not being a good boy?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “No—”

“I was always curious,” Sid interrupted. “Was she like that when you dated, too? You know, always in charge?”

Even before you and Jungkook had settled into a steady enough rhythm of working with each other, neither of you spoke to others about your relationship. Not while you were dating, and not after you broke up. So, all your friends—real friends and whoever the hell Sid and Jude were—essentially knew nothing of your relationship.

And there was nothing he’d tell them now.

It’s been four years since you broke up—plenty of time to move on. Not to mention, you were both (trying to be) professionals. There was no point to bring back the past; there never had been.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook teased, managing to keep the banter going without revealing how the question irked something inside him.

“I would. That’s why I asked,” Sid replied, laughing haughtily. A few heads turned his way. Sid sounded very much like an entitled heir—or an elephant high on helium—when he laughed, especially when there was nothing funny going on. “I mean, you never talked about her to us. Was it getting rid of her that made you who you are today?”

Jude snorted, slapping Sid on the back in a half-supportive, half-warning manner. Jungkook knew that the level of your patience for his friends ranged from Sid (no patience) to Jude (case-by-case), to Minjun (bearable)—and he could see why.

“I didn’t get rid of her,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We broke up and moved on. Did you hear from Minjun?”

Sid laughed again—even louder than before; the glasses behind the bar seemed to clatter.

“Look at him, trying to change the topic!” he wheezed, looking at Jude over his shoulder.

“Leave him be, man,” Jude said and nodded at Jungkook. “So many girls around us and this dumbass is still hung up on your ex, huh?”

Jungkook finished his beer and held the liquid behind his cheeks for a second before swallowing. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his empty glass, indicating a refill.

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s hung up,” Sid said with a very knowing look in his eye.

Jungkook looked at him and raised his eyebrows—surprised and momentarily distracted from his drink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you come to her as soon as she calls, like a puppy,” Sid replied. “So, you tell me.”

“I have to come when she calls,” Jungkook defended. “She’s my manager.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jude said, slapping Sid on the back of the head this time. “She’s his manager.”

Jungkook suddenly found himself smiling when he realised that you’d probably consider this the reason why Sid acted the way he did sometimes – permanent brain damage from Jude’s incessant slaps.

“Well, then someone,” Sid said, angrily accentuating the word—the anger was clearly directed at Jude, but the pronoun at Jungkook, “has a fucking crush on their manager.”

“I don’t have a crush—”

Sid spoke over him, “I bet you could never get her to go out with you again.”

Jungkook saw the bartender approach to pour him a drink and he heard Jude scoffing, but he could only blink, taken aback by what sounded like an accusation.  “Why—why would I even—why—”

“Oh, see, see?!” Sid screeched, turning to Jude with a triumphant expression. Jude gave him a pitiful look—and looked about ready to give him a black eye, too. “He knows I’m right, it’s why he’s stuttering!”

“Dude,” Jude said slowly. “You are yelling.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, nodding at the bartender as a thank-you and then bringing his refilled glass to his lips. “And I’m not stuttering.”

“You so are, my man,” Sid taunted, patting Jungkook on the shoulder with so much force, the beer nearly spilled from the glass and from his mouth. “Your ass is so whipped, you’re going to be singing at her wedding to some random producer.”

Suddenly hyper-aware that there were several producers on tour with them right now, Jungkook put his drink down and straightened in his seat.

“I’m not fucking singing at weddings,” he said.

“Not yet,” Sid pointed out, grinning. He knew he'd gotten under his skin.

“Okay, come on now,” Jude interjected, leaning back in his seat to be able to see Jungkook. “You promised you’d sing at my wedding.”

“As if anyone would ever marry you,” came Sid’s snide.

“You shut the fuck up,” Jude snarled, but there was no malice behind his bark. “I have more chances of marrying someone than he has of marrying his manager.”

“He—oh, fuck!” Sid was about to argue, but then burst into laughter—so loud and thunderous again, that the bartender was forced to glance over at the security guards by the entrance to the bar. “That’s good! You’re so right!”

“Both of you are fucking idiots,” Jungkook spoke. The edges of his vision were red. “I could get her to go out with me again if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Sid nodded, wiping invisible tears from his eyes. “Big talk.”

“Jungkook, no offense, my dude,” Jude said, leaning forwards this time. “Let him have this one. Sid may be dumber than box of rocks, but he’s got a point here. Forget about her.”

Another insinuation that had Jungkook throwing his head back in frustration.

“There’s nothing to forget!” he groaned. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I just fucking told you I moved on.”

“So why are you getting all riled up, then?” Sid smirked, more and more satisfied with each curse that he provoked out of him.

Jungkook felt even angrier, because he was getting riled up, but he had a good reason for it. He enjoyed banter as much as the next person, but he did not enjoy mockery at his own expense—especially not the kind that involved you.

He snapped back, “because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His friends snickered at this – convinced that his irritation only proved the point they were both making – and Jungkook clenched his jaw, annoyed.

“If anything,” he added sharply as he picked his beer up—as if that could somehow distance him from this conversation, “it’s her who’s still hung up on me.”

That was a cheap, childish defence, and everyone by the bar knew it.

“Yeah, right!” Sid cried out, but resisted from laughing again. “We’ve heard her yell at you more times than we can count. You fucking wish she was still hung up on you.”

“Okay, to be fair, Sid can probably only count to five,” Jude added—Sid finally punched him on the shoulder—as he toyed with the paper umbrella on his fourth cocktail; the Margaritas they’d ordered were long gone. “But he’s right, you know? You’d never get her to go out with you again.”

There was pity in Jude’s voice—as if he felt sorry that Jungkook lived in denial, chasing after you and convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before you’d come back to him.

This made Jungkook’s temper vile, his face red, hot, and angry. He slammed his beer back on the table, forcing some of it to spill. “Yes, I fucking would!”

Sid was hiccupping as he laughed.

“Okay, okay, listen—let’s make a proper bet,” he managed. He picked up a napkin from the bar top, then looked around for something to write on it with—not finding anything, he stood up from his seat and leaned over the bar, grabbing a pen before the bartender could notice. “$1000 says you can’t get her to go on a date with you again.”

He glanced at Jude for approval—Jude shrugged.

“I’d suggest $500,” he said. “We don’t want to rob him blind.”

Jungkook’s face remained stoic, prideful.

“Fine with me. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he bit.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s been awfully cocky about the whole thing, hasn’t he?” Sid spoke, addressing his rhetorical question at the bar. He wrote something on the napkin and then lifted it to show the number “4000” to Jungkook. “How about this: Jude and I each pay you $2000 if you win. But if you lose, you give us your Katana.”

Jungkook lifted his eyebrows, the sudden mention of his bike catching him off-guard. Sid came from old money, he could afford fifteen brand-new motorcycles with the change he found in his suitcase, probably.

“How is that fair?” he asked. “Do you even know how much a Suzuki costs these days? It’s not $4000, I can tell you that much.”

“Why should you care?” Sid asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You were so confident about winning the bet just a second ago. Scared you’ll lose after all?”

In his defence, Jungkook did hesitate for half a moment. But there was a shit-eating grin on Sid’s mouth that he wanted to wipe off more than anything else, and he downed the rest of his beer in one big gulp—a showcase of his determination.

“Not at all,” he said then. He wasn’t sure if he was lying as he said this, but he had no time to figure that out. He extended his hand at Sid. “Get your money ready.”

Here, he was putting up a front – this wasn’t about the money at all. It was more a thing of pride; they were teasing him, purposefully making fun of him—and he wanted to prove them wrong, regardless if they were actually wrong.

Smirking, Sid shook his hand—cementing the bet between all three of them, as Jude was busy finishing off his cocktail—and was about to say something when Jungkook jumped off his stool.

“Have to go now,” he said, always a show-off with his overly creative comebacks when he was tipsy. “My horoscope predicts a date and a big fortune in my near future. Got to prepare.”

chapter title credits: sleep token, “rain”

special shout-out & thank you to @eleni-cherie who delivered the much-appreciated kicks in the ass, so that i would keep writing. the odds were really against me, so if it weren't for you & our in-depth fanfic discussions, i definitely wouldn't even be writing this note right now, let alone finally starting this story 💜

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[wroteclassicaly]

She’s Trouble

(Eddie Munson x Female Reader)

Summary: Tired of trailing behind, feeling like you don’t matter much, you decide that 86’ isn’t only going to be your bestfriend’s year.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Word count: 16,185

Warnings: Language, violence, mentions of drug usage, blood, NSFW, smut, drinking, Eddie is angry and sad in this, masturbation, slight voyeurism, breeding kink, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, angry sex, creampie, angst, fighting, rough sex, Dom!Eddie, and MORE!

A/N: I started writing this based off the scene of Eddie smirking at the cheerleaders he lets by after his cafeteria speech. And, well… it’s spawned itself a new life and turned into a whole lot more than I planned. But so is the life of an author, am I right? ;) Eddie is a dick in this, Reader is a lot more vocal than I’ve written before. I wanted to do something a bit different and I hope this accomplishes my mission?

I wanna thank @littledemondani for helping me out of my brain fart on which direction to take this! Also, do check out her masterlist, which is pinned at the top of her blog (it won’t let me link it here). She’s an incredible author and a fellow Eddie Munson slut, and one of my longtime best-friends! ♥️

Side note: I’ve also shifted a few things in the timeline of the show, for obvious reasons. The whole Eddie/Chrissy thing doesn’t happen on the same night as in the series. Chrissy and the reader have a good interaction and Eddie is a dickhead, but his reasoning will be explained. Also, while the reader is wearing a bustier top, this is an all inclusive fic, where the reader can be anything you imagine! I believe anyone can wear anything that they choose to—regardless of their size, so don’t let that bit of the story deter your perception, as I’ve left it open-ended! ;)

Enjoy! I’ve got a lot coming up soon! Part twos of multiple fics, prompts, plus other goodies! <3 - Kristen

~*~

You watch the way that he tries to be cute and coy towards them, attempts to impress with a dramatic wave through of his hand. Short skirts, tight little tops, bouncing ponytails, and a shitload of generic gossip on their painted lips—they pass by, everything included but those damned pom poms. Apparently they are giddy at his little show of calling out every group but your own in the cafeteria. Your eyes roll so hard that you feel a protesting sting, ignoring it to stab your fork into whatever creation is wiggling on your lunch tray. All the guys—freshman to seniors, and you—the only girl since founding, and Hellfire Club’s treasurer/manager to Corroded Coffin—make up the outsider table.

This year, however, you’ve felt so fucking off base with this group and their antics that you’re getting exhausted pretending to care about their shit when they don’t respect you or yours. Dustin, Lucas, and Mike are always the sweetest to you, even with Lucas joining a sport, he’s still quick to always give you a smile and a nod whenever you pass him in the halls. They’re young, unlike Eddie and the older guys. You’re finally a senior this year, but still behind your bestfriend by a year in age. All this used to be okay, Eddie multiplying how much he repeats the grade, you trailing behind him like a lost puppy without any brain of her own, but now—it’s unbearably smothering.

And thus, it’s been building. You’re over bringing chips that are from your personal stash and using your gas to go buy smokes with your small work paycheck, or clean equipment for Eddie’s band, or stay up all night just to design campaign posters for Eddie, only for him to be so fucking stoned that he doesn’t even appreciate it, nor remember it.

“Fucking fake losers,” Jeff mutters.

“So fake,” Gareth agrees, both looking towards Eddie as he settles himself back down, wiggling his brows at you.

It’s an unsettling pressure that boils inside you, crackling, and as soon as you look into your best-friend’s brown doe eyes—it all comes apart. “You wanna talk about fake?” Your chest pumps a rush of adrenaline, helping careen the words off your tongue before you can stop them. Everyone’s attention snaps quicker than you’re prepared for, eyes wide and shocked. Sure, you’re vocal and sassy, but never outwardly angry. “The fact that all of you will condemn the basketball players, but would give up any of your seats at our table for one of the bitches in a skirt that they chase, if they popped their gum or batted an eyelash. You’d all be a bunch of drooling, little horndogs.” You can feel your heart racing with each pronunciation of a word, rising from your seat, knuckles white from gripping the edges of your yellow tray so hard.

You hear Dustin whisper a ‘whoa’, but your vocal vomit doesn’t stop.

“Frankly? I’m fucking sick of all this.” You pick the tray up and slam it down for good measure, unwrapping your messenger bag from around your seat, and you leave the table of gaping young men behind you, not even indulging yourself in Eddie’s bugged out, concerned stare.

You don’t even have time to throw your bag across your chest, when Jason Carver shouts out from behind you, “Damn, look at Munson’s slut go!”

It seems your group aren’t the only ones taking an interest in your outburst. Your breath is engorged in jagged pants of pitiful air, a fire coursing through you faster than you can handle, your skin singing, prickling with goosebumps. Your cheeks redden in humiliation, your feet swiveling and carrying you, fast and quick to their table, you throw your bag off, body like some damned slow motion track. Everyone notices Eddie’s antics, but you’ve never garnered any attention. It’s a surreal high.

Your combat boots click across the cement flooring, your hair like a dead weight across your back. Carver and his entire group are expectant, chairs scraping across to get out of your way. It’s all such a blur that you don’t even know your fist has collided with Jason’s face until you feel the pressure bite into your knuckles, a crunch beneath your force. He shrieks, his friends jumping to his aid, your stance shifting, ready to take anyone on. Your ears are bubbling with a murky static, applause in some direction, shouts in others.

Your name is being shouted from two different directions, the one you see stomping angrily towards you belonging to principal Higgins. He’s calling for help, shoving his finger in your face, motioning to your shirt. “This Hellfire Club does nothing but cause trouble!”

You snort, completely coming off your hinges, shaking the ends of your shirt, before stepping back and flinging it over your head, leaving you clad in your jeans and a leather bustier top no one could ever picture you owning. You’ve always kept your shit to a minimum to draw less attention, but you liked the support it provided your breasts with. You spin around, hands in the air, using the shirt as a lasso, tossing it at your old table. You begin to giggle, honestly wondering if you should visit the school nurse, but uncaring. Higgins is literally sputtering, making you snort, waving a hand. “I’m a slut, I’m trouble. Anyone have anything else to add? No? Yes?”

You bend back over to snatch your nap sack up, motioning to Higgins. “Lead the way to your office, Sir! Please fucking do.”

The pep in your step as your principal is angrily leading you from the masses is such a euphoric feeling, you’re sure you’ll never feel again in your life. You can taste the drama on your tongue’s tip. You don’t even spare your friends a glance, not wanting Eddie to have a morsel of satisfaction. This is your moment. Not as Eddie Munson’s best-friend, not as his groupie. As Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.

~*~

Eddie Munson has been clutching your discarded Hellfire shirt, doused in your perfume that is brimming his nostrils full, damn near trembling for the past twenty minutes that finish up lunch. He can’t move, that swelling between his legs keeping him glued to his seat, all the images of your fist soaring into Jason Carver’s face, ripping off your clothing in front of Higgins and the entire damned school. He went from concerned, angry at how you acted, to so fucking turned on that his stomach knotted up, sucking him to where he’s seated, his cock throbbing in his jeans. He’s never seen you like this.

The guys are silent, unsure what to say, how to even go about comprehending the you they just saw, that even Eddie himself has never heard of. He knows one thing for sure—okay—two. He has to find out if you’re okay and what’s going on.

~*~

You roll your eyes at the lovely note, signature of a three day suspension secured by Higgins at the bottom. Crumbling it up, you slide it into your back pocket, rifling through your pin tattered bag for a cigarette. You already know where you’re gonna go, and it sure as hell isn’t home. No one is there and no one is gonna care about your minor indecency. You can forge your mom’s signature, much like you do every good grade you bring home that she’s never around to see, or every comment from a teacher about how your folks are missing out.

It’s quiet at your house, your space. You parents more or less sleep there when they’re not gone on business. Pinching the filter, you cup Eddie’s stolen Zippo, that ashy hiss helping beckon that sweet bitter taste in past your lips. You don’t desire that home front solace right now, craving different scenery.

Maybe I’ll get lost…

You feel like Hawkins is your oyster, and you’re eager to explore on your own terms, by yourself. You’ve got your smokes, your pocket knife, and a pen and paper. That’s enough for you to make a decision.

Skull Rock it is.

~*~

One thing about Indiana is the ever predictable bite of hot weather that March brings. Spring is automatically Summer in the Midwest, and this is no different. Your leather top had stuck to your skin in an uncomfortable crunching press, making you eventually discard it, leaving you topless, your only accessories a chain with your birthstone pendant and a thicker silver chain, with a cheesy little guitar charm (a present from Eddie) nestled between your breasts. Your form is shaped against the rock behind your bare shoulder blades, a cool sensation that has you tilting your head back, stretching your neck, treetops breezing above you—tall and luscious. You smile softly, undoing the flap on your bag and seeking out your Walkman and sunglasses.

In moments your eyelids are fluttering closed, shielded from sun rays, your Walkman clicking in place, readying Heart’s Barracuda to nick your ears, coasting in welcomed caresses. It’s not thick heavy metal, but it’s you. And in the serenity of these woods, another cigarette you allow yourself—you begin to drift off in a galactic solitude that is solely your own. You’d learnt how to count beats, read sheet music, even sing a few notes from Eddie, so getting into your song’s groove isn’t hard for you, your fingers wrapping around your chain, tapping underneath the swell of your breast along with the chorus. You’re off the precipice and gone, demolished to the point you don’t hear the familiar footsteps, the sound of your name, or leaves and dirt crunching beneath white Reeboks, nor do you hear a throat-deep groan at his discovery.

~*~

Eddie and you always share this in synch kinda shit, which creeps a lot of people in your circle out. Eddie, however, welcomes it today. When he couldn’t find you after abandoning his lunch, spent what was left of the day attempting, only for Henderson to tell him he’d heard you’d been suspended for a few days—he made it his personal goal to find you. Your parents are gone so he knows the times you do and don’t like to be at home by yourself. And with the way you lashed out at everyone, you won’t go anywhere he has easy access to.

That leaves one place. Skull Rock.

~*~

The drive feels shorter to Eddie this time, but the walk longer. He has to shed himself of his denim and leather, tossing it over his shoulder and clambering up the path towards finding you, keeping your club tee in his back pocket. The more he walks, the more he wishes he brought a drink or his smokes, which remain on his dash. If he’s wrong and you’re not here, he isn’t sure if this is reality anymore. This day has been one big mindfuck.

Thankfully, as he hears a loud tone droning over the clearing, a soft hum, his heart patters in his chest, nostrils inhaling sharply. He rounds the corner’s pathway, already calling your name, his eyes widening, jaw unhinged, fists clenching at his sides. You’re reclining against the boulder’s curve, black shades perched over your eyes, hair draped across your neck, your boot clad ankle crossed over the other, a cigarette perched into your puckering pair of lips, your layered chains swaying, slumbering against your skin, and fuck—your tits, Eddie winces, gripping himself to adjust—frozen.

He can’t not notice how your nipples are reacting to the air. He can’t not detail your shape, how your waist is formed, zeroing in on the baby bat you’d gotten to match his larger ones, inked into your ribcage, and he certainly isn’t forgetting your jeans that are settled over your hips. His eyes glaze over, heat prodding his flesh, shrouding him a veil of desire and raw ache. You don’t notice him, calls of your name falling on mainstream rock’s ears. He doesn’t think approaching you is smart, like a cat and mouse, your behavior for once—unpredictable.

Has Eddie just not been paying attention to you that much lately?

Suddenly, when he’s debating a cowardly retreat, baiting his internal monologue for an excuse, your audible gasp is heard, his name crushed between your gritted teeth.

Fuck.

~*~

In all of his glory—stands your best-friend. He’s balling and un-balling his fists, eyes darting rapidly, tongue sucking against his teeth, feet ready to carry him far away. And the more he avoids your stare, the angrier you get. So what, you’re not good enough to look at because your breasts are out? Modesty to a back burner, you take your crossed arms off your chest, scraping your smoke out on the rock, pushing your glasses into a perch upon your head, body facing Eddie as you stand.

I dare you.

Your eyes complicate a challenge—craving him in your proximity, and hating his grunge blanketed sight. Eddie’s neck is a really pretty thing when he tenses, his jugular agitated against a harsh gulp of air. He answers you by meeting you in the clearing, palms sweaty, scrubbing over his back pockets. It’s a cool damned drink of water, as if you’ve been without, making thee Eddie Munson squirm. But he’s still your best-friend, and you are half naked.

Covering yourself back up so he will look you in the eye, you tuck your arms into a push beneath your sternum, forearms shielding your nipples. It’ll have to do.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing here?” You snap before he can voice a concern or a question.

Tethered to deep breathing techniques, Eddie is insulted, and is biting back in his acidic response. “After your own personal talent show antics at school, I was worried about you. Excuse-the-fuck-outta-me, Y/N.”

A bitter laugh comes from you. “Oh, you’re focused enough on my shit to actually be worried about me? How kind of you, Edward Munson.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be worried about you?” Eddie is raising his voice, sizzling in a cautious rage. He’s usually happy-go-lucky with you, but you’re pushing these fucking buttons he isn’t aware he’s been hiding.

“You really need a list of reasons? Wait,” you say, moving to circle him, pinching your thumb between your teeth, “you’re probably, completely oblivious, because I’m just Y/N. I’m not your club, not your band, not one of your groupies that flounce around for an ounce from you, then leave your ass for their jock boyfriends.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Eddie raises a hand, rings clattering together. “When the fuck did all this start, Y/N?”

Your arms fall back at your sides with a loud ‘thump’. The heating has settled, your high wearing off, truth remaining as to why you’ve been upset in the first place. A caverning hurt carves its place into your chest, igniting an anguish that drowns you. You’re defeated. “It started when my best-friend forgot that I’m my own person and not his servant. Or maybe it began when my person was so stoned that he barely acknowledged a test I fucking flunked to stay up and make his campaign posters—which, may I add—he also gave zero fucks about-“

“So all this is because I didn’t kiss the very ground you walk on for some posters that you practically begged me to make, and wow—your A+ average went to an A. Curse me into the deepest depths of hell, please.” His bracelet slides down his wrist as he palms his heart.

Maybe you’re not the only one who is changing. Eddie hasn’t ever disregarded you in such a crude manner. Your tongue is practically salivating in need to layer on biting and cruel words, things you won’t be able to come back from. You remain silent, mulling over what to say, glaring, docked, stinging prickles of tears. It’s an elating elevation when the words do come. “I’m your best-friend, Eddie. Not your little groupie. I’m tired of you preaching about conformity, when all I do is conform to you. You don’t ever let me pick music, you always take for granted I’ll give you and the guys rides when your van isn’t working, despite if I might have something to do that doesn’t involve an all male ensemble. I spend my money to buy you cigarettes and snacks for the meetings. I manage gigs, I clean your band’s equipment.”

Eddie sniffs, looking pointedly at you, doe eyes dark and growing increasingly fed up. “Didn’t know you were keeping a tally, Y/N.”

“That’s… That’s all you’re taking from everything I just said to you, Eddie?” You can’t keep that hurt out of your tone this time.

Eddie shrugs, crossing his arms, coldly spitting out, “Seems to me like you’re sick of me. And that’s not my problem, that’s yours.”

Your head is swimming in turmoil, all your acting out and emotions swirling into a mindfuck. He doesn’t care. You’re standing here finally pouring your entire soul out in heaps and your person is pouring gasoline on the pieces, dangling a match.

“I’ve never kept a tally, Eddie. I do these things because they make you happy, and that makes me happy, but it fucking sucks when you don’t appreciate them or care about anything in my life, either.”

“That’s what you really think, Y/N?” There’s a flatline in how he’s speaking to you.

“No,” you murmur, “it’s what I know.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding. He kicks at the ground with the toe of his shoe, brows raising. “Breaking Jason Carver’s nose and my cold, dead heart.” He splays a hand across his chest. Those rings, which are always a comfort to you, reflecting off the sunlight, dripping in judgement.

Your trembling wavers, crackling sentence structure falling apart. “Eddie. Don’t.”

“No. Fuck you, Y/N. Seriously, fuck you!” He shouts, snapping a finger in your direction.

Your hands rub up and down your goosebump soaked skin, finalizing what you need to do. Heaving in a deep breath, a sentence escapes your lips. And you pray, pray Eddie will heed this warning and value what you have enough to understand, to work it out. “Maybe it’s time to fess up to the fact that 86’ needs to be a bigger year for us both.”

Mind reader. A power you’ve never wanted more than in this moment as you claw at the cusp of your best-friend’s reaction. Outwardly, Eddie shifts, Adam’s apple bobbing, thumb swiping underneath his nose. Your mouth waters, throat reflexes threatening a fountain of vomit. And Eddie takes your warning, slaying through it, every bit of ground beneath your boots threatening to cave in.

“You’re right. Hell, Carver is right. You do act like my slut. And you have every right to change it, because it’s only holding us both back. And it probably has been for a long time.”

Kicking you would’ve hurt less. You’re unable to see Eddie’s form longer, muddled to a watery silhouette, your brave bravado dissipating. You won’t beg him. You’re nothing to him anymore, he’s just confirmed. You try not to think about the first time he taught you how to dance before your first snowball, or how you both snuck Jim Hopper’s cigarettes when you’d get in trouble at school and be sent to see him for minor misdemeanors, or Eddie’s pride when he managed to get you on stage to sing one song with the band, rubbing circles on your back the whole time you both sang to a trio of drunks, or splitting beers on his van’s roof and nearly breaking limbs when it started raining and you had to climb down, how he taught you to drive in the fancy neighborhood and you knocked over the mayor’s mailbox, when you watched him buy his ‘sweetheart’, tears in his eyes at a possession so gorgeous and all his own, his hands gentle as they held you the nights you cried from one stupid thing that felt massive to you, when he was your person and you were his.

Your wet, quivering breaths are what you hear. Birds chirping, wind rustling, even Eddie’s heavy breathing drowned out. It takes what feels like eternity, before Eddie is slashing the quiet, guarded and stoic. “You need to put a fucking shirt on.”

Your jeans are covered in tear drops from a bowed head, fingers shaking hard enough that your knuckles roll into a crack at the motions. You wipe your tears in time to see Eddie hold out your Hellfire shirt—second edition—his being the first. His reverie breaks briefly, and you think… maybe. It’s gone in those brown eyes that you can no longer read or recognize. Filled with loathing and disgust at you, his last words imprinting on your psyche, a physical recoil.

“On second thought. You won’t be needing this anymore.” Eddie makes his way around you and finds his lighter atop your bag, flicking a flame to life and nudging it at the end of your shirt. It catches quick, burns fast, like every fiber of friendship with Eddie Munson.

Eddie tosses the tattered, charred remains to the forrest floor, pocketing his lighter, walking away from you and out of your life.

~*~

He can’t stay any longer and watch you fall apart, not when he’s running away from his cowardice. And he does, run. He moves and clambers, stumbles until he’s from you and the cries that he hears pour off your lips. His chest is thumping sporadically, pulse in his blurry vision. His five fingers catch a tree, slamming, splintering, a sob breaking free of his tear soaked lips.

Eddie Munson forces himself to remember how unsure you looked in your dress when he held you around your waist, never feeling more himself in his entire life than he did with you— at thirteen—during some cheesy school dance, how you entertained his tunes so he could teach you the counting method he uses for his music to move your feet to the beat, all your encouragement every time he hit a new note, or your midnight phone calls to ask what he’d like on his posters, your body trusting him to keep you safe on those nights when everything became too much for you in your life, but you had tried to hide it, or when you both snuck in to see Carrie when you were pre-teens and you couldn’t sleep without him, so he made a makeshift mattress next to your bed for a month, about that time you were so tired from an all nighter that he had walked into his room and found you curled up in his bed, using his vest as a makeshift pillow, your nagging him to study more, because he’s always capable of anything he sets his mind to, and those cookies—the only thing you can bake without having to call for Hawkins fire department—a container you’d brought for him and his Uncle, still sitting on his kitchen counter.

He was your person and you were his. And now? You’re gone. Eddie runs away. He keeps running, leaving you to your own miserable anguish, drowning in his own, getting himself in his rust bucket and going back to his trailer to get completely fucked outta his not-so-right mind.

~*~

By the time your suspension is over and you can no longer barricade yourself into your room and finish off another bottle from your dad’s liquor cabinet—it’s sheer dread. You’re not only the freak who broke Hawkins Highschool’s Prom King’s nose, but you’re the freak without anyone by your side—a true and thorough outsider. As you stand outside your school, nails pinching into already weakened threads dedicated to your bag’s strap, you’re really regretting those couple of drinks this morning and how you’d poured more vodka into a flask to take your Tylenol with. Hell, it’s not like you can get a fix from the school dealer anymore, is it?

Those damned double doors are louder, a jolt to your already throbbing headache, fluorescent lights sparkling in your retinas through your shades that cover a nursing hangover and distraught, red and puffy eyes from a three day sob fest. Each step your boots make sounds like you’re walking to your death, your outfit—sans any Hellfire related attire—is all yours. Your two chains limited to one, Eddie’s gift waiting in a cardboard box you’d half-assed assembled, and tossed in random shit he’d given you. The deeper you get into every hallway, making simple turns you know like the back of your hand, your nausea grows as to what might be awaiting around each corner. Or who. It’s a short lived relief upon arrival at your locker.

You pinch your shades off, raw eyes protesting the moment fresh tears staple your skin in brushes. In red letters, diagonally capitalized across your door contains what you haven’t wanted to face since it happened.

The freak got dumped

You choke on your salvia, throat wet and enduring a suffocation strong enough to have you gagging on the piece of toast and water you’d forced your famished form to consume this morning. You barely make it into the toilets before double over and expelling everything, diaphragm on fire, bones vibrating through tosses. Hair dangling in your face, plastered to your mouth, you sniffle and tremble, vision blurring. You ponder getting yourself fucking expelled, but you made this whole ordeal about it being your year. If you retreat now, what will that do? Mustering all your strength, your courage, you flush your bile, clean off your mouth and face, pop a mint, take a swig out of your flask, and make your way to your first class.

~*~

By the ever popular lunch time, you have managed to clean your locker and pinpoint the culprit (an ashamed that a girl broke his nose, Jason Carver), but neither of you speak on it. You keep your head down, you focus on your school work, you take your Tylenol, and you sip on your vodka. Enough to keep an edge off, but not enough to send you down a despairing hole filled with regret and torment. You know you’re being stared at as soon as you hit the line to get your tray. It’s fake smiles and refusal to acknowledge it that gets you in search of an aisle, and hopefully out of sight. You aren’t so lucky…

“Hey, Y/N! Over here!” You hear an all too cheery voice belonging to Dustin Henderson. It halts you in your tracks, a wince causing a physical recoil.

It’s not his fault you and Eddie no longer have anything resembling a relationship, and he apparently has not told them, and they’ve not seen Jason Carver’s masterpiece.

Good.

What isn’t good is that Eddie is very much at your old table and you know it’s unavoidable. You wished you had borrowed some concealer for your under eyes, but it’s too late. There’s a grand staircase cloaked in invisibility beneath your feet, your stomach knotting in crushing vices, your cheeks stained with red. You walk to your former friend group, trying like hell not to side eye Eddie Munson. Keeping a steady focal point without blinking against your scratchy lower lids is damn near impossible. And guys are going to be guys—much to your chagrin. Gareth is drawing further attention where nothing needs to be, popping off with a, “Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

“A week long bender,” Jeff chimes in.

Biting the inside of your cheek between your teeth, you shrug a shoulder. Better them having knowledge of your binge drinking celebration than knowing about how messed up you are.

Don’t look at Eddie. Is your mantra for today.

He, on the other two hands, is not prioritizing that same aspect.

“So what if I did? I know of about ten girls who can drink your asses under the table, myself included.” You smirk, gripping your tray’s edge.

“Been holding back on us?” Gareth is grinning from ear to ear. It eases your shouldered weight tremendously, breaking tension in your table’s ranks.

“You gonna have a seat or what?” Mike Wheeler interrupts, his hands flipping towards a desired target, one that you wish you could keep pretending you never knew.

Fuck it.

You really crave for some divine intervention to help you, because meeting those chocolate brown eyes that are distraught, angry, and rimmed red—your heart constricts to painful blows, windpipes crushed beyond speaking capabilities. Eddie’s been somewhere off planet earth with that kinda high, you remember seeing his demeanor that way only a handful of times, including this one. Maybe he does care? No, doesn’t matter, don’t go there. It’s over and done.

Still, that idiotic, massively moronic part that Eddie owns of you—it’s billowing hope. Eddie Munson dashes it in seconds flat.

“No.”

You glance away, jaw twitching to control an automatic quiver. Dustin is laughing it off as a joke, someone else asking why. Eddie reclines his legs in your empty chair, loud enough to get your attention back. He wants me to see.

“No traitors.” It’s a simplistic answer, aggressive, no room to argue.

Ever-the-curious-freshmen, Dustin and Mike peg their leader for questions. You halt it, tone breaking apart, fingers tucking into your shirtsleeve as you balance your lunch on one hand and wipe across raw flesh to clean fresh tears from your eyeline. That’s when Eddie does look away.

Coward.

“It’s okay, guys.” Is what you say.

“What’s going on?” Gareth asks.

“I won’t be around meetings or practices anymore, but I’m still here if anyone needs anything, okay? You know where my locker is, and where I live.” You pat yourself on the back for that robotic but truthful statement.

“Unless you’re sick of everyone else too…” His deep voice rumbles.

Like a deer in headlights— you’re frozen, a blinding rage of hurt and red hot anger pouring over you in a storm. You explode. Picking up the first thing in your sight, which happens to be on your plate—a glob of some chocolate goop (possibly a brownie)—it’s slung directly at your former best-friend’s crisp white Hellfire shirt. Your second cafeteria incident that, yet again, everyone notices. Eddie yelps, shouting out your name in brisk spits.

You further it, abandoning your food in a repeat of days ago, floating to his side and shoving him back two steps. Eddie stops his rapid shirt swipes and immediately presses his form into yours, chests smashed, food squishing through your top. His hair is frazzled from the humidity, his toffee colored irises slowly polishing into a thick black gloss of dilated pupils. He sucks his tongue against his teeth, swaying into you, not touching you with those hands, an air about him that is beginning to swarm your initial reaction and bend it over, fucking it into the next decade. He’s taller than you remember, but you latch onto your own, tasting that cigarette soaked breath, lips hovering over his, hot tears matting your lashes.

Whether it’s regarding his inability to respond to your reasoning for this whole situation, his lack of expression, your self-disappointment for something roused inside you at his huffing proximity, you crown him with a title off a jagged voice box, damp in her sorrows, just as Dustin steps between you two, gently prying. “You’re a fucking coward, Eddie Munson.”

Teachers are starting to flock in, and you shake your head, hand over your eyes briefly, before sprinting in strides from the room in search of a place to collapse.

~*~

If you had told yourself at the beginning of the school year that you’d be in a camaraderie with the girl’s bathroom—you would have laughed. And if your mind had convinced you otherwise, you’d have expected Eddie to be right beside you, arm around your shoulders, sharing his lunch, making stupid jokes, coming up with lame ideas to make you feel better, but in that endearing Eddie Munson kinda way. You let out a soft cry, giving up on that stinging beneath your lids. You’re a hot mess and the whole building probably knows how alone you really are now. When the outcasts cast you out, where else can you go?

Clenching onto the sides of the ceramic sink, bag slipping off your shoulder and onto the floor, you keep your head bowed between your shoulder blades, not noticing someone come in and approach you, a gentle set of fingers laying upon your shoulder. Through foggy vision you can make out the green colors of her uniform and her perfectly straight ponytail, her face seemingly concerned. Your laugh is exhaustion on steroids, expression bombarded with emotion. “Okay, what the fuck is next? A girl craves some independence and the whole school turns against her. Let me guess, your boyfriend sent you to get even? Why don’t I make it easy for you and you can call your friends in here, and… and—“

Great.

Your lungs start to burn, your ribcage pounding with an erratic heartbeat, throat feeling like it’s been dusted with a thick blanket of ash. You’re panicking in front of Chrissy Cunningham. That alone has you feeling more pathetic than ever before in your life, and it worsens your heaving sobs—broken and unguarded. Chrissy’s eyes are drinking you in, irises glossing over with tears of her own. She grasps your other shoulder and squeezes, not releasing her hold on you, her soft voice strong when she speaks, but gentle enough between the expanse of your shared airspace.

“One, two, three, four. Okay, now deep breath in, and release it for me, Y/N.” She’s actually calming you, keeping you steady on your feet, which feel as if they’re sinking into the flooring below like led weights.

“Chrissy…” You aren’t sure how to articulate, still alarmed and attempting to breathe with her.

“I’m right here. Just keep breathing and counting with me.” And you do. And that’s when it hits you.

She has experience with this mind numbing panic too. That otherworldly anxiety. You feel a connective pull towards the cheerleader—seeing—not this persona you’d imagined, but her calming features, her easy going manner towards you, how she lets you find your lifeline, but also lends you her own in case you need it. When your breathing slows, she gives you a look, a silent communication of question. You may be able to breathe a little easier now, but it doesn’t stop the weight of your situation from crashing down and demolishing what’s left of you.

“Can I… I’m gonna hug you, is that okay?” At this point, if she’s going to put a sign on your back you don’t care. You need the human connection, the comfort. You agree and your schoolmate takes you into a light grip, but folds her arms around you and lets you bury your cheek against her perfumed sweater.

You both stand in the embrace, no trace of awkwardness, a sense of kinship and knowing. It’s when you pull back that hint of a questionable concern with her, wiping your sore eyes with a hiss. She notices.

“Are you here because of Jason? I just need to know.”

“Jason was a dick, Y/N.” Her language shocks you, having only heard her be proper before.

You laugh, your first genuine giggle in days. It’s contagious, as she joins in, hip jutting against the sink. “No, I’m here on my own terms. I promise. I saw what happened with your friends…”

“Yeah, I can imagine how everyone must be amused right now.” You bite your lip, facing away.

Chrissy gives you a saddened smile, but attempts to reassure. “I know this is gonna sound incredibly lame coming from me, but you’re stronger than all this, Y/N. The way you’ve stood up for yourself these past several days… I admire it.”

You frown deeply, wondering if this is a trick, because no way is Chrissy Cunningham admiring someone like you.

“You admire a loser that can’t even manage her own newfound independence?”

“No,” she says with a pause, looking down at her French tip manicure, before facing your curious gaze once more. “I admire your ability to stand up for yourself, despite what everyone is saying or doing to you. It’s a good quality to have, one that many of us are afraid of, you know?”

There’s this hollow pain in her eyes and your continued recognition has you pulling her in for another hug—this time for her benefit, rather than yours.

“Looks like we’ve fallen into the cliché trap, Cunningham.” You grin, pulling back.

Chrissy tilts her head, curious. “What do you mean?”

“A freak and a cheerleader thinking the same as what their peers think, and getting each other totally wrong.”

Her sweet eyes light up, her head nodding. “That’s exactly it.”

You share a knowing smile, a newfound bond forming. Chrissy situates her small shoulder bag, pulling out a compact and tugging you by your sleeve. “C’mhere. Let me fix that.”

She takes a gentle hand, not rushing as she speckles your sore under eyes with her own stash of makeup. After she blends it with soft fingertips, she snaps the lid closed and places it back in her bag, turning you to the bathroom mirror, brushing some of your hair through, giving your back a rub. “Is that any better, Y/N?”

Your circles are mostly covered, puffiness disguised enough where you won’t be embarrassed. You look and feel much better, and you’re overwhelmed with gratitude for the blonde at your side. You incline yourself into a swivel, leaning in her direction. “Chrissy Cunningham, I think you’re one of the sweetest people I now kinda, sort of know.”

Her giggle is infectious, and she gives you another squeeze. You drop down to swoop your messenger bag into your arms, grabbing out a your notebook and a pen, scribbling your home phone on it, hesitating, before handing it over. “If you ever need to talk to someone about all the bullshit, whatever it is, consider me your new confidant.”

She holds the simple sheet paper as if it’s another lifeline and you’ve just given her a treasure. Going back into her own bag, she has a cute little pink embroidered stationary paper that she jots her number on, and uses a smiley face to dot the i in Chrissy. Seconds later, her friends and a group of other girls burst into the bathroom, gossip on their lips. You and Chrissy flash each other a secret smile, and you make another hasty retreat.

~*~

Eddie had to hear a bunch of shit from the guys, overly bearing questions sounded off by Henderson and Wheeler. The eventual revealing by a passerby group of cheerleaders about your specially decorated locker, had surprised him too. As if there’s not already a weighted dagger wedged into his ribcage, one interlocking into his heart muscle—he lost control with his bitter mouth again, and it fueled your temper. But deep down, deeper into those subconscious recesses, you both felt that ignition start, a kind of coercing heat that is waging an internal war in Eddie’s head. His sole reason for blocking you out and refusing to talk about anything with you in the woods.

Eddie Munson is in love with you. Eddie Munson needs to fuck you.

It’s something he’s always done—built walls, got high, stayed drunk, coped with humor, hid behind his guitar or his campaigns. And without his right hand woman, he feels naked, too vulnerable to all the bullshit he’s tried to keep out. And your absence has become a set course for his weakening concentration on anything that isn’t you. His ultimate warrior princess is also his Achilles heel. Your feelings in wanting to branch out, they scare Eddie.

His brain is flipping logic into thinking you are seeing what everyone else sees in him: freak, failure, piece of shit, a nobody, a criminal. He pushed you out before he could pull you back in—easy, abrupt. And it’s not just changing him—no—he could smell your vodka soaked breath across the table, see your eyes swollen and glazed—absent. For the first time in years you weren’t wearing your limited edition shirt (thanks to him), and Eddie isn’t sure why he expected you to still have his chain around your neck. It fucking hurts.

As the room slowly falls back into their daily routine, Eddie loses his appetite and leaves his herd behind, urgent to get the fuck outta this building, out of Hawkins. Hell, maybe even the country. Like you, however, Eddie Munson’s retreat isn’t one that is unscathed. In his urgency, he smacks straight into you, stumbling over his own clumsy ass feet, gripping your forearms to keep you both steady. He’s processed your scent before he even takes in your beautiful features.

Fuck…

You look less like you’ve been partying all weekend, but Eddie knows better. Your pupils are dilated to the bright overhead lights of the hallways, making your sclera more visible. It’s bloodshot red, lower lids swollen and tinged a rough crimson beneath the fresh makeup that Eddie now sees. He swallows and looks away, but he doesn’t let you go. His grip isn’t harsh, it’s simply what it’s always been with you two. Easy and sturdy, safe.

You’re the first to downcast your gaze, focusing more on your shoe wear than on Eddie. It kills him. Even through these notions, this fear, whatever anger you’re both harboring, it’s as if this whole damned school and everyone passing you two are mere bodies, Eddie Munson and Y/N Y/L/N floating, tethered. His stomach churns its lunch contents, teeth clenching tightly. You make a brisk dart off, but Eddie attempts to catch you, instead tugging too hard on your shoulder strap, causing your bag to dump and spread out its contents at his sneaker clad feet.

Eddie’s eyes are quick to see it before you realize. Shining underneath hallway lights, scattered amongst notebooks and pens, is a small flask. His brows perch, he crouches first, scooping it away from your jutting hands. Gareth’s words rewind and play on repeat in his head.

“Damn, Y/N lookin’ like she went on a bender.”

The way his heart rate spikes, hostilely spitting that acid all over his lungs, battering his throat muscles with a pummeling storm. He’s already sure what he’ll smell if he presses the lid to his nostrils, but Eddie has to feed his anxious curiosity, unscrewing the cap with nervous hands, sniffing, shrugging off your grabs. It burns his mouth from its strength, his distraction giving you enough leeway to wrap your hands over his fingers and pull. Eddie locks your digits within his own, second thoughts gone. Against everything inside him he is getting angrier by the second, the anger masking itself, easier than being petrified and scared in front of you.

And Eddie is scared. Is he really so fucking stupid to think you weren’t at all affected by any of this?

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Your fingers sliding through his own, flood him, prickling every vein running beneath his skin, cutting off his blood flow—scorching.

~*~

Having Eddie’s hands on you again, his body so close, despite your shame at his discovery, it’s a feeling that comes more natural than breathing. You avoid his question, feeble grasping docked.

“Why do you have a flask full of fucking vodka?”

“Will you keep your voice down!” You hiss the words, finally breaking off him and retrieving the rest of your items on the scuffed up floor, and securing them back into your bag, Eddie holding back your liquor.

“Did you drive to school drinking this crap? Tell me you didn’t, Y/N, cause’ I swear to god—“

You chortle, a humorless boom smacking across your chest.

“Eddie, this faux best-friend act is getting old. Your on and off switch is enough to drive anyone to drastic measures. But don’t flatter yourself into thinking I’d be an idiot and drive drunk. Not even for you.”

His irises that are glossy with concern, they cave to dilating pupils, an animalistic rage priming them. “Oh, you have got to be the most clueless bitch alive, Y/N.” He steps towards you, frame towering slightly. You’re not afraid, never fearing if he’ll do something, because that is not Eddie, no matter what. But, you are very much dripping with rage at his words.

He pockets your flask in his left back pocket, rings clinking against it as he pats it for good measure. You try to dive around him, beneath his arm, but he swoops in on his own, using that strength for his slender frame, literally scooping you into a half bring-away, only discarding you back onto your feet once you’re both outside. You try to shove at him, palms resting on his stained club shirt. The bell has rang to signal your free period, but you don’t give two fucks, giving up and being the one to leave.

“Who’s the coward now, huh? You’re gonna walk away from me when I call you on your shit, Y/N?”

You spin on your heel, dirt and gravel specks crunched beneath your step. “I thought I was a clueless bitch, Eddie? A traitor? Or, your slut.” You scoff, crossing your arms.

Guilt briefly flickers across his features, but he shuts it down tenfold. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I want you to destroy your fucking liver or your life. Jesus Christ, you really think I’m that big of an asshole?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” You fling your hands into the air. “One minute we’re at each other’s throats, the next you’re up my ass. I don’t know what to do here, Eddie.”

“Thought you craved some individuality and independence.” Though there’s meant to be flare behind the words, Eddie’s tone has splintered across each word, voice breaking apart. Your guts sink into your ass, as does a particularly pointed swallow that stabs at your jugular.

“Didn’t say I wanted to be completely independent from my best-friend.” Your own response is gentle, voice soaked with impending emotion.

Fuck. Stupid fucking tears burning again. Not right now.

Eddie’s attention snaps back on you, proximity closing in. His jaw clenches, he moves it from side to side with a closed mouth, sniffing, whistling air through a wet breath. “Feels like you’re leavin’ me and I can’t do anything to stop it…”

It makes sense suddenly. A catapult of truth slamming right into your chest, spreading throughout your body.

He thinks I’m leaving him. That I want to leave him.

As if the last seventy two hours haven’t happened, better yet, as if they haven’t mattered in the grand scheme of things—you’re the one that meets Eddie, reaching to push that curly hair from his eyes, his head downcast and posture sullen. His brown eyes are brimmed with tears that spill over his lash line, a permanent frown creased between his brows, mouth red and spit slick. Those freckles on his nose are suddenly very prominent to you. You’ve never seen Eddie Munson this vulnerable. Your heart shatters, the ache so physically strong that you have to remain close to him to hold on and find that strength again.

How could you have gotten this so monumentally wrong? Maybe if you’d have expressed what you meant more instead of feeding off Eddie’s anger. His communication and yours both need nurturing, but your sudden shift in mood must’ve made him feel like you wanted to abandon him, not just do things for yourself. He may not realize that yet, but you do. And it fucking sucks.

“Eddie. I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say in the seconds that your heart heaves into your throat.

He shakes that shaggy mane. “Don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me, especially you.” He backs away from you and you see his entire expression crumble, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

That pain drowns your throat, seeing him cry because of your lack of explanation and mutual avoidance. You chase after him, running around to block his view, unable to let him go, gripping onto his waist beneath his jacket to keep him planted. Another familiarity. He tenses beneath your touch before relaxing.

“Eddie, will you please listen to me? I think I know what’s going on now.”

“And look who is the one flipping her emotions this time.”

“Because, I… Eddie, I—“

“What lame ass line do you want me to buy, Y/N? You think I’m not used to worthless promises or idiotic reassurances? Yeah, good.” His sentence is fragmented, voice rough and breaking apart on each word. “You know I still care about you, but I don’t need you to lie to me, you don’t owe me a damn thing, I promise you—“

You press a finger to his quivering lips, halting him. There’s a shift in the atmosphere, a pause in the universe, your legs heavy, fingertip stroking along the plumpness of your best-friend’s full, lower lip. Eddie’s chest is moving up and down swiftly, tongue against his teeth, that warning look. You fail to heed it and Eddie’s hands tremble at his sides before he gives up and cups the sides of your face, bringing your foreheads together. His lips part to speak, your finger still on them. “Think we’re in trouble here.”

You can do nothing but nod as his declaring statement, inclining your head further, nose nudging his own. It doesn’t feel as if you’re standing any longer, every mean thing that Eddie has said, every disproportionate attempt of yours to communicate—obliterate, shrouding you both in the process. His breath is hot as his mouth opens and he sucks your finger inside, tongue licking its tip, biting the digit between those milky white teeth. It sends that throbbing nudge, snapping between your thighs, making you arch into your best-friend. You whisper his name and his fingers move along your jaw, across your ear, sliding through your hair and rubbing a pathway to your necks’ nape, sending an army of goosebumps across your flesh, the coolness of his rings stimulating your skin.

“Yeah, you feelin’ it too?” Your lids flutter closed, Eddie using his thumb pad to brush the corners of your lashes, signally for you to open them. “Didn’t say you could stop looking at me, did I, sweetheart?”

You grind against him, unable to stop. Your last several days, everything between you both is on hold, these buried urges able to finally win out. This dominant side of Eddie Munson has you an inward and outwardly quickening pile of mush and hormones, of fucking need. Eddie about loses his cool when you obey him, pupils blown, mouth looking parched and in need of his kisses. He leans, walls starting to slip, resolve crumbling, his pouting mood long gone.

Years of built up tension and confusion, being rightfully by one another’s sides, it all comes apart, the seams, begging to be repaired into what it has to be now.

You envelop his hold on you, hands sliding into slips beneath his jacket, around his waist, tracing over his back, before dipping under his armpits and grasping his shoulders, knuckles pushed down by his leather jacket. One more step and he’ll kiss you. He’s closing a gap, no more breaches, you tapping his shoulders right down to the blades in encouragement. It’s parted mouths hovering over one another, cigarettes and vodka, school lunch and weed, it’s—

“Hey, guys! Higgins is so pissed off right now… After that shit went down in the caf, he’s ready to expel you, Y/N! Pretty fuckin’ sure.” You hear Gareth approach, and just like, Eddie releases you.

You have to steady yourself, want simmering into a slumber in your belly, not yet gone, but still reminding you where it lives. Your glare is directed at your mutual friend. Eddie, feeling as if he’s been doused with ice cold water, and the moment is shattered, you see those walls rebuilding rapidly, and she shrugs off your hand, leaving you and Gareth, and that slickness that has collected in your panties.

~*~

You aren’t sure just exactly what Eddie is feeling, but you’re very aware of what you are. So driving to his place once you know Wayne has left for the night shift—it’s a no brainer. You’d debated bringing Eddie your box of treasures, even your necklace, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe, maybe your best-friend doesn’t want you to…?

Want.

A dynamic shift in your relationship, or what it used to be. You can barely sit still as you wrack your brain through all the levels of hazy blurs. So much has happened in three days, but… today, with Eddie nearly kissing you on the mouth, and you nearly grinding against him in the Hawkins High parking lot—yeah, you two have to talk about all of this. As you squirm in your seat, hands tightening around the wheel, that approaching trailer park sign signals your arrival to his residence. You can’t stop the way your heartbeat feels as if it’s ping ponging around in your throat, or that anxious twitch of your mouth’s corner—forget even attempting to deny your cascading memories of the way his chocolate irises wore an expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen on Eddie Munson.

His trailer comes into your sights, that tickle swooping your guts and holding them hostage. You swallow a thick ball of anxiety, parking next to his van, cutting your engine. The lights are all on and you’ve got no excuse to chicken out. It’s your year too, right? Fucking fuck it.

With your keys clutched in your palm, you make your way to Eddie’s trailer, rasping on his door lightly. You don’t hear his music blaring, so he might be reading, planning a campaign, writing some music he’d mentioned wanting to practice with the guys soon, get a feel for its sound—just last week. You have given about three octaves of knocks and are about to give up, head pressed the door, thinking he was just lost in lust earlier, and maybe you’d fucked up on your end beyond repair. Exhausted by the stampeding pain that brings your insides, you flip the Munson’s spare key off your key ring and unlock the door. A bold move—albeit—a very stupid one.

That familiar scent of Eddie and Wayne’s shared carton of cigarettes hits your nose, along with the leftovers from dinner you see sitting out on the stove. Your cookies, which have been devoured, are missing their note. You panic, briefly thinking Eddie probably trashed it, only to come back from that brink seconds later. It’s not what you’re here for. You glance at the couch and it’s empty, not even Eddie’s usual indent on the cushion is there.

Swinging your keys from your pointer finger, you peek down the small hallway to Eddie’s closed door, light spilling out underneath. He could be sleeping, possibly ignoring you, or he snuck out the back door…

Your feet make an echoing squeak across the trailer’s flooring structure, your fingers twisting the knob and pushing, pausing, deciding to go ahead. If he wants you to leave then you’ll go, if he’s asleep, you’ll go, if he left… You can’t fathom that thought, another ignorance that you partake in. You aren’t sure exactly what you expected, but seeing your best-friend’s tallish frame, with his back facing you, lean leg propped atop his mattress, right arm bent at a very clear angle, his left propped on one of his many amps he’d apparently moved since you’d been here last—is sure as hell NOT it. Eddie’s curly hair ruffles and is jostled across his shoulders with each movement his arm makes, his delicious ass clenching as his body thrusts into his rhythm, the outline of his chain on his perspired neck and damp strands of dark hair—clear. You don’t have to hear the thick, slick and wet stroking to know what he’s doing to himself.

You cross an ankle over the other, squeezing your legs together tightly, trying to bounce on the balls of your heels to get relief. Your fingers white knuckle his banged up door handle, your mouth parting. Whether it’s that bond you two share, or your very visible labored breathing, Eddie’s shoulder blades pinch together, his motions abruptly cut. He turns as if caught doing something he shouldn’t be—definitely something you aren’t prepared to handle. It’s like your mouth is speaking for you, eyes in a trance, enslaved to your lustful abiding.

Fucked out, blown up pupils shave off the color of your irises, your tongue gliding across your teeth, that take a turn to sink into your bottom lip, your toes curling in your shoes. You feel hot, body battered in melting flames that won’t cease, won’t let you get in a normal burst of air flow. You know without having to fix your posture that you’ve made a mess between your legs, panties soaked to hell—completely ruined. You’re honest to fuck not sure if you can make it out of here in an upright position, that painfully strong ache tackling your cunt, breaking off your common sense, leaving you Eddie-drunk. Helping yourself to a swiping look between his legs, he’s still got a ring clad hand wrapped around a very generous girth—shiny—a length that leaves saliva pooling on your tongue’s tip.

His chest is slick with sweat, tattoos glossed beneath, nipples hard from the cool air let into his bedroom. Which, you note, is really fucking hot, and the window is steamed up. Your eyelids flutter in rapid blinks to help you reign yourself in, but all you see are glimpses of Eddie’s fist around himself, that creamy and swollen head, full balls on either side, trimmed curls at the base of his shaft. You want to die. And oh, what a sweet and sinful death that would be.

“Mhm… fuck.” You say through the gap between your panting mouth, words take the opportunity to bust free, joining a high pitched whimper.

Eddie’s chocolate eyes are completely black, leaving no room for anything else but purely raw desire. They widen, a sharp heave in his inhaling chest, abdomen flexing as he holds himself tightly. When you don’t move Eddie takes the initiative, slowly approaching, a softness there beneath the want and knowing. He reaches your space, still giving you enough, but you’re able to still feel that radiating body heat. Neither of you speak, because what is there to say right now?

You’d be a pleading mess of profanities, apologizes, and begging to be taken and used.

Thankfully, Eddie makes another move before you. His spare hand joins your own on the door knob, fingers brushing your knuckles, encouraging, giving you one more opportunity if you’re in distress or uncomfortable. You hook onto his offer and you surprise you both by finding something to say after all, throat parched, yet still damp with wanton rasp. “Start touching yourself again, Eddie. Please?” Fuck, well there’s a beg.

Eddie, assuming you want a show, nerves being dipped in lava and left to forever sizzle and smoke—gives in, both of you shutting his door and closing the two of you off from the outside world. He doesn’t wait for you to back away, pushing his hips to a rise, his cock gliding through his closed fist. You let him lean over you, frame against his door, watching his legs spread to widen his stance, obeying your plea. He almost asks, but assumes it would be too hopeful if you would want to touch yourself in front of him too. You’re out of your mind, common sense obliterated for all eternity, watching your bestfriend practically pin you to the door and fuck himself in front of you.

Those sounds you’ve imagined, pictured, they’re even more pronounced in person. Some low enough that it’s a stifling whimper, a needy sobbing. If you don’t do something about the gnawing throbbing between your thighs, it’ll be total combustion. There’s an empowerment that winds itself around a pulsating set of nerves in one’s decision to masturbate in front of their best-friend. That coolness works itself in your palms, your fingers tossing your keys over and onto Eddie’s dresser, toeing off your shoes, his eyes steamy in their grasp on your every move.

You’d wished you had brought your camera to photograph his expression when you walk over to where he stood in front of his bed, turning to face him, your fingers undoing your jeans and the zipper, a resounding echo in the room, Eddie’s tongue poking out on his upper lip, he holds himself around the base, the urgency to fuck his hand as you take your seat on his mattress and scoot with your back to the wall, hips lifting to help you pull off your jeans and panties. You struggle momentarily, but neither of you are saying a word, gazes steady and unwavering.

Discarding your clothing with a soft thump onto his floor, you’re heartbeat thumps in your throat, ribcage taking an unsteady hammering of its resounding drumming. You heed Eddie’s silent command to continue, agreeing to this turning point between you two. Your thighs fall open and that sticky want strings to your swollen folds, glistening in the creases of your thighs, your cunt sopping wet. You’re dripping, and Eddie isn’t missing it when your arousal finally does drizzle from your neglected pussy and onto his bedsheets. You shift to get comfortable, hand cupping yourself, immediately smothered in your own juices, legs falling into a drop, toes finally able to curl without the barrier of your shoes, bunching Eddie’s sheets.

Eddie watches you from where he can see, still eager to be closer, but unable to stop himself from stroking along his length, teasing that vein that runs alongside his cock. You do it again, rubbing your palm up and down your lips, a crude squelch causing Eddie to almost black out, and you shiver. He releases himself, heavy and hot between slim thighs, and he’s moving. He puffs out a gravelly hiss from pursed lips, stalking towards you and giving a cat like crawl across his own bed, planting himself shoulder to shoulder with you to your left. He must be feeling the overwhelming change that is occurring, as he reaches for your hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

You gravitate towards your hand, fingers slipping through your slickness, your head bowing in embarrassment. Eddie grips your chin and tilts you his way, shaking his head, that same hand dropping to your thigh and lifting to pull up and to the side. And he looks. He fucking memorizes you between your legs with these little mewling coos of appreciation that cement themselves into your subconscious. You do the same, helping yourself to an up close and personal view of what he’s been hiding.

Eddie leans forward and cups the nap of your neck, his other hand taking your wrist and removing it from your self-touches, shushing your protesting whine. He brings it up to his mouth, which is hovering close to yours, your own fingers pressed against your lips, and he licks a straight stripe up your creamy covered palm, humming underneath his breath as he does so. You want to slap him and ride him on every available surface in this trailer. You’re the one to speak, having to.

“Eddie…” It’s a meek little trail-off.

Eddie lets go of your wrist and uses that hand to pull his cock off his stomach, a wet patch left behind in his happy trail. He still doesn’t let your neck go, his fingertips tapping an invisible beat, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He’s laughing, tufts of air settling across your mouth. You narrow your gaze, moving to shut your legs, Eddie’s hand quickly preventing the action, stroking the meat of your inner thigh. “Only fair if I’m exposed, sweetheart.”

“But… you’re laughing.” And it hits you then, why he’s really chuckling in that Eddie Munson way. It’s an incredulous and mind boggling turn of events. Best-friends that broke up when they were never together, now side by side and in a very compromising situation.

You grin and falter into his embrace, your hand working its way into a wind around his neck, taking sweaty strands in scoops between your fingers, his pick chain draped across your knuckles. Eddie licks across his bottom lip, tapping your hips as he moves, your hands falling, and sprawls his legs into a propped spread, cock neglected and flushed, much like the rest of his skin, that you’ll die if you don’t put your marks on. He’s motioning for you to turn in a slow facing position in front of him, and that’s how you end up—vulnerable, so fucking vulnerable. He’s muttering words, huddled and unintelligible, reaching out and tugging you to him by your ankles, stopping, resting, eyes dark as they do a once over to gauge your mental stability. When you don’t protest, palms splaying out to keep yourself upright behind you, Eddie lets his legs flatten against his sheets, a smirk pattering his lips, indenting its knowing presses beside his mouth.

His exhale catches on a ragged breath, a passionate declaration signing off on what’s about to occur, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he pulls you close, your ass resting on his hairy thighs, waiting, held, his arm wrapping around your lower back and lifting you completely into that ink splattered, silk-slick chest, his skin sticking to your long sleeved t-shirt, ruining it with sex-soaked perspiration. You think that there’s nothing—no—you know that in this entire world, no matter what, that whatever will happen to you is never going to compare to the moment when Eddie’s maneuvering hands glide your wet cunt over his cock, using your drenching heat as his own personal lubricant. Your ankles lock around his waist, no choice from the close band that your best-friend has re-tethered you to him with, leaving no room or space where you’re not touching or breathing in the other. Your arms curl around Eddie’s neck, hands draped down his back as you help yourself to pinching and clawing the flesh beneath, relishing every little grumble and groan off his pretty lips. Your face takes solace in his neck, nosing your way through his curly hair, nose bumping his chain to lift so that your mouth can claim him.

“Fuck.” His throat constricts around a swallow, your teeth sinking into a piece of Eddie’s flesh and biting, releasing, lips closing over that angry spot to soothe, tongue tasting salt, licking it off, indulging.

He lets your have your way with his neck, a particularly harsh slap landing on your ass in following of your mouth on his jugular, letting your tongue following that curvature into his jawline. You don’t stop his wandering hands, you don’t dare fight off his vice grip on the globes of your ass, his kneading, using as them leverage to place you right where he wants you. You let him take control, an unspoken agreement, a having to have. Your head falls back as Eddie rolls his hips beneath, rocking his lap, solid presses that drag his fat cock over your embarrassingly wet pussy, scattering your thick arousal and smearing it across his happy trail, getting caught in that patch of curls at the base of his shaft. You’re dripping all over him, quite literally. Caught on a trapped hum, hung in its hisses between your clenched teeth, you croon into Eddie’s neck, your stomach tightening, that velvety drag of his dick through your swollen folds making your lids flutter closed, colors dotting in their dances—translucent.

You aren’t sure where to move your hands, comfortable with having them shred Eddie’s back and empty out the past few days of frustration and desperation. Eddie encourages, palming handfuls of your ass, creating a cresting twist, a thigh trembling rub of sopping wet desire. He’s merely whimpering, appreciating, not overly vocal until his swollen head catches your neglected clit, and his head drops back, fingers pinching so tightly into your skin that it burns.

“Oh, shit. Dammit, baby.”

You’re simpering on a series of whimpers, agreeable and speechless. Eddie is feeding off it. “Yeah? You needing this too? Little clit feels so good rubbing on my dick, sweetheart. You want me to do it again?”

When you’re not immediately able to be vocal, Eddie pulls back a little, shoving his hand between your thighs and drags his rings directly through your arousal, coating them in a glittering shine. His first real touch where you need him the most. You both inhale sharply. It’s the pain from the cool metal of his jewelry that makes it feel so fucking good. He curses, telling you how messy you’re being, flinging his hand in your sights, dragging you in a pry off of his neck, holding your jaw and flashing his knuckles.

“See what you did, messy little angel. You gotta clean em’ now for me.”

His eyes are so fucking demolished, brown crushed beneath a midnight sea of black and insatiable attraction. You’re mewling, tongue lolling out, licking that metallic onto your tongue, sloppily sloping around his knuckles, lips suckling what your tongue can’t catch, your own taste fresh off your mouth. That’s when Eddie brushes a calloused thumb across your bottom lip, tugging it down to expose your teeth, and he brings your lips to his, a feral groan stealing your breath, sharing your juices in your first kiss. It’s a shift in the energy you share, a no going back, no running away, a fate sealed. Eddie loses all control and flips you off his lap, pinning you beneath him, kissing you with such feverish vigor that your hand tangles into his messy curls, and you pull, hard.

His tongue licks your lips open, greedily removing what’s left of your taste that remains. It’s noisy and nasty in the expanse of his small bedroom—diabolically sinful. One hand caresses your throat’s expanse, the other dropping down with a snapped wrist between your thighs, palm smacking your cunt, a guttural groan vibrating from his mouth into your own. Saliva strings on the break away, Eddie’s gaze switching to watch the hand on your cunt, out of it.

“Your pussy always this wet, baby? Or is it just for your best-friend?”

“Only for you, Eddie. Always you.”

Fallen into the depths of satisfaction, Eddie permits a slender digit to drag down your slit, taking that thick honey with it, a squelch echoing in the room when his finger wiggles its way inside of you. You clamp around him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

“Jesus Christ. You’re gonna drown my dick when you let me fuck you, aren’t you?”

You’re incoherently babbling, tapping the hand that’s on your throat, hungry for it. “Tighter.”

Eddie’s brow raise is comical, a surprise coating his features. “So miss Y/N likes it rough? Never woulda guessed.”

You gulp a pump of air that vibrates across his hold, trying to gain more depth from his finger. It’s moving in exploration of your softly wet walls, an excess of arousal being pressed out upon that squish. Eddie tightens his hold on your throat, before he taps his fingers to your jugular and releases, hand toppling down your side and caressing, bringing. “Fuck, my best-friend’s got such a perfect little pussy. S’ made to be destroyed and used.”

You’re nodding so hard that the motion causes a cracking pop in your neck, Eddie laughing that noise under a cute breath. He’s thick with it, wiggling in a second finger and causing you drop your hands back behind you and push into the sensation, chasing, hunting it.

“Desperate to get away from me all week, now look at you. What a whore.”

Eddie has a mouth on him, something you’d always wondered about in your daily daydreams and nightly fantasies. As vocal as when he’s singing with his band. He’s saying words to you, snapping your attention, you’re whining as his fingers leave your cunt, and he’s pulling you into him so hard your lips split apart, cushioning his cock, cradling him in that overwhelming slick. He must not have meant for that action to cause it, as he jumps when you do, this feral look flickering behind those heated orbs. You know… it’s time.

Eddie is barely able to stand, clumsily bringing you with him by a laced grip in your hands. He gets you upright and you’re dizzy, his hands taking purchase on your shirt (the only remaining piece of clothing on you), and rips it with gritting teeth and anger, as if he’s pissed it’s not the club shirt, or sickened with himself for destroying yours—you’re not sure. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth as you let him tear off your tattered tee and yank your bra down, impatiently yanking the clasp apart and discarding it, helping himself to your tits, closing those plush lips over a nipple. Your hand wraps around his throbbing cock, fingers barely touching around the width, squeezing him—tugging. His hips stutter and he whines against your breast, teeth biting the flesh with a harsh precision.

Your other hand works its way through his wet curls and massages his scalp, tenderly altering in beckoning strokes, ones that switch off into root tugging pulls. Eddie’s hands keep your breast cupped, switching off to the other, whilst you dip lower and fondle his balls, letting your pinky drop off and scratch into his inner thigh. He’s doing that humming thing underneath his fucked out tone again, and you’re focusing your attention on his cock, thumb pad stroking that weeping slit, spreading it around and over that vein, enchanted with how it causes a thin bright shine over him, your own cream matted into the curls at the base of him, pathed up his stomach. His mouth leaves your chest and those big hands grip your cheeks, both of you watching as you jack him with a sticky tug.

Fuck me.

“Who’s the whore for his bestfriend now, Eds? You gonna admit that half the shit I’ve done this week has gotten your dick so hard you can’t decide what you’ve hated me for more,” You say, pausing to twist your grip, making him fold into your holding hand, “my smart mouth or how much you need this.”

Your powering dominance is short lived, hand falling off his erection, with Eddie kneeing you into a shove until your back collides with his desk, his arm reaching around to push most of its contents off and onto the floor, not caring where any of it goes. He nudges your thighs apart and slots his lean frame between, thumb catching the corner of your mouth, his instruction clear, yet awaiting your consent to cross this no back-stepping boundary. “M’ gonna fuck you right here, and you’re goin’ to watch me take you, Y/N.”

You’re pretty sure you’re gonna pass out at any given moment.

“I’m gonna watch you, Eddie.” You agree, zoning out and sprinting after your pleasure.

“Good girl.” Eddie breaks briefly, mouth on your shoulder, hand winding your hair around his fist and tugging it back so hard that the ache inside of you becomes an inferno. He finds the underside of your chin, voice honey-hot. “Because you’re not leaving this room until there’s a puddle of me running back out of your cunt.”

You launch forward so fast that Eddie falls into you, chest smashing against your breasts, your lips crashing into his for a brutally intimate kiss. You sink your teeth into his bottom lip and tug, biting down so hard you taste copper—licking it up and making Eddie’s cock jump. His ring covered hand attaches itself to your throat and he drags you off your prop against the desk, spinning you around and securing you to it, those hairy thighs pressing into you, wet cock so close to where you need him the most. His hand wraps around your hair again and lifts your gaze to that small opening in the mirror where posters and his most prized possession hangs. You’re flushed and soaked with sweat, mouth swollen and streaked with red from biting into Eddie’s plump lip, your pussy dripping thick strings of your creamy essence, slowly slithering in dangles from your pussy and onto the floor.

“You’re so fucking messy, Y/N. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, baby?” Eddie is like the devil on your shoulder, and you, you’re his angel of eternal damnation.

You’re about to beg, but Eddie saves you the trouble, his fingers tapping in tips down your spine, caressing, stroking, before they spread your lips apart and dip inside, palm flat. “Should fuckin’ split you open, do it raw. Cum so deep inside that you end up pregnant with my baby and have no choice but to always think of me, be around me.”

Though there’s a tease behind his passionate words, there’s this primal exclamation that overtakes you and you clamp down on his fingers. A series of fast paced images are vivid in your mind. Your tummy swollen and breasts heavy, Eddie having you bent over like this—one hand on your belly, the other on your throat, feeling your pulse galavant beneath his touch.

“Y/N… Fuck, sweetheart.” He’s so fucked in his descending tone that the depth is gruff and tipping off his diaphragm, you imagine. He presses his cheek against your own, chin resting on your shoulder as you drink each other in, in the mirror’s expanse, Eddie’s tone weak. “You really willing to carry my kid?”

You meet his eyes in the cluttered mirror, nodding, a softness carving out permanent residence in your features. It’s a topic you’d never shared with anyone else, never banked too much on thinking about, but beyond the idea of how hot this all is, you can’t imagine a scenario like this that doesn’t involve Eddie Munson. Vulnerable and barely above a brisk whisper, you’re answering him with, “Yeah, Eds. Want a family with you.”

At your admission, he lets his hand go in languid thrusts. You groan and let your head shift, but Eddie is jerking you back to stare into the glass, both of you panting and on the cusp of an out of body experience. It causes you to grin, licking your lips as your best-friend pumps those experienced digits to cause a purposeful squelch, his rings clinking together. His hard cock is pressed between his own stomach and your back, that pre-cum pooling onto your lower back and smearing in streaks down your ass. You’ve had more than enough teasing and you’re well aware that Eddie has too.

His look briefly falters, turning to mouth at your chin, a silent question. It’s you who uses your words, or rather, trembles in your feeble attempt. “Eddie, just put your cock inside me, or I swear I’ll—“

He’s smirking wildly at your slack-jawed expression when his fingers slide out of you and stick together with your cum, to which he helps himself to and coats his cock, then lines himself up and presses the thick head into your opening, leaning down to bite at your shoulder and leave an exposed imprint. Your legs feel like jello and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. He’s going to ask you to beg, and you’re an all in willing participant. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t. He inhales sharply, you hold your breath, and both of you watch him sink into your slick and soft cunt, inch by inch, until his balls rest against the globes of your cheeks.

You’re still holding your breath, releasing it when you feel him sigh, grip on your hair loosening a little, too caught up in the fact that he’s where he belongs, after so much time doing without this. Your legs are about to buckle, jerking, toes curling against the carpeted floor, overwhelmed by everything that’s happened, and by your best-friend’s cock throbbing in your aching pussy. “E-Eds…?” It’s a pathetic cry of a question.

Eddie’s brows pinch together, sweat beaded between. He grips your jaw and his fingertips tap you back to meet his mouth, hovering over your lips. “S’ okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” He briefly drops the playful gimmick, reassuring you that he’s right here with you.

It’s more than enough to have you arching back into him, a brash pummeling of his hips that sends you into the dresser, having to reach out and catch yourself. Eddie is quick witted, gripping your wrists with one hand and pinning them behind your back, stepping with you in toe, elongating his arm to snatch those handcuffs on his wall, that cold metal biting into your wrist, that dull noise presenting itself as the cuffs lock you into place, Eddie gripping onto the chains’ excess expanse, using it as a leverage. A sliver of a chalky moan trickles off your kiss-swollen lips, appreciative. The way Eddie is manhandling you has you so fucking euphoric that you’re sure you’ll be in a comatose state before either of you can cum. Your best-friend’s large hand finds purchase in your hair again, drawing his hips back, the other on the chain of the cuffs—steadying himself into a rhythm, riding you like all that matters is your destruction and his ultimate ownership.

Eddie Munson has owned you since the very moment that you two met.

The way he’s executing such precise and rough thrusts, making sure you’re high on the bring up, toes pressing into the carpet, that you’re stuffed full of his fat cock until it hurts, twitching in overstimulation, sore and fluttering walls eager to be soaked in everything he has to give you, that you are taking in every inch, catching every ridge, leaving you a shambled, panting mess, in pieces only being put back together again when Eddie will allow your release. His hair is tickling your shoulder blades, his fingers leaving the cuffs to press into your mouth and curl over your tongue, relishing in how you gag around the digits. You’re weak, so fucking weak for him, and he knows it.

“Can’t wait to hear you gag on my cock, Y/N. If you have trouble with these bad boys?” He puts an emphasis, wiggling his fingers against your tongue, giving them a secondary push to over extend your gag reflexes, his dick twitching inside you.

You bite down on his fingers, sucking them in, accepting his challenge, willing it to happen. His balls slap into your ass, heavy and hot, every movement causing the metal to rut into the skin of your wrists. He’s got a steady tempo going, alternating it by dipping his hips to bring you with him, letting you nearly collide with your chest flush to his desk. He reaches up and shoves that poster back by peeling tape, revealing more of your fucked out forms. Your eyes widen at your disheveled and unrecognizable appearance, Eddie using your cuffed hands as reigns. Riding you so hard that you can’t breathe anything but his hot air curling around the shell of your ear.

“Dammit, you are such a good girl for me, Y/N. Always pictured you takin’ my cock, but you’re not even crying yet, just taking what I give you.”

Yet… Fuck me running.

Your scalp is tingling with a prickling crowd of flames from his harsh grip, his other hand reaching to smack your ass, using some mechanism on the cuffs—albeit—struggling with his spit soaked fingers that were just in your mouth, to unlatch them and discard them at your feet, and he watches the flesh of your ass cheek redden and jiggle beneath his biting palm. You fist your fingers into a strewn pair of his blue denim jeans left on the desk top, dipping your forehead down and arching your back, trying to look between your own legs from this new angle to see Eddie’s cock cradled in your puffy lips. He tuts at your unsuccessful action, forcing you back into watching him doing his hard work—the hardest he’s worked at anything (sans his band or the campaigns, if he’s being honest with himself)—to make this unforgettable for you. He hits that spot located inside, the one you have to strain an arm to barely graze, and you lose all coherent capabilities.

“Eddie… that’s, oh my god, oh FUCK. Right there!”

Eddie’s throat crumbles under a weak pant, which ends up coming out as a whimper. He remains firm, however, still using your hair to keep you right where he wants you, his other hand reaching around to pet his own shaft as he slides out just enough to make you wetter.

“Yeah, baby? That spot gonna make somethin’ happen for you?”

You don’t answer, mumbles and babbling gibberish. He shakes that precious head of his, curls tickling your back and shoulders, a sigh breaking free. “Sorry, sweetheart. Can’t believe we’re doin’ this in front of you. Both my girls right here with me, one of them at my fuckin’ mercy.” Your attentions snap over your shoulder and you see Eddie looking at his fucking guitar, that is one of the only things remaining on the mirror. You gape, but aren’t surprised in the slightest.

He continues on, pretending he doesn’t see your partial seethe. “Makin’ a mess all over me, but I bet you like to see it too, don’t you?” He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, still talking to the inanimate object. “Both my sweethearts are such sluts for their owner.”

You can’t help that rattle that clamps around your bones and slices through your spinal cord, seizing your abdomen, right down into your cunt. Owner? You have zero time to warn him, ask if you can, alarms unprepared, skin slapping on skin, his taste on your mouth, his breath on your flesh, that slippery glide that has cum running down your thighs, and it’s a sudden wave crashing over your insides and drowning them in your painfully interstellar-esque orgasm. Your eyes burn with tears as you watch your best-friend feel what’s happening, realizing. He’s covered in your release, and instead of being mad, he is influencing you like the little devil that he can be, plump lip pressing to your ear lobe with one continuous command. “That’s it. C’mon, Y/N. Drench my dick.”

You wish you could bottle the feeling of your first orgasm with Eddie Munson, your best-friend—forever. Finding yourself growing into that vulnerability that comes with the high, you seek to find solace in Eddie’s arms, whimpering at the overstimulation of his thick cock. With that connection still in tact, Eddie is spinning you around, dick sliding out with a messy mixture of arousals covering you both—his member completely doused in your cream, painting the trimmed curls at the base of his shaft with even more of you, slicking back some more of that happy trail. You want to be embarrassed, but as he’s red faced and struggling to breathe, you know that there’s no need to be. He steers you back onto the bed, falling easily between your spread thighs, drawing them up and around his waist.

He presses his forehead into your own, kissing each corner of your mouth, rings circling in dusting sweeps on the apex of your thighs. His voice is a shivered whisper. “Fuck, baby. You okay?”

There’s words on your tongue, Eddie’s taste on your mouth, things you’ve known for years, but are unsure if Eddie has, or if this is something he needs because he’s afraid you’ll abandon him, but that he doesn’t feel what you do. Your head is spinning and Eddie brushes sweaty strands of hair off your forehead, taking his cock through your swollen folds, pressing that spongey head into your clit—both of you crying out. “Y/N, m’ right here. Care to join me?”

And god help you, the way that you look at him. Really allow yourself to see him this way—unabashed—it stirs all those feelings Eddie has bottled down since forever. You press your thumb into his mouth, your other hand sliding down to grip onto him, gliding your hand back and forth, relishing in how his abdomen tenses, muscles flexing, body gravitating towards whatever you’re willing to bestow. He doesn’t let you touch him much longer, taking what your hand isn’t around and guiding it back into your cunt, that scrumptious burn brimming you, making your thighs drop open, back arch, only to tighten your ankles around him, digging your heels into his ass. He suckles your fingertip into his mouth, licking the digit in until it’s down to the knuckle.

Your head presses sideways, cheek on his pillow, inhaling his shaving cream and that spicy scent. He pauses his movements, making you frown in displeasure. He lets go of your spit tainted finger, gripping your chin, a possessive fire overcoming him. His irises remain completely black, putting you deeper into that comatose trance of agonizing sin. “I want you to fucking say it, Y/N.”

You start a beginning questionnaire, Eddie shaking his head and pressing in harder on your chin, fingers splaying across your jaw, rings pinching your chin in the most delightfully painful of ways. “Say you want me, tell me you fucking need me. That you’re not tired of me, and that you’re proud to be the freak’s slut.”

Your hands wind around his back and you sink your nails in as hard as you can, bearing down on him, sucking him in deeper, both of you in a state of no return. His hand tickles down from your face and grips your neck. “Still sick of me, baby?” He situates your gaze, lifting his hips to a raise so that you can see where you’re connected. You’re inconsolable, that fire already blazing your gut, turning every sense into nothingness.

When Eddie starts back up again, he slams himself into you so hard that your vision goes dark and you shred your own bottom lip open, body moving closer to his wall due to the force. He’s licking beneath your jugular, words sensual and filthy, making your entire body spike in a sudden electricity. “Gonna cum in every hole you’ve got, so you remember that they’re mine.”

This time you’re more than ready to give him a warning, body beginning to shake beyond your control, breaths stuttering in your chest. Eddie reaches down between you, calloused thumb flicking your clit. Everything is so fucking wet and the way it sounds in the expanse of Eddie’s small room, it has you opening your mouth, out of control and greedily begging for more.

“Eds, harder. Please? Almost…”

He’s grinning in that special way that weakens you—heart and soul, body and mind. “So much more than a slut.” His thrusts become choppy, his own babbling tone turning into Eddie-speak. “You are way more than you know, Y/N.”

You fondle his pick chain and bring him into your immediate airspace, mouths hovering. He’s nearing his end, cock getting fuller inside you. “Need you to tell me how much you love me.”

You both completely go slack. Eddie stops himself all together, body trembling, head bowing. Your heart rate increases, feeling as if you’ve skipped a staircase thousands of feet in the air and you’re now free falling.

Love… You don’t have to think twice.

Your hands move to cup his face, holding on, your eyes shining with tears at all overloaded emotions and senses. “I love you so fucking much, Eddie.”

At your admission, those beautiful eyes—dark with remains of passion—they fill, and he gives you his all, driving his cock into you in calculated presses, trying like hell to get you to cum first. When he speaks, his voice cracks apart. “Let me know that you’re right here with me, Y/N.”

“I’ve always been here, Eddie.” Is what you manage, thumping your hand against his wrist and helping him bring his fingers back to your clit.

He doesn’t let you look away, noses smashed together, sticky foreheads pressing, hair curtaining the apples of pink, sex stained cheeks. Your eyes widen as that knot begins to tighten in your stomach, unraveling so violently that Eddie has to grip your quivering thigh in one hand, the other keeping steady on your clit. You dig into his back, other hand tugging on his hair, and Eddie is giving a throaty seduction. “That’s it, be my good girl and cum again for me.”

And you’re coming apart at your very core, every cell exploding and rebuilding, gluing yourself to Eddie to seize the ache that scrambles your insides and leaves you breathless. He’s cursing, keeping his finger on your clit to help you coast over the high, immediately following you with the lowest, sweetest, whimpering moan that you’ve ever heard. Both of your eyes still drinking in the other’s pleasure, tears spilling over your lash line as Eddie’s hips cease and he holds, his cock swelling and that soft, creamy warmth coating your sore walls in spurts. He collapses onto your chest and you hold him there in a vice hug, his hand still trapped between your exhausted bodies. He gently eases it out, groaning around the wetness that he’s all too eager to sample until the layer of shine is off his fingers.

Holy shit and fuck me…

Your legs fall to the side, unable to stay upright any longer, Eddie keeping a hovering hand to soothe your shaking. He kisses your neck with a plush mouth, his chain dangling between your breasts. You’re petting his hair—which is so soaked it’s as if he’s been in the rain or come from the shower—off his forehead, wincing as he slides out and keeps himself by your side. You gasp and he joins, fascinated by your cum and his own seed pouring from your cunt. He raises up a little. “Mhm. Let me see?”

He props your thigh, sliding his fingers back and forth, zoned in on his bedsheets being ruined from the literal puddle of your shared cum that runs from you. Seconds pass and he grins widely, plopping onto his back, his fingertips caressing your shoulder, down to your arm. It’s a comfortable quiet, even with the intense meaning of the words that were spoken, until Eddie starts with a, “So..?”

And you cut him off, trying to get your uncomfortably hot body closer. “So I love you. And I have never stopped needing you, or wanting you, Eddie. I just hope all this wasn’t because we were fighting and you got scared I would leave, and —“

He doesn’t let you finish this time, that chocolate-ly brown ring swinging back around his pupil in a brisk develop, showcasing the moisture in his eyes. “I was scared because I love you so damn much that I would charge headfirst into Mordor, or some alternate dimension without any weapon or any shield, just for you. You gotta know that, Y/N.”

His softness, that glittering fragility, it makes you seal your mouth to his, kissing him full of your feelings. He cups the nape of your neck, drawing in closer, thumb coaxing a shiver from you as it passes over a certain spot behind your ear. On a wet break away, you’re nodding your head. “Guess we spent all week fighting when we should’ve been fucking and talking about our feelings.”

Eddie smirks, then is serious. “Be that as it may, I’m sorry I’ve been shit at showing you I appreciate all that you do for the guys and me. And for forgetting that you are your own person too. S’ not like I meant to, I swear. I just get so fucking caught up and I shouldn’t take for granted anything that has to do with you or with us.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re my best-friend, Eddie Munson?”

While it’s still true, you’re wondering when the words leave your lips. Eddie just fucked you so hard you probably won’t be able to sit down for a week or walk upright for hours, so friendship isn’t exactly the most appropriate term anymore, is it?

Eddie taps his fingertips to your temple, drawing your dazed expression, clinging to the cosmic connection once more. “M’ yours, Y/N.”

“Oh yeah, Munson?” You’re so high that you could fly out of here right now and make rounds around the whole globe. Your chest is aching with a tempo that promises new hope and ease.

Eddie is giddy too, that wide set smile, cheesing. “Just gotta get you a new shirt.”

The memory of your old club attire being one with the forest floor seems like so long ago. Eddie knuckle grazes your cheek, apologetic. You shush him. “I ruined yours, so we’re even.”

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes and he’s tackling you beneath him, pinning your hands in a lace above your head. “Nah, we are just getting started on bein’ even, baby.”

~*~

Tagging: @littledemondani @prettyboyeddiemunson @gothbitchshit @thisishellfire @ethereal27cereal @likedovesinthewnd

-I really need to form a bigger tag list! I’m sorry :/-

Lemme know if you want on my general tag list, please! :)

[reiding-writing]

REDDD ‼️ MAJOR CONGRATS FOR YOUR MILESTONE YOU DESERVE IT AHHHH

may i request 1 & 7 from the general dialogue prompts with spencer reid please 🥹🫶

SENDING YOU KISSES ☝️🤭😚 XOXO

POOL ‘PARTY’ [CLIMACTERIC]

/pul ˈpɑːrti/

1. “Okay, maybe I have a crush on you! So what?”

7. “I don’t want anyone else.”

WARNINGS: based on 01x18, minor lila slander, spencer thinking of someone else whilst making out with lila, arguing

spencer reid x gn!reader || flangst || 1.9k Il climacteric event!!

a/n: THANK YOU ML <3333 enjoy me dabbling back into my angst game again, with a happy ending ofc 🫶

main masterlist!! ⋆｡°✩ event masterlist!!

You approach Spencer with a raised eyebrow and a click of your tongue, eyes scanning over Spencer’s completely soaked appearance.

His eyes turn to you widened in surprise, but his expression quickly morphs into guilt as he meets your eyes. “I uh- fell in,”

“I’m sure there are plenty of photos of you ‘falling in’,” Your eyes narrow with a scoff, and you cross your arms over your chest in very clear disappointment at his recklessness.

“I- It really wasn’t meant to happen I swear-” You cut off Spencer’s attempt at an explanation by shoving a beach towel against his torso, and he lets out a small groan from the force.

“You have to be the stupidest person i’ve ever met.” Spencer flinches at your tone, hands wringing at the towel as he lowers his head.

He supposes he deserves the scolding, he’d broken so many rules of professionalism and put Lila’s life in danger.

The worst part was that he didn’t even enjoy it.

He’d ruined everything and didn’t even enjoy what he was risking everything for.

He truly was an idiot.

“I’m sorry-”

“I don’t want your apology.” You cut him off with a hand raised in his direction. “If you want to apologise to someone, apologise to Lila, because you won’t be seeing her for the rest of the case.”

Lila’s name is dripping with venom as it rolls off your tongue, and Spencer presses his lips into a tight line with a small nod in your direction.

It’s a proportional punishment, but it’s not like he wanted to see her again anyway. Even the thought of what he’d done made him want to punch himself.

“I really didn’t-” He stops himself this time, knowing that you don’t want to hear his excuses. “I’ll… go change now…”

“There’s clothes in the SUV.” He sighs dejectedly at the coyness in your tone, and he swears he’ll cry if you keep this up.

“Right…” He gives you a soft nod, and you have half the mind to feel bad about the way you’re treating him, but for some reason the image of the two of them in the pool together fills you with some unforeseen, insurmountable rage that you can’t seem to suppress.

After he’s changed and dry, he reapproaches the front of the house cautiously. He knows that he probably won’t be allowed back inside, but he also doesn’t want to hang around the SUV looking like an idiot, he’d made himself a big enough one already.

You’re the only one still outside, standing with your arms crossed with your eyes following his movements through your narrowed gaze.

You were still angry with him. Great.

He didn’t want you to be angry with him. That was the last thing he ever wanted.

“I…” Spencer exhales softly as he comes up short on something to say. You didn’t want him to apologise. You didn’t want him to explain himself. What was he supposed to say?

You answer his question for him with one of your own. “Was it worth it?”

He flickers his eyes towards yours, guilt and regret written all over his features. “No…”

“Didn’t think so.”

Spencer can feel the tears prick at his eyes as your tone continues to wash over him like an ice-cold shower, and he takes a shuddered breath in through his mouth, clearing his throat and blinking rapidly to keep his gaze clear.

“I didn’t want to… I didn’t even enjoy it…” He frowns through glassy eyes and you crumble almost immediately. How are you supposed to be angry at him when he looks like that?

“Why did you do it?” Your voice is considerably softer this time, and as much as Spencer is grateful for it, it doesn’t stop a single tear from trickling down his face.

“I don’t know-” He sighs heavily as he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, running his other hand through the still damp mess of his hair.

He did know.

Kind of anyway.

He’d always prided himself on having a vivid imagination, one that he had been using during what happened with Lila.

And you could read his dishonesty immediately.

“Spencer.”

He knew he’d been caught. “I don’t want to talk about it,”

He crosses his arms over his chest defensively as he evades eye contact with you.

“Spencer.” You were going to get to the bottom of his reasoning behind breaking one of the cardinal rules of being an FBI agent.

“I was imagining that she was someone else okay?” He raises his voice slightly in his defensiveness, and you have to take a second to actually soak in his sentence and the implications of it.

“You- What?” You can do nothing but stare at him in a state of absolute shock at his confession.

“I was imagining that I was kissing somebody else…” He repeats his statement with much less vigour the second time around, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Does she know that?” You raise an eyebrow slightly as you ask your question. God knows you wouldn’t want to be kissing someone only to find out that they were thinking about somebody else the entire time.

“We had an argument about it before you guys turned up…”

So she did know. That made it a little better at least.

“So who was it then?”

Spencer turned his eyes back to yours again with a surprised expression. “What?-”

“Who were you thinking about?” You’re not sure exactly why you want to know who Spencer was thinking about during his little ‘pool party’, and you had a feeling you wouldn’t be satisfied with whatever answer you gave him, but some twisted part of your mind felt the need to know.

“I-” Spencer pressed his lips together tightly. “You don’t need to know that,”

“Why not?” You furrow your eyebrows as his defensiveness escalates again. “What’s there to hide?”

“Maybe I just don’t want my personal life being aired to the people I work with?” He mirrors your expression with his own as he rubs his hands up and down his arms.

“Fine, keep your secrets then,” you say, a hint of frustration in your voice. “But just know, you can't keep messing up like this. It's not just about you.”

"I know that," he returns your frustration with his own. “But who I’m interested in is nobody’s business except my own.”

“Why are you so defensive about this?”

“Why do you want to know who it is so badly?”

The tension crackles between you two, each word adding fuel to the fire of the argument.

“Because,” you retort sharply, “I need to know if I can trust you. If your mind is somewhere else when you're supposed to be focused on the mission, it puts everyone at risk,”

Was that the real reasoning behind why you wanted to know so badly? No. But you didn’t exactly know what was.

Spencer's jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and hurt. “You think I don't take this seriously? You think I don't care about the mission?”

“I don't know what to think anymore,” you admit, your voice softer now, but no less charged with emotion. “All I know is that you've been acting recklessly, and I can't afford to have that kind of distraction.”

“I'm not distracted,” Spencer protests, his voice tinged with desperation.

“You just verbally admitted to thinking about somebody else whilst making out with someone, that’s not distracted?” You gesture outwards exasperatedly. “We can’t be sure that you’ve got the right head in the game unless you say who you were thinking about.”

“It was you okay?” Spencer’s voice raises again as he throws out his arms in frustration. “Happy?”

You didn’t have the mental capacity to decide if you were happy.

You barely computed his answer in the first place. Were you happy that it was you? Was that the reason you pressed him so hard?

What on earth was happening?

“What-”

“Okay yeah, maybe I have a crush on you, so what?” Spencer continued to verbalise his defensiveness in exasperation. “It’s not like it was ever going to go anywhere.”

“You were thinking about me?” You still haven’t fully comprehended his confession yet, and Spencer mistakes your slowness for sarcasm.

“Yes. I was thinking about you. There’s no need to rub it in my face.” Spencer's frustration is palpable, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world rests upon them.

But beneath the frustration, there's a vulnerability, a rawness that tugs at your heartstrings.

You realise then that this argument, this tension between you, it's not just about the mission or the case—it's about something deeper, something you've both been trying to ignore or brush aside.

"I'm not trying to rub it in your face," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just... trying to understand."

“I mean-” You fumble over your sentences as you try to make sense of everything. “Why would you kiss somebody else? Why would you imagine it was me whilst you did it? I just- I don’t get it,”

“I don’t want anybody else. I never wanted anybody else. But what was I supposed to do?” Spencer sighs as he takes his fingers through his hair.

“Tell me?”

“And have you rip me to pieces? I’d rather spend my whole life as just your friend than risk something like that-” He doesn’t have the chance to finish his sentence.

Your lips press against his hard, your hand anchored at the side of his neck as you take what you deem a reasonable action to get him to just stop talking for a second.

In your defence, it does work, all of Spencer’s frustration dying on his tongue as he slowly starts to reciprocate, his hands half-hesitantly coming up to cup your face so that he wouldn’t lose the contact with you even if you tried to pull away, which of course, you weren’t going to do unless strictly necessary.

He finally didn’t have to imagine what your lips would taste like anymore, and he wasn’t going to let the moment end before he got his fill of you.

[b1rds3ye]

hi !! ^_^

SO I SAW UR MASKED READER STUFF

so like this is gonna be a masked reader thing but

so reader always wears the mask, and like with 141 maybe johnny randomly asks for her to take it off, not expecting anything, and then they takes it off and HEHEHHEE :3

LIKE MODEL KINDA BEAUTY/ATTRACTIVENESS THAT CATCHES HIM OFF hehehhe

idk im like high idk if ur taking requests u can ignore this

HIHI IM SO GLAD PEOPLE ENJOYED MASKED READER CAUSE I GOT SO EXCITED WHEN THE IDEA POPPED INTO MY BRAIN SKDJSKDJS

Personally I don’t want to say “model attractiveness” because it can get a lil alienating for a lot of people but I know for a FACT that regardless of what you look like under the mask Johnny is down horrendously bad.

His curiosity has himself watching you when he thinks you’re not aware of his staring. Every sliver of skin that might have shown when your mask rides up your neck, to how the fabric of your mask hugs your feature. He doesn’t speculate per se, but he observes and anything he notices he drinks up like a man starved. Every contour and edge under your mask is something more about you that he’s falling in love with.

Johnny is inquisitive, he is direct, but he is never disrespectful. He may have joked about how you always wear your mask but he’s never pressured you and has accepted that a mission will probably take him out before he can see your face.

What he didn’t expect was for you to suddenly take off your mask in base, sweltering because some dumbass broke the indoor heating system.

“You can look,” you say idly upon noticing how Johnny sits rigidly beside you. Back straight, eyes forward staring at the details of the far end wall like he was a private once again.

“Y’sure?”

“Positive.”

Johnny dares the slow heavy trip of his head turning to see yours and god damn he needs to track down whoever broke the heating and thank them for this blessed opportunity.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus…”

Johnny finds himself falling in love all over again. He was not mentally prepared to see you unmasked, his eyes roaming across your features like it was the last time he was going to see you. He took it all in, trying desperately to burn it into his mind. So this is what you were hiding, he had half the mind to accuse you of gate keeping such a sight.

“Keep your mouth open like that and you’re going to catch flies.”

He immediately shuts his mouth but a smile is creeping up instead. Giving you an encouraging nudge of the arm, Johnny does not look away once.

“Yer a real looker, you know.”

“You’re not too bad yourself.”

You reply with a smile of your own and it’s as if the heavens have opened up to him and him alone. He’s glad you don’t seem bothered with him looking at you because he really isn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

I've had this thought swirling in the back of my head for a while, but it's finally congealed enough that I think I can make a coherent pitch, which is: I think RWBY's problems with the more vitriolic part of its fanbase partially stems from the fact that RWBY is a deconstruction that doesn't advertise it's a deconstruction.

RWBY's status as a deconstruction is pretty textbook. It takes apart standard fantasy, shounen, and anime tropes in order to analyze them and their deeper meaning and then reassembles them in new and interesting ways for the plot/characters/series. Thing is, it never says that outright in promotional material, which can lead to later outrage in fans.

See, unless their way of discovering new shows is to close their eyes and stab their finger at random, most people tend to choose series to watch/read based on expectations. Maybe a friend said they'll like it because it has [insert thing], maybe they read the summary and were intrigued, maybe they thought the poster/cover art was cool, whatever. These small pieces of information are generally enough for people to make a snap-judgment of the style and genre of the series, which they can then gauge against their personal tastes and decide whether or not they want to try.

Most of the time, this works just fine. Well-written deconstructions also generally give the viewers some warning/buildup before they take a hard swerve. See Madoka Magica: the magical girl paradigm is shaded by the possibility of death as soon as we're introduced to it, then there's an onscreen death with blood, and then a few episodes later we eventually realize the Faustian bargain of it all. Even innocent viewers who stumbled into watching it, unaware of the show's reputation, would go "Oh, wait, this is not going in the direction magical girl shows usually go" by a third of the way through.

The thing is, with RWBY, this does not happen unless you're paying a lot of attention and/or looking for it. And neither the cover art nor the summary nor, I believe, the fanbase gives a lot of warning about the swerves ahead.

In fact, RWBY initially bills itself as a pretty standard shounen anime. The main protagonist is hinted to have Special Powers and gets into the Magic Monster-Hunting School in the first episode, and the first two-and-a-half seasons are taken up by her and her friends' superhero-esque slice-of-life shenanigans as they thwart robberies and terrorist attacks and gear up for a tournament arc against the looming background of a larger conspiracy.

Then in the last half of the third season the villains' entire Rube Goldberg machine of a scheme snaps into completion and the plot twists so hard the entire genre takes a hard right. If you're used to character analysis and common anime tropes, this is not completely a surprise -up until this point, RWBY's character arcs and plot have been subtly traveling in non-traditional directions that hint of greater flexibility in genre treatment ahead- but if you're not... well.

Thing is, people watching RWBY up until this point have signed up for pretty standard shounen and they've been getting it, but the third season's ending smashes that all to bits. From then on out in RWBY, it's like they ordered fries and suddenly got a hamburger. It might be delicious; but it's not what they asked for, what they wanted, or what they paid for, and they are, justifiably, displeased.

So when the reasonable people either adjusted their expectations or sighed, shook their heads, and clicked back out (perhaps with a grumble and a scowl), the unreasonable people dug their heels in and began insisting that everybody was Getting The Show/Character Wrong and that CRWBY is ruining it, because the fact that RWBY's method of deconstruction is to put standard tropes in a blender and then arrange what's left in deceptive patterns means that said unreasonable viewers can scan the bare surface and argue that all the stereotypical stuff is clearly still under there, somewhere.

So they're continually trying to drag RWBY back to the tracks of a typical shounen anime series (it's closest relative), which creates a dissonance between the show they're watching and the show they think they're watching. They're trying to turn the hamburger back into fries, basically, except that doesn't work and just frustrates everyone involved, because you're trying to make RWBY into something that it's not. Hence, this attitude probably starting/fueling some of the more contentious statements in the fandom, i.e.:

"Ironwood was right the whole time" (in most action movies and shounen anime, allied military leaders are trustworthy beyond reproach)

"Adam's character was wasted" (we all know how much shounen loves their powerful warrior antiheroes)

"Ruby and the others are in the wrong about [insert thing]/or for doing [insert thing], and this is bad writing!" (shounen protagonists don't usually make more than One Very Big Mistake over the course of their entire careers, which is usually fixed/overcome/redeemed via an appropriately rigorous training arc)

And to be clear, there's nothing wrong with shounen tropes or shounen anime. They're wonderful storytelling devices in their own way and their own time: but if you want standard by-the-book shounen without any new and interesting concoctions, then RWBY is definitely not the show for you. And most people don't find that out until it's too late.

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

MOOOREE SHAPES!!!!!!!!!

Since the last one was so fun I thought I would do another!

ASL shapes post

I’m begging and pleading you to look at Keep Reading 👇

Shape language is defined as “a concept used in art and animation to communicate meaning based on shapes we are familiar with” (source). This concept uses circles, triangles, and squares to convey an idea of the “personality” of the design without using any words.

In designs, using circles and rounded edges in your silhouette and detailing gives the design a soft and squishy look. They tend to be harmless, approachable, or changeable.

Designs using squares gives the design a solid, sturdy, and strong look. They are supportive, reliable, and inflexible

Lastly, triangle designs are sharp and directional. They are dynamic, dangerous, and unpredictable.

Here are the main silhouettes I used! I'll just go down the list here since theres so many of them

(edit from me after writing all of this down: ✨Drinking game!✨ take a shot everytime i say either square or rectangle. You'll be dead by the end. Anyway, enjoy!)

⚔️: Even in his base design, Zoro is essentially a giant rectangle. He's stable, reliable, and supportive. but even though he is all that, i think he definately deserves some triangle imagry so i tried to squeak one in there.

🍊:Nami is her own breed of triangle. She's not unpredictable, per say,, just very very hostile. and I love her for that. but she is also very reliable, she has to be for her job. So i award her 2 triangles and a square

🌱: you may notice a trend by now that everyone has a square. that's because every one of the straw hats are all hella reliable, and thats not excluding Usopp. Even though he feels like he's not cut out for the awful situations he's often in, he somehow always squeezes by victorious. But also, he is friend shaped. so he gets 2 circles and a square.

🍳: Similarly to Zoro, Sanji is also just a gigantic square. His torso is the main box, but his les are always in a position of stability, closely resembling a square. But also, his head is soft and round, portraying his kindness. As such i award him with two squares and a box-y circle.

🩺: just.. i mean just look at any picture of base chopper. HES JUST A GIANT CIRCLE. He got a big ol' noggin, a round body, and two little stick legs. he deserves a square though, so I gave him a square for his feets.

🔎: Robin has the same shape layout as Sanji. She is also very reliable and very kind. where she differs though is that she still has so much mystery to her, that i still tried to incorporate triangles as smaller details in her design. Two rectangles, a circle, and many small triangles. She has the range.

🛠️:Franky is a gigantic square with almost no non-square angles to him. he has his shoulders, his glasses, and his crotch that are not quadrilateral and of course that signifies how reliable and stable he is. Cant knock this cat over. he gets 3 squares.

🎸: Brook was a bit hard to pick which shape would be his majority, so I didn't. He got all of them. He's polite and kind, but also mischievous and full of surprises. And of course. Square attributes. one square one circle and one triangle.

🌊: For Jinbe, I... yes, the guy is a gigantic square, but also he's just kinda always doin shit that I don't expect him to do, so i think he also deserves a triangle. I dont know how i would add a third shape in him since his gigantic square body takes up the majority of his figure, so i just used two. One square, and one triangle.

And that just about covers all of them! if you read all this, thank you so much for listening to my ramblings!

[roosterforme]

Batting Practice Part 18 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Tee ball season is almost over, and the Tiny Eagles are still undefeated. You are starting to feel bolder in your personal life, like you are ready to claim everything you are entitled to. And Bradley is subtly letting you know he's along for more than just the ride.

Warnings: Smut, fluff, angst and swearing

Length: 3800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female single!mom Reader

Check my masterlist for more Top Gun fun! Batting Practice masterlist.

"Only two more weeks of tee ball left," Molly murmured as she sipped her coffee next to you on the bleachers. 

You paused to think about that. It was only two months ago that you met Bradley, and a lot had changed since you caught yourself stuttering in his presence that first day. After he brought you flowers and lunch to work on Wednesday, he'd met you at your house that night. One thing led to another, and now you knew Bradley loved being called Lieutenant Bradshaw in bed. 

"Two more weeks," you agreed. You'd be sad when tee ball ended, but Bradley had been telling you for the past week since the Phillies game that he'd work on some skills with Everett during the summer. 

"Go Ev!" Molly shouted when he hit the ball really hard and scored a run against the Tiny Robins. It was Crazy Socks day, and Everett had talked you into ordering him a pair from the Phillies website. You had a second pair stashed away for Bradley's birthday, which you found out from Bob was a week after Everett's.

You clapped along with your sister as you watched Everett run the bases in his red and white striped socks, but your mind was wandering elsewhere. 

"You know what you said about Danny last time we talked about him?" you asked, and Molly scoffed. 

"You mean how I called him an incompetent man-child? Or how I told you he doesn't deserve to lick the bottoms of your shoes?"

"Neither," you replied, smiling as both Bradley and Bob waved in your direction at the same time. You waved your fingers at Bradley and smiled. "I'm actually talking about child support. And the fact that he never pays it."

"Ohhhh, you wanna have that conversation now?" Molly asked, giving you a bland look. "Ev is almost seven years old."

"Yeah," you replied softly. 

You could see the fire in Molly's eyes, but she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You've paid for everything. Take him to court. Seriously. Please, take him to court. I would love nothing more than to help you pay for it. Who's your lawyer? I'll send them a check today."

"I don't need your money," you told her firmly for the hundredth time. But now you were finally feeling like you wanted to do something about this. Why had you been okay with letting Danny get away with so much shit before? Everett deserved the whole world, and you were going to try to give it to him. "I'm going to give him one more chance to either be more involved with Ev or start paying for support."

Molly set her empty cup down and said, "Look at me." You met her eyes, and she looked much more serious than she usually did, which gave you a chill. "What are you going to do when Danny won't do either of those things?"

You pressed your lips together to keep the tingling sensation of tears out of your eyes and nose. "I'm going to stop being a doormat."

Molly kissed your cheek and pulled you against her side just as the game was ending. 

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

"Still undefeated!" Everett cheered as Bradley carried him on his shoulders up to the parking lot after the game against the Tiny Robins ended in a victory for the Tiny Eagles.

"Hey, Coach Bob," Bradley called, and Bob turned around, still holding Molly's hand. "You better start writing your speech for when you win Coach of the Year. The team is undefeated with two games left!"

"You'll have to give a speech, too," Bob said as he adjusted his glasses. "The award goes to both coaches, not just one."

"Undefeated! Undefeated!" Everett chanted. You were walking next to Bradley shaking your head and smiling. 

Bradley looked at you as he said, "Ev is the best on the team, Kitten. He's really good." Everett continued to chant as Bradley added, "I'm going to plan out the whole summer with visits to the batting cages, pitching in the park, and learning more about all of the different positions. He'll be ready for baseball next spring. No more tee ball." Bradley couldn't remember being this excited about baseball since he was a kid trying out for his first team. 

"He's really that good at it?" you asked. "Thank goodness I signed him up for tee ball."

"Yeah," Bradley agreed, "for more than one reason."

You opened the back door to your car, and Bradley deposited Everett into his booster seat at the same time that Molly climbed in through the other door and tried to buckle herself into the seat. Bradley chuckled while Everett practically screeched with laughter, and then you wrapped your arms around his waist.

"I'm going to buy tickets for the Pittsburgh Pirates game on Everett's birthday," you told him. "Molly and Bob are coming, too."

Bob perked up when he heard his name. "No, Molly and I are going to buy all the tickets. For his birthday present."

"I thought I'd get them for everyone," Bradley said with a frown. "My treat, again."

"I already bought them!" Molly shouted from inside the car as Everett tickled her until she was wheezing. 

"She's so annoying," you said, resting your head against Bradley's chest. "She wants me to save my money for my lawyer."

Bradley jerked his head back and coaxed you to look up at him. "A lawyer for what?"

"Don't worry about it," you whispered before you returned to snuggling against him. 

But he wanted to know what was wrong. "Are you okay? Is Ev? Is this about Danny? What can I do?"

"We're okay, Bradley."

"Kitten. You can talk to me about it."

"I know," you replied, squeezing him tighter. "We're okay for now."

"Well, that's settled then," Molly said as she climbed out of the car with her clothes all dishevelled. "Everett defeated me in the tickle fight, so I owe him a movie. I'll pick him up tomorrow after lunch."

You looked up at Bradley with a smirk on your face. "Any chance you're free for a little bit tomorrow after lunch?"

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

Later that night, you called Danny after sending him texts throughout the day telling him you needed to talk to him.

You were happy you had waited until Everett was in bed to make the call, because as soon as Danny answered with a bark of, "Yes?" you felt anxious. 

"Danny," you replied, gripping the edge of the counter so you wouldn't lose your resolve. "Hi."

"What do you need? I'm trying to work."

You squeezed the counter harder and took a deep breath. "Let me know when you have time to spend a day with Everett. I think you need to make that more of a priority."

You were met with silence. 

"Danny?"

"I'm here. You know I don't have time for this."

You pressed your lips together and held back your tears. "He is your son, Danny. You need to make time for him."

More silence spread out before you. Honestly, you wanted to start screaming into the phone, but you knew you shouldn't. Nobody could upset you with just a small handful of words the way your ex husband could.

When you got no response, you took a deep breath and said, "If you're not going to give him some of your time, then you need to start making up for it by paying us child support."

"Child support?" he asked with a laugh. "You know I don't have a steady income like you do." 

You took a deep breath. "I understand that, but providing for Everett shouldn't solely land on my shoulders here, Danny."

"Listen," he replied smoothly. "I have a huge gallery event coming up next month. I'll probably have some more spending money then."

He was trying to manipulate you the way he always had. You'd spent years listening to him try to validate his excuses, and somehow he always got you to agree with him. You didn't need to fall into these traps any longer. Not when you had Molly in your corner. Not when you knew Bradley cared about Everett's happiness.

"Taking care of your son doesn't fall under the same category as extraspending money." You said it before you gave yourself a chance to process your words, and somehow you felt a little stronger. "So then I guess he can come spend a day with you instead?"

"Fine," Danny snapped immediately. "But I'll probably be working, so he's going to have to play on his iPad or something."

His iPad that you paid for. "Sure," you agreed, knowing this was probably too good to be true. "He's going to love to see you no matter what. So how does next Sunday sound?"

And then you ended the call feeling better than you ever had after a conversation with Danny. You poured yourself a glass of wine and carried it up to your bathroom. You filled your tub while you removed your makeup, and then you sank down into a delicious bubble bath. 

You texted Molly about your conversation, and she wrote back saying SLAY YOU QUEEEEEN BITCH. DO NOT FUCK WITH MY SISTER. 

You were still laughing when Bradley texted to ask what you were up to. He had gone out to that aviator hangout bar with his friends, so of course it made you feel even giddier that he was texting you while he was there. 

When you told him you were in the bath he wrote back while you sipped your wine.

Bradley Bradshaw: Pics or it didn't happen

You snorted into your wine glass and took some strategically posed selfies. Finally you took a good one where the swell of your breasts was pronounced above the bubbles, and your knee was peeking above the water next to your glass. You sent it to him, and you did not have to wait long for a response. 

Bradley Bradshaw: Kitten, please baby, you're teasing me. I can only take so much.

You laughed and sent him a second photo where he could see your nipples.

Bradley Bradshaw: You are so fucking hot. And now my dick is hard. In the middle of a game of pool. 

You sent teasing texts back and forth while you finished your wine, and he reminded you that he'd be there tomorrow afternoon. And then he sent you a list of all the dirty little things he wanted to do to you. You dreamed about his mouth and his mustache all night long.

And the next day, as soon as Molly picked Everett up to take him to see the movie, you ran up the stairs, two at a time and dashed into your room. You dug around in the bottom drawer of your dresser and pulled out everything you needed. Bradley would be here in just a few minutes, and you'd been wet and worked up for him since last night.

You shimmied into the tight black bodysuit and fastened the choker around your neck before securing the ear headband in place as well. Then you found some sheer black socks that went up over your knees and added them to your Kitten outfit. When you looked in the mirror, you squealed with delight. You turned and checked yourself from different angles. Not bad. Not bad at all. 

You were thinking about how Bradley barely even got a chance to touch you the last time you wore this kitten costume that day at tee ball. You were thinking about how you bought this outfit just for him in the first place. When you heard the Bronco pull into your driveway, you were practically squeezing your legs together to keep from moaning. 

When you made it to the bottom step, you heard Bradley's key in the door, and somehow that made you even hotter. You were afraid you were going to jump on him, so you kept your hand wrapped around the bannister as he opened your front door. 

"Hi, Coach," you said, your voice laced with need as you waved your fingers at him. 

"Oh, god." His groan was so deep and loud, you clenched around nothing as he blindly slammed and locked the door. He let his keys, wallet and hat fall right to the floor as you whimpered. 

"Coach." Your voice quivered as he approached you slowly. "Bradley."

You almost matched up to his height as you were still standing on the bottom step. He was close to you now, licking his lips and breathing faster. He let his knuckles trail slowly up and down over your bodysuit between your breasts, and soon you were panting for him. 

His grin was smug as he asked you, "Did you wear this for me?"

You nodded your head as he stroked your hard nipples through the thin fabric. "Just for you, Lieutenant Bradshaw."

And then his head tipped back as he groaned, and you felt so powerful. You guided his hand down your belly and between your legs, and he met your eyes again. "You're already wet."

"I've been wet since we were texting last night," you admitted. And then you were draped over his shoulder with his big hand on your butt while he hauled you back upstairs. 

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

Bradley had been thinking about you in your Kitten costume for weeks, but he hadn't been expecting you to be wearing it today. It was even filthier looking this time, as you paired it with black socks that hugged your thighs instead of your jeans. You skipped the whiskers, but you were wearing your choker. Your collar.

As he took you up to your bed, you were whimpering his name as he stroked his fingers along your ass and your thighs. You were soaking wet. He could feel it when he dug his hand between your legs to tease you as he reached your bedroom.

When he set you down, you crawled across the bed, showing off your ass for him before you settled with your back against the pillows. Bradley was tearing his shoes off followed by his clothing as he watched you run your hands over your bodysuit, squeezing your tits. 

"Do you have any idea what you look like right now?" he asked, crawling across the bed to get to you.

"A Kitten?" you asked softly, fingers skimming over your taut nipples. 

"My Kitten," he growled. "You look like you're mine. My own personal Kitten with a wet pussy and filthy red lips." He kissed you hard, pushing your head back against the pillow while he ran his fingers along the strip of fabric that was barely covering your slit. 

When you moaned into his mouth, he released your lips in favor of running his nose and tongue along that sinful red choker on your neck.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw, sir," you whined, and his cock ached with need. "Please."

He was sucking on all of your exposed skin, tasting every inch. You were grinding up against his hand as he palmed your core through your bodysuit. "I'll take care of you," he promised, kissing your choker and your necklace chain at the same time. "You keep your claws tucked away like a good girl, and I'll take such good care of you."

Then he released the snaps between your legs that were keeping you concealed, and the bodysuit was open. You rubbed yourself against his knuckles, and his fingers slid right through your slick slit. You shook your head against the pillow, and your headband with the ears went a little crooked. 

"I am so turned on," you gasped. "I don't think I have ever been this turned on before."

You were whining for him and rubbing your stocking covered leg along his cock. But your eyes were still alert, and he wanted them glazed and fucked out. 

"I'm gonna eat your pussy," he told you, nibbling your nipples through the fabric as you gasped in agreement. "But I'm not going to stop until I'm ready to. Does that sound okay?"

"Yes sir, Coach Bradley, sir!"

"Kitten, look at me," he said, still stroking your clit softly with his knuckle. "That means I decide when you're done."

"Yes!"

And then he put his mouth on your pussy, and it was exquisite. Just like last time. But maybe even better, because he was going to make you lose your mind for him. He wrapped his arms around your thighs and spread you open wide, kissing your hole as he buried his nose in your wetness.

He started off slow, teasing and licking, and then your fingers were in his hair. Your little gasps and words of encouragement made him smile, but as soon as he took your clit between his lips, you got loud. Really loud. Bradley was delighted that you could be as loud as you wanted to, because he was addicted to the feel of your smooth pearl, your perfect clit under his tongue.

"Bradley!"

You were thrusting up against his face, and he dipped his tongue inside you as your wetness coated his chin. He loved this. He loved eating pussy. He knew he was good at it. But you were too perfect. Everything he liked. Everything he wanted. He needed you. He released your left leg and shoved two rough fingers inside you as he eased himself up your body to kiss those pretty red lips. 

"You taste so fucking good. Like a damn kitten in heat," he told you as you ran your tongue along his chin. You kitten licked his face and whimpered while he finger fucked you harder. Your hands wound tight up in his hair were a little painful, but it just made him go harder. 

Your eyes were already starting to drift closed and he kissed you, smiling against your mouth. "Remember. You're done when I say you're done."

His words made you keen, and he could feel you starting to squeeze his fingers as he put his mouth back on your clit and sucked gently. That first orgasm came screaming out of you as your hips bucked and shook against the mattress. But Bradley was already working on the next one as you gasped his name over and over again.

With his tongue moving in languid strokes as you started to calm down, Bradley managed to coax you close to the edge again. This time you released his hair in favor of wrapping your hands in your pillowcase. 

"What the fuck," you gasped, gaping at him and meeting his eyes as you rode his tongue to another orgasm. Your forehead was scrunched up in disbelief as you gasped, sounding scandalized that he did it twice.

But he wasn't done yet. He ground his cock down into your bedding, bucking for some relief against the delicious show that all of his senses were being treated to. Because now you looked truly exhausted, and your fingers were unable to get purchase in his hair. He kissed and nibbled on your inner thigh as he ran his calloused fingertips over your sensitive, overworked clit until you were whining softly. 

"It's okay, Kitten. I love you," Bradley promised, and you nodded wordlessly. And sure enough, after several more minutes, you hiccuped a few times as you came again for him. Your pussy softly pulsing around his middle finger as you gasped had him palming his cock. 

He was about to cum. Quickly, he positioned himself so he was on his knees with your left thigh between his legs. He never removed his middle finger from inside you while he stroked himself a half a dozen times. And then he was spurting his cum all over your pussy and your belly and your bodysuit. 

You didn't even seem to know what was going on as you shook your head against the pillow and wiped at your tears. 

"You okay?" he asked softly, and he smiled. Because your eyes were glazed, your face looked fucked out, and your body was limp, connected to his by his one finger inside you. "God, you're fucking glorious."

A soft laugh escaped your lips while Bradley stroked your cheek with his thumb, and you nuzzled against him like a kitten.

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

You had your arms draped lazily around Bradley's neck as he showered with you. For a split second, he had been nervous that he might have ruined your bodysuit when he came, but you assured him you could always buy another one. Honestly, you thought the splashes of his white cum on your skin and the dark fabric looked sinfully good. 

"You gonna wear that outfit again for me?" he asked, running his fingers along the little paw print charm he got you where it rested next to your collarbone. 

"Do you really need me to?" you challenged. "You just took a bunch of photos of me half wearing it with your cum all over me. Shouldn't that be enough?"

He kissed you, gently pulling your bottom lip between his before he said, "No way. Those are for when I'm deployed. I'm gonna want the real thing again and again."

You felt a jolt of reality. "Do you know when you're getting deployed again? Do I need to start preparing myself to miss you?"

"No," he murmured, kissing along your neck as the spray from the shower calmed you. "When I find out, you'll be the first to know, Kitten. And I must admit," he added, pausing on a deep inhale that left you with bated breath, "I do love the idea of being missed. By you. And Ev."

You didn't know what to say as you snuggled up against him for a few minutes before you eventually turned off the water. You'd been in a relationship with him for a week. One week. And you already daydreamed about when he'd move in with you. You were already thinking about where all of his stuff would fit in your house. But it was too soon. And you didn't know if he'd want to permanently be here at all. 

But you did say, "Everett and I already miss you when we're not with you," and he smiled. 

"Speaking of Ev," he said, drying off his legs. "It's getting late. Do you want me to be here when they get back?"

You only had to consider that for a beat. "Yeah."

Bradley met your eyes as he pulled his underwear on. "Can I help him with his homework? Or do something else to make things easier for you?"

In that moment, you wanted to tell him everything that had happened on the phone with Danny. You wanted to tell him that you and Molly had talked about a lawyer. But all you said was, "I love you."

------------------------- 

Kitten dressing as the kitten again. Kitten making demands of Danny. Kitten getting what she deserves from Coach! Love to see it. Thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls and @mak-32!

PART 19

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[skipper1331]

Sweet girl // Esme Morgan

a/n: based off this and this request. Enjoy :)

Esme was the sweetest girl you knew. Even before she was your girlfriend, she was the sweetness herself. Always looking after everybody, smiling all day long and just happy in general.

The blonde was known for her friendly nature but but the respect she held for others, whether she knew them or not, regardless of whether the person was good or bad person, was wow. She couldn‘t even hurt a fly - even though they annoyed her.

The two of you had been a couple for more than three years, happier than ever. The sweet girl was head over heels for you and not even ashamed to show it.

And to be fair, never in a million years, Esme would‘ve thought that she could fall deeper and more in love with you than she does everyday.

-

Early on in your relationship, you discovered some things that the sweet girl would never say out loud no matter who badly she wanted too or how hungry her mind was. She respected you in every kind of way, as her girlfriend, as a person, as a human.

You look hot and sexy? She would never say that. Obscene and vulgar words would never leave her mouth and especially not in relation to you. Instead you looked stunning, gorgeous, breathtaking and so on.

You‘re changing and she walks in? Immediately, she would turn around and leave the room. For her, it didn’t matter if she had seen you naked already - she respected your privacy. Which is also the reason she would always knock on the door before entering the bathroom.

She didn‘t like to call you the pet name, 'baby' or 'babe' she had never called you like that nor will she ever. Instead she prefered, 'lovely girl', anything with girl at the end.

My pretty girl.

My special girl.

My gorgeous girl.

And she would never place her hands in too intimate areas, at least not without consent.

-

"My lovely girl" the blonde admired as you walked out of the bathroom, "you look phenomenal" her gaze wandered over every inch of your body as your cheeks turned red. "Give me a twirl, please" she outstretched her arm, her hand for you to take as she gently twirled you around, "yeah, you look gorgeous" she admitted, shyly.

"Thank you" standing on your tip toes, you pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek, the blonde‘s cheeks turning a deep shade of red.

The defender loved the outfit you were wearing, it was your go-to date night outfit. It wasn‘t too casual but also not extravagant - it was perfect. While Esme always thought you were the beauty itself, this outfit let her mind trail in other directions, not that she would ever mention that but you could see it in her eyes and you could feel it when you weren‘t looking - she was looking at you with hungry eyes.

-

Standing in front of the wardrobe you debated what you‘re going to wear. It was a Saturday morning, Esme already out of bed, probably making some breakfast while just got out of bed.

"I‘m so sorry!" said person yelped as she saw your half naked figure, only in bra and underwear. Instantly, she covered her eyes, turning around and leaving the room. "I‘m sorry, my pretty girl, I thought you were still asleep" she told you through the closed door.

Deciding to tease her, you walked out of the room, still in the same 'outfit'.

"Hi" you grinned, the blonde trying her hardest to look you in the eye, "good morning" she mumbled, gulping as you stepped closer. How dearly she wanted to stare at your body. She could if she wanted too, you didn’t mind at all as you had told her more than once yet the sweet girl she was, she always declined, "there‘s no spicy time now." Sometimes it was as if she was afraid to look, cheeks all red, lip biting to contain herself. It was adorable and amusing for you because you would shamelessly check her out.

"I- um, wanted to wake you up for breakfast. I made your favorite"

Smiling brightly, you responded, "thank you" before pressing a good morning kiss against her lips.

-

"My girl?" knocking on the bathroom door, the defender waited patiently, "yes?" you called back, continuing to brush your hair. "Can I come in real quick?"

"Sure!" you replied, opening the door, "you can come in at any time"

Smiling at her, the blonde looked down at you, "I know but I prefer to ask" she grabbed the item she needed before leaving the room again but not without pressing a peck to your forehead.

The sweet sweet girl.

-

The defender was nervous, you could tell. Both of you sat on the couch, too much respectable amount of space between you. "What‘s wrong?" you asked the usual smiley girl. You knew she would tell you the moment you asked, the girl never one to lie about something or to say 'nothing' when clearly something was wrong.

Her hand went into her hoodie as she pulled something out of it. "I made you this" she admitted shyly, scratching her neck. "Esme!" you squealed, jumping on her, now straddling her, "you made me a spiderman bracelet?"

"Yes?"

"This is beautiful!" and you weren‘t lying. The bracelet seemed simple, just three colours in it. The main colour red as the spiderman eyes were white and outlined in black. But in reality, Esme’s knotted it more than 4 times because it had to be perfect for you. Every imperfection she saw - start over again.

"Can you put it on, please?" you asked, holding out your arm. Gently, she put it on your wrist. You admired it from every side, smiling as you looked at her again.

"I love you"

It was like the world just stopped for a minute as you attached your lips. The kiss was gentle at first until you cupped her cheeks, deepening it. Her hands found a rest on your waist yet they couldn‘t stay there. The urge to move them along your body was intense, especially after your tongue slipped in her mouth. Consumed by you, the defender didn‘t think twice, hands roaming over your body.

When she realized where they were rested now, she abruptly pulled away - she was breathing heavily, "my apologies"

You looked at her confused, what was she talking about? What was she apologizing for? "my hand placement" she answered as if she just read your mind while actually she just read the expression on your face. Understanding what she was talking about, you giggled, resting your forehead against her own, "I don‘t care if you‘re hands are at my bum"

"I didn‘t ask you-"

"My love, touch me wherever you want, whenever you want" taking her hands in your own, you placed them back on their original place before you started kissing her again, this time it was a much softer kiss. A kiss that told her: I’m fine with everything as long as it‘s you.

-

It didn‘t matter how often you told her it was okay to do this or enter the room without knocking and waiting, she would still do it.

She respected you in every possible way and you loved her for that and so much more.

She was your sweet girl after all.

———————

[cinemastyles-backup]

BMWB

Summary: an anon request - “can you do a one shot where y/n is in the band and for some reason Harry and her don't get along and they end up fucking?? Like not enemies to lovers but more or like enemies to fw because they're so good at it ??? Pleaseeeee”

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, lots of arguing, oral (both), fingering, biting, hair pulling, filth

My original CinemaStyles-blog has been terminated, so I created a new one.

MAJOR ASSHOLE FRAT BOY HARRY

"One, two, three, four." Harry screams into the mic and bobs his head to the music. I strum my base, close my eyes and tilting my head as I feel the music.

My eyes suddenly snap open when Harry starts to yell, "Stop. Stop. Fuckin' stop." I lay my fingers over the edge of my bass and sigh, "What now, Styles?"

I know he's talking about me, he's always talking about me.

He scoffs and shakes his head, "Are you even here with us right now? Because the he only thing you should be focusing on is getting the beat of the fucking song right. Jesus christ."

I roll and shut my eyes and take a deep breathe, "Harry. Chill out man. She was doing fine." Niall says setting down his guitar, "Maybe you need to ta-"

Harry cuts him off, "Maybe you just need to shut the fuck up."

"If you don't want me to pla-"

Zayn cuts me off, "No, y/n. You're the best bass player we've had, Harry's just having a bad day."

Harry shifts his weight to his left leg and puts his hands on his hips, "You know wh- fine. Take a fucking break, all of you."

He walks off the stage and throws his water bottle.

"What the fuck is his issue lately?" Louis says walking up, "Don't take it personal, y/n. Harry can be.." he trails off his words.

I sigh, "Egomaniacal? Asshole-ish? Cocky? I can stand here all day."

They laugh and I look over my shoulder, "I'll try and talk to him. If the screaming at each other stops call the coroner because I've strangled him with his mic cord."

I set my bass down gently and walk in the direction Harry went.

I look left and right and walk down the hall. I stop as I see Harry leaning against the wall. He turns his head towards me and looks away with an eye roll, "What do you want?"

"I want to know why you're all of a sudden coming at me?" I cross my arms, "We were fine and now yo-"

"Just go practice because you obviously need it." He pushes off the wall and walks towards me. I grab his arm as he goes past me, "No. I don't obviously need that, Harry. What I need, is for you to tell me what the fuck your issue is."

He laughs and tilts his head back, "Like I'd ever talk to you about what's bothering me. Go the fuck back to the stage. We have a show to get perfect."

He pulls his arm away and scoffs, "Don't ever fucking touch me again."

"Don't ever fucking yell at me again." I shoot back.

He stop waking and turns around, "Oh? So now you're the boss? Telling me what I can and can't do?" He walks up to me, "Let me tell you one thing, sweetheart." He leans in, his face an inch away from mine, "I'm the boss. You do what I say when I say it, hmm?"

I roll my eyes at him, "Mm. We'll see."

I step around him and walk back to stage. Before I enter back, I look over at him and smile, "You coming? We have a show to make perfect." I smirk and push the door open.

"Is he dead?" Louis asks with a slight laugh.

I shake my head, "Not yet." I pick my bass up and gently strum the strings. Harry walks in and everyone goes quiet.

"Let's get this fucking right." He says just loud enough for us to hear. He walks up and takes the mic off the stand and looks around at us, making sure we're ready.

"One, two, three, four."

——

"You guys are on in five." Liam, the crew manager says. I nod and finish applying my lipstick, "Okay."

"Don't fuck this up." Harry says leaning against the door frame to my dressing room. I look at him in the mirror, "Is that you threatening me or demanding me?"

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, "Sometimes I just wanna-" he clenches his jaw and tilts his head, "Nope. Not happening."

"What?" I turn around and lean against the table, "You wanna what, Styles?"

He stares at me, and in that moment, if looks could kill. I'd be dead.

He walks up to me and brings a hand up, his thumb gently pulls down my lower lip, "Sometimes I just wanna gag you with my cock so you shut the fuck up for once."

He drops his hand, "Like I said, don't fuck this up."

He leaves the room before I have anything to say, which I don't. Harry just left me absolutely speechless.

"Hey, y/n. Let's go. We're up next." Louis knocks on the door, "You okay?"

I blink and turn around quickly, wiping away the smudge of lipstick Harry's thumb left, "Yeah. Coming."

——

The whole show, I was on edge.

On edge because of what Harry said.

On edge because he looks so fucking hot in that tight Green Bay jersey.

On edge because he kept looking over at me any chance he got.

On edge because he was fucking with me.

We finish the song and the crowd goes wild. Screaming for Harry. Screaming for me. Screaming for all of us.

"Give it up for the amazing band behind me." Harry says while clapping, "Niall, Louis, Zayn.." there's a pause before he says my name and the boys glance towards me then look back at Harry, "And y/n who actually did very well tonight."

The crowd screams and I force a smile and wave.

I shook a glare back at Harry and he smirks behind his mic, "We're going to give you guys one last song and then we're off to Phoenix!"

Harry walks around stage as we start to play the final song of the night, "Let's go!"

——

We exit the stage and I immediately walk up to Harry and shove his shoulder, "What the fuck was that?"

He cocks his jaw and smirks, "I know you didn't just shove me."

I go to shove him again and Zayn grabs my arms, "Settle down." I pull my arms and he gets louder, "Settle down, easy y/n."

"Why would you fucking say that?" I yell, "I actually did well tonight? What the fuck Harry!?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. He motions for Zayn to let me go and he puts his arm around my shoulder, "Let's take a walk and talk about this."

I push his arm off of me, "What so you ca-"

"Now, now." He cuts me off, "Just come on." We walk down the hall to the door with his name on it, "In."

I roll my eyes and push the door open. I walk in and turn around, ready to start losing my absolute shit on him but he holds his hand up, "I get under your skin."

"Yeah the fuck you do." I cross my arms, "And you do it on purpose."

He walks over and pours himself a drink, "Because you make it so easy."

"By what? Giving you a reaction?" I huff, "Do you want me to ignore you? Quit the band?"

"Why would you quit the band?" He asks bringing the glass to his lips. He lowers it and shakes his head, "You're the best bass player I've had, y/n. I don't want you to quit."

His words confuse me and I know my face shows it.

"He sits down and rests one arm straight out on the back of the couch and brings a leg up over his other, "Sit."

I find myself always listening to his stupid little commands so I shake my head, "No. I'll stand." He chuckles, "Hmm. Okay. Suit yourself, sweetheart."

I roll my eyes, "What do you want, Harry." I state, "Because if you're just going to sit there and-"

"You. I want you."

"Excuse me?" I laugh, "Did you just say you- you want me?"

He nods, "Yeah. I believe that's what I said."

"You're not serious."

"But I am." He finishes his drink and stands up, "You see, y/n. I really don't like you, for reasons I'm not open to telling you just yet." He sets his glass down and walks over to me.

I stay silent and watch him as he gets closer, "We have our issues that, well, the whole band can see, right?"

I shrug, "I-"

"Shut up." He says louder. His voice goes back to normal and he walks around me, his chest presses against my back and he moves my hair off my neck.

My breathing gets faster and I bite my lip.

"There so much stress while touring, right?" His fingers drag up my shoulder and neck.

I nod.

"I want you to be my little stress reliever." He leans down and licks up my neck, "No strings attached."

I shut my eyes tight. Fighting off every urge to turn around and give into him.

He's an asshole.

He makes your days a living hell.

He gets under your skin in the most annoying ways possible.

All the thoughts run spin around in my head and I let out the breathe I've been holding.

"What do you say? Huh. We help each other out and when you piss me off.. I get to fuck my anger out and fuck that annoying little attitude out of you."

I want to say no so bad. I want to turn around and slap some sense into him, but the idea of being Harry's fuck buddy is just so overpowering.

"You can speak now, sweetheart."

"Y-yes."

"Good answer. Now get on your knees." He places his hands on my shoulder and pushes me down. I land on my knees and bite my lip, looking up at him as he walks around to stand in front of me.

He starts to undo the belt on his jeans and he gives me a smirk.

"What?" I ask as I tuck hair behind my ear.

"Do I make your nervous?" He chuckles, "No need to be nervous."

I roll my eyes, "Please. If anyone should be nervous here, it's you."

"How's that?" He asks shoving his jeans down, "I'm not nervous one bit. Excited actually."

I raise my eye brows and laugh slightly, "Why because you're about to shut me up?"

"Exactly." He pushes his boxers down and pumps his cock in his hand a few times before pushing the head of it against my lips, "Open for me."

I part my lips and he pushes his cock in, letting out a groan.

I wrap my lips around his cock and swirl my tongue. I work my way down, getting him wet enough, teasing him slightly before I give him exactly what he wants.

I sink his cock into my throat and he moans.

I shut my eyes and control my breathing through my nose before I bob my head, gagging around his cock.

"Ah." He moans out, "It's nice to hear the sound of you choking on my cock rather than you speaking."

I ignore his words and continue to fuck my throat with him, working him up until he places a hand on my head, "A-alright. We can come back to this. I wanna see that ass of yours bent over."

I pull off and wipe my chin off with my wrist. He pulls me over towards the couch and slips his shirt off. My eyes flicked up and down his toned, tattooed torso and he grips the hem of my shirt pulling it up over my head.

"You know, y/n." His eyes move up and down my bra covered chest, "You are pretty fuckin' hot."

I smirk and unbutton my jeans, "So are you."

He smirks and watches as I take my jeans off, kicking my shoes out of the way. We both stand there naked and his hands reach out to explore my body.

I close my eyes as he leans in, sucking random spots on my neck. I moan out quietly and bring my hands up to his arms.

Wow, he isn't yelling at me to not touch him.

His hand moves down and pushes between my legs. His finger slides between my folds, "You're fuckin' soaked, sweetheart."

I part my thighs and dig my nails into his skin as he circles my clit, gradually applying a harder pressure.

I whimper and tilt my head back. Harry kisses and sucks spots under my chin and jaw line.

"Harry." I moan out quietly, "Fuck me."

He chuckles against my skin, "Are you demanding?"

I bite my lip, debating on what I should say before my mouth speaks on its own, "What if I am?"

He sighs and pulls his hand away from between my legs, "Then you get more time without my cock in that desperate cock hungry pussy of yours."

He walks over and gets another drink, "I'm going to enjoy this drink. Sit down and, oh I don't know." He shrugs, "Convince me that you're deserving of my cock going into your pussy."

I chew the inside of my lip and nod, "Okay."

I sit down on the couch and smirk as I bring my legs up and spread them. He pauses and stares at my open legs. I bring my hand down and rub circles onto my clit, moaning.

I need Harry to touch me.

"Afraid you won't get me to cum?" I tease, "Am I going to have to fake it with you then do it myself later?"

He roughly sets his glass down on the table and stands up, "There you go again.. running your mouth."

I bite my lip and sink my fingers into my pussy, letting out a loud gasp, "What? Im just asking questions."

He scoffs, "You have no idea."

"Mm. I think I do." I tilt my head back and moan. A smile grows on my lips as I feel the couch sink down.

"You'll be begging me to fuck you after this." He moves my hand and replaces it with his own, his rings roughly hitting my skin as his fingers pump in and out.

I arch my back off the couch and moan, "Fuck."

He shifts back and bends down, attaching his lips to my clit. I let out a gasp and put a hand on his head, grabbing a fistful of his hair.

He moans against me and that causes me to moan. I clench my walls around his fingers as I feel myself approaching my orgasm.

My eyes roll back and I smile as he did exactly what I wanted him to do.

He pulls his fingers out and licks up my pussy. He pulls away and moves up, rubbing the head of his cock against my clit, "That didn't seem fake to me."

I smirk and my mouth opens as he shoves his cock into me without warning, "Fuck." He smirks and tilts his head as he pulls out and thrusts back in.

He grips my hips tight and fucks me. His lips part as his eyes shit and a moan escapes his lips, "Shit, y/n."

I grab his wrists and arch my back, "Harry." I whimper, "Fuck."

He leans down, pressing his lips to mine as he continues thrusting. I drag my nails up his back with one hand as I pull myself to desperately cling to him with the other.

He gently bites my bottom lip and moans.

I tilt my head back and he kisses up and down it.

For a moment I would have thought I wasn't having sex with the asshole I shoved in the hallway, but with Harry who actual gives a shit.

He moans against my neck and pushes his cock deep into me, "This pussy is mine." He whispers in a deep, raspy voice.

"Yours." I breathe out, "Yours."

He goes back to thrusting and attacking my neck. I wrap an arm around his neck and sink my nails into his shoulder as I cum around his cock.

"Fuck." He groans lowly, "You feel so fucking good."

I whimper in his ear, "You fuck so good."

He smirks and kisses my cheek and over to my lips. Our lips move in perfect sink and he pulls out and I can feel his cum shoot out into my stomach.

He continues to kiss me, his hand pulls my hips closer to his. He slowly leans back and looks at me, "Who's pussy is this?"

I roll my eyes and smirk, "Yours."

"Damn right it is." He leans up and looks around, "Um.." he gets up and grabs a towel, "Here." He tosses the towel down next to me as he cleans himself off.

"Thanks." I wipe myself off and sit up, I lean over and grab my clothes, slipping my panties and jeans back on, "So what does this mean?" I smirk and laugh.

He shakes his head and smirks, "Nothing more than band mates with benefits."

——

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[beomcoups]

Caller #17

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: basketball player!Soonyoung x college dj reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, angst, 90s au

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: PG-13

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, talks of tough family dynamics, bit of heavy angst, kissing

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.8k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You could easily name 10 things that you hate about him. But when you bond over music and families, you realize there's more to him than meets the surface.

𝐀𝐍: This was not an easy fic. It took me way longer than I planned to write, and the story I had mapped out went in a different direction. I still feel proud of this one, my longest fic yet, and I hope that you will enjoy it too 🥹 This is a part of my very own Now That's 90's collab hosted by me and @mingsolo. Thank you to @wooahaeproductions for reading this over and @hobeemin for making a banner for me at the last minute 💙

“Thank you for calling into C.A.R.A.T radio! What’s your song of the week?” “Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve!” “You got it! Thanks for calling into C.A.R.A.T radio at 526 AM.” Hitting play on the record, the orchestra's melody hits your ears, sending you into an out-of-body experience, your soul floating to cloud nine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand every time the song is played, and you imagine yourself playing the violin, getting lost in the beautiful and complicated sinfonia.  Working at the college radio station was your life. It’s the only place to lose yourself to TLC, Nirvana, and Weezer for hours without judgment. You are in your 3rd year of college, getting your bachelor’s in music theory so you can be one of the most prominent songwriters in the world. While everyone in high school didn’t know what they would be doing with their life, you always imagined yourself getting a Grammy for Song of the Year on stage. That is your real passion: creating musical poetry for the masses.

You slowly take the headphones off and set them down, looking at the big clock plastered on the wall. You let out a heavy sigh, sad that your time at the station is ending. You are allotted two hours a day on Saturday as a part of credit for your program. If you had it your way, you would be here daily, listening to your favorite records and writing songs between commercial breaks.

“Hey,” your professor Kim calls out from her office. “Come in here before you leave.”

You gather your things to leave, looking at the station one last time before entering the smaller space. This isn’t her regular office, but it has everything you think you would need: a desk, a comfortable chair, and bookshelves full of books and ornaments for decoration. You have spent a lot of time in here, pitching new ideas for the station and getting turned down every single time.

“What's up?” You sit in the chair opposite of her.

“So we will be introducing a new segment to the radio where callers can call in and ask for advice about anything, and then you can recommend a song based on what they are calling in about.:” She pauses to take a sip of water. “I want you to be a part of it.”

You don’t answer right away. You are peeved that Professor Kim wants you to head any segment. You have never shown any initiative to want to talk to anyone who calls in besides listening to music. It’s just not your thing. You are a loner at heart, and that’s how you plan to stay.

“Why me?” You finally speak up. “There are other people who are better at this than I am. Hell, ask Emily. She has been foaming at the mouth to talk about anything other than music.”

“Because you are who I want,” she shrugs. “I see how you look when you talk about your favorite releases. You go deep with the lyrics and how you can relate that to any part of your life. You are more than the person behind the voice, and it’s time other people see that.” “Well, I am not trying to be the next Oprah or Ricki Lake,” you scoff. I just want to play music, write my songs, and do whatever I need to do for the class.”

“No one said you would be the next talk show anything,” Professor Kim retorted. “This will be considered a project, and it’s worth 20% of your grade. Plus, when you are in the industry and have sessions with the artists about the song's lyrics, don’t you need to talk to them about their life and what they need? Think about that.” You nod, feeling defeated because you know you can’t talk your way out of this. You know she is right, but you will never admit it. “Plus, it’ll be a good idea to get out of your shell and work on those social skills,” she says. “We will start in a couple of weeks, so get your mind ready because before you know it, you will be there.” You nod and leave the office, your stomach grumbling loudly as you put your headphones on and listen to the latest Backstreet Boys release. It’s a quarter past seven, and dusk officially sets in the sky as you walk across campus. Working at the radio station is the highlight of your week, as you can’t play music loud at your dorm without others complaining. Fortunately, your dorm is set where you have your own space, but the walls are thin, and you can hear everything. You considered buying noise-canceling foam to cover your door but were told it was “against” the rules. Whatever. Your stomach rumbles again, and you are determined to get a burger and fries in your stomach and drink an Oreo milkshake. You cross the street, open your bag, and grab your wallet before being met with a screeching halt from a car in front of you, its headlights blaring in your eyes. “What the fuck?” You mouth at the driver. The driver pokes his head out the window, and you instantly recognize him as Soonyoung, the star point guard of the basketball team. His black Jeep is crowded, full of guys and girls, with Usher blasting through the speakers. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he waves. “Yeah, no shit,” you retort, walking to the end before the car pulls off. Jeers and boos could be heard, but you could care less. People like that always get in your way no matter what. You avoid people like that as much as people, as you don’t want to be mixed in with that crowd. Soonyoung will eventually go pro and live the NBA life, whereas you will be on the stage accepting awards, with millions of people cheering your name.

The segment started as planned, and you sat and listened to every caller asking for advice. Most of them wanted advice on how to ask someone out for a date, makeup, and things you didn’t care about. The only thing that made it worth it was you got to pick the music to go with the advice, which allowed you to show off your taste in music, from Britney Spears to Mandy Moore, Usher, Sugar Ray, etc. It made the time go by faster as well. You look through the glass, and Professor Kim gives you a thumbs up to take the last call. Letting out a sigh of relief, you let the call ring a few times before you answer. “Welcome to C.A.R.A.T radio. You are lucky caller number 17. What’s on your mind?” “H-hello?” a tenured male voice booms through the speakers. You groan, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “You’ve reached C.A.R.A.T radio! What’s on your mind?”

“Hey. You can use this line to ask for advice, right?”

“Yep,” you say, a bit annoyed. “Whatcha got?”

There is a lengthy pause, your fingers tapping dramatically on the soundboard. You raise an eyebrow at the professor, who shrugs and walks out of your view. You hear shuffling in the background, followed by what sounds like something being sipped from a cup.

“S-sorry, I am a bit nervous,” he apologizes. “It’s my first time calling in.”

“It’s alright,” you reassure him. “I know how it is. How can I help?”

“So I already have this path carved out for me by my family and everyone who cares about me. Sports is all I have known all my life, and I have worked very hard to get here.” He stops for a brief second. “Everyone expects me to act like this all-star college boy, and no one ever talks to me about anything else than sports, and I am starting to hate it.”

“Do you mind telling me what kind of sports you’re in?”

“I play ball.”

“Okay, that's good. Well, what is it that you want?”

“I’m tired of being what everyone wants me to be: this golden retriever everyone loves. I just want to be me.” You understood how he felt. Maybe not in sports, but people pushing you to be something you’re not. You come from a family of doctors and lawyers who expected you to be the same. “Get good grades so you can get into an Ivy League school” is all you heard growing up. When you were seven, you expressed interest in music, sitting in front of the family piano on Christmas and playing Jingle Bells, which you learned on your own. Your parents cared for a while, putting you in piano lessons and taking you all over the state for recitals. They figured if you kept this up until high school, it would look good on college applications, but nothing that they took you seriously for. It wasn’t until you learned how to play the guitar in secret that you fell in love with how the strings strummed against your fingers that you realized that your passion is music. Thanks to your choir teacher, you had a good voice and kept it in tune while practicing writing music. You soon sang in front of the school, getting high praise from people all over for your voice and how you would “make it big one day.” Your parents insisted that it was just a phase and that eventually you would become a doctor and make a “real” living. You were determined to prove them wrong by applying to one of the best music schools and getting in on a full ride. You did that, but it came with a cost: being cut off by everyone in your family but your grandparents. They believed in you from the beginning and made sure you were okay. You will pay them back in tenfold one day. “Hello?” the deep voice cut through your thoughts. “Y-yeah, sorry,” you snap back into focus. “Do you want my advice?” “Yeah, I do,” you hear him clear your throat. ‘I think you should be who you want to be. It may feel a little different at first, but eventually, you will be happier being yourself.” “I mean…” he pauses for another second. “How do I go about that? How do I show people the real me?” “Hmm,” you think out loud. “Why don’t you try easing into it? Start a random conversation about something you are interested in that no one knows about. Gauge their reactions, and if they treat you weirdly, then start making new friends. It might be a little harder with your family, but they will come around. But either way, it’s exhausting having to hide yourself at the time. It’s the 90s and a new era!” “Yeah,” he says slowly. I’ll try that.Thanks.” “No problem!” You say. “Check out this song that’ll hopefully speak to your heart. This is me signing off on CARAT Radio, 800am.” You played “You Gotta Be” by Des’ree, a personal favorite, closing out the end of your segment. Admittedly, it wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. Sure, some questions were annoying, but it allowed you to pass on music to people and help them get over whatever. You can’t call that a total loss. You push the mic to the side and leave the room, checking in with your professor before leaving. “Great job,” she leaned back into her seat. “You were well-spoken and composed, and the music selections were excellent. Have you thought about being a radio DJ?” “NO,” you snort. “I want to be more behind the scenes, writing songs and getting Grammys.” “Okay, okay,” Professor Kim chuckles. “But don’t rule it out. You are a natural at it.” You nod and head out the door with a small smile. Getting complimented about your work feels good, but you rule out being a radio DJ. You deal with people if you have to, but you prefer to have time for yourself a lot of times. You’re just introverted like that. However, that last call was in the back of your mind. You just want to live and succeed at your dream job. It was nice knowing someone out there felt the same way you did. 

Before you knew it, a few weeks had passed, and you had secretly liked doing the segment every Saturday, talking to people from different backgrounds and listening to their troubles. You had a song for every call, and you bragged to your professor at the end of your shift that you had impeccable taste. The analytics showed that more people were tuning in during your segment than at any other time on the radio. Not gonna lie; it stroked your ego quite a bit.

The mystery guy called in on Saturdays, ironically being caller #17 every time. He would call and ask for advice about getting his grades up, coming out of his comfort zone, trying new things, etc. You got to know him a little, see how he solves problems, and see his sense of humor. You have no idea what he looked like, but you imagined he was just your type, like a Keanu Reeves, Theo Mizuhara, or Merlin Santana. Is it crazy that you sometimes daydream about a man you never met?

Today was the last day of the advice segment, and everyone called in with their usual advice and well wishes. Like clockwork, the mystery guy was caller #17. His breathing was labored when you answered, followed by a clunk of metal hitting the floor. “Welcome to C.A.R.A.T radio. You are lucky caller number 17. What’s your damage?”

“H-hey.” You know it was him; the sound of his voice was familiar to you. You shift in your seat, sitting straight and placing your elbows on the desk. You try to keep a poker face, your professor watching you with curious eyes. “Hey there,” you clear your throat. “How can I help?” “I heard today is the last day to ask for advice,” he says. “I can’t say I won’t miss calling and hearing your voice every Saturday.” “Oh yeah?” you chuckle. “ That’s good to know. Well, what is the last piece of advice that I can give you?” “So, there is this girl,” he starts. “I really like her. She’s cute, a bit of a hard ass, and I really like her mind. She’s not like anyone that I’ve met. How do I ask her out?” “Does she know you exist?” “Yeah. I almost ran into her once, but we talked a lot.” “Ah. Do you think she might like you?” “I-I’m not sure,” he stutters. “We get along and everything and we have some things in common. I just don’t know if she would be into me.” “Okay, well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask her out? The worst that can happen is that she says no; at least you’d know.” “Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m nervous as hell, that’s all. Have you dated anyone before?” You are taken aback, your professor raising her eyebrows through the glass. You nod, licking your lips before responding. “I’ve dated here and there,” you say slyly. “It wasn't anything serious. What about you?” ‘Um, yeah, I have,” he snorts.

“Well, there you go then, tiger.” You’re clearly entertained by this conversation. “Remember how you felt when you asked the other girls out, and apply that same confidence to this girl. You never know. She might say yes.” “Okay, I will take your word for it. Thank you.” “Not a problem!” You beam. “Here is the last song I leave you with: ’ 4-page letter’ by Aaliyah. Have a good night, ya’ll.”

You play the final track of the night, setting down the headphones while Professor Kim claps her hands in applause. You roll your eyes playfully, pushing your chair onto the desk and exiting the booth. You feel light as a feather, dopamine taking over your body as you meet your professor in her office. “Great job,” she smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” “Maybe,” you plop down on a chair. “It was fun giving out music suggestions.” “Mhmm,” she nods. “Well, get out there and enjoy your Saturday. I will see you in class on Friday.” You grab your things and leave the station, your stomach rumbling and your mouth parched. It’s after 8, and the nearest thing open is the local pizza joint with the best pepperoni pizza with the cheesiest cheese you’ve ever had. You go there often, and the owners, Dante and Gabriella, get your order ready before you sit down. “The usual?” they always ask, knowing that you are a creature of habit. Aside from your grandparents, they were the closest thing to family to you, always making sure your pizza was hot and crispy with a tall cup of Coke to go with it. They asked about your studies, and Gabriella always asked when you’d get a boyfriend. 

“Ah, stop it, amore mio,” Dante jokingly shushes her. “She has all her life to find the love of her life.”

More people started coming in, and they left you to your food and your walkman. You gleefully put Parmesan cheese over your pizza, taking the first bite and feeling instant gratification. A slice of heaven, literally. You take your headphones on, listening to Kurt Cobain croon on Nirvana’s Something In The Way. The “Nevermind” album got you through some tough times, especially when your family cut off communication with you. It hurt you and made you feel isolated and misunderstood. On the outside, your mom and dad put on this persona of being open-minded and willing to do anything for the family. Why were you the exception? You feel the tears well up, and you get yourself together before people start to notice, eating the rest of your pizza before you call it a night. You look around, seeing people on dates or hanging out with their friends, and you miss that. You had friends back home, but you all split up before you went to college. Who knows what their lives are like now. It’s not like you are visiting home anyway. You clean up your mess and walk into the bathroom, relieving yourself and washing your hands before returning to your dorm. You looked at yourself in the mirror: your jean jacket covered your black button-up shirt, shorts, and stockings underneath. Your eyes were slightly red, a contrast from your fresh face. Stifling a yawn, you leave and wave goodbye to Dante, opening the side door and bumping into someone in the process. You look up, facing Soonyoung, his cheerful eyes meeting yours. “We gotta stop meeting like this,” you mutter, backing up and adjusting your jacket. “Yeah, we shouldn’t,” he responds, opening the door to let you out. Your head snaps up, half expecting him to not hear you.  You rake your fingers through your hair, walking out of the restaurant. He’s a handsome guy, you can admit that, with his fresh, faded haircut and trendy clothes. You get why he is popular with everyone. “I’m sorry for almost hitting you with my car the other day,” he calls out. “It’s alright,” you turn around. “Just don’t make it a habit.” “Alright.” He chuckles and goes inside, and you speed walk to your dorm. Did I just flirt with him? You think to yourself. What the fuck was that? You aren’t even interested in Soonyoung in that way. You two are the two opposites of each other. You’re clearly losing your mind.

The cool air calms you down, and the slight breeze underneath the moonlight keeps you at bay until you get to your building. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s out; the only sound being heard is your boots hitting the tiled floor as you walk down the hallway to your dorm. Unlocking your door, you notice an envelope tucked underneath it. You sit on the bed, open it, and pull out a letter. I know this isn't a four-page letter, but I like you. You’re funny, have good jams, and are down to earth. Did I say that you’re cute? I like talking to you every Saturday and don’t want it to stop. 

 I want to take you out to a concert on Friday. I’ll pick you up at 4 at your dorm. I know you've said yes if you’re there when I arrive. —Caller #17

“What do you think of this?” Your former roommate and good friend, Nikki Prince, holds up a black leather jacket in your size. You asked her to go shopping with you for an outfit for tomorrow's impending date, and you needed another set of eyes. She majors in architecture and design but models on the side thanks to her striking looks. A tall, tanned skin and green-eyed beauty, she now lives with her much older chef boyfriend, Caelan, but whenever you need her, she’s always there. She’s French, stylish, and brutally honest. You loved that about her. “I dig that,” you take it from her and try it on. It fits you just right. It would be chilly, so you bought new boots, a white shirt, and black jean shorts to wear with black stockings underneath. You wanted to be comfortable as you would be on your feet all night. 

“Are you sure about this date?” Nikki’s foreign accent comes through. “How do you know this guy isn’t some serial killer? We’ve all seen Scream.” “Gee, thanks, mom,” you roll your eyes. “If he tries anything with me, I’ll just show him the moves I learned from the YMCA.” 

“I’m serious. This is risque for you, no?” You shrug, slowly taking off the jacket and heading to the cashier. “I get your point, and if anything happens, I can defend myself. But I have a feeling that it won’t happen.” You greet the cashier and pay for the jacket. “I’ll call you before I leave and tell you about it the next day. Deal?” Nikki nods, and you both walk out of the store, satisfied with what you bought. The mall is busy for a Thursday night, with young adults frolicking at stores like Rave and Wet Seal, looking for the latest fashion trends. The mall isn’t really your scene, as you prefer to thrift shop for your clothes. You have been lucky to find some hidden gems there, especially since you are on a limited budget. Nikki, however, said it was a special occasion, and you quote, “You are not going on a date in someone else’s vêtements.”

You stop at Auntie Anne’s, buying a massive pretzel with cheese on the side, while Nikki opts for a small lemonade. You offer her a piece, which she declines, saying her boyfriend, Caelan, will make her dinner later. “How is that going, by the way?” You sit down at a table. “It’s going good,” she enthuses, raking her fingers through her long black tresses. “He’s so mature and sophisticated. Imagine not having to cook and clean after a man and have good sex.” “Well, yeah, he’s about six years older,” you remark. He better know a thing or two if he wants to keep his model.” Nikki gloats as you finish your pretzel, talking about the elaborate French dishes her boyfriend makes for her and how he worships the ground she walks on. Since you’ve known her, she has always been opinionated and refused to associate with people within your age group. Whenever you see her in the hallways, she always talks with teachers or ignores the lustful looks of college boys. You two got on well because you were roommates, and both were Scorpio risings. You understood each other. “Oh shoot, I better head back to the flat,” Nikki says, looking at her watch. Caelan is going to be home soon, and he is making steak frites tonight.” 

“Yeah, I gotta head to the dorm anyway. Early class tomorrow.”

You walk out of the mall into the chilly night air. She offers you a ride home, and you decline at first, saying that you will walk as it's pretty close. But a slight wind blows, bringing chills down your spine.

“Wait,” you shout after her. “I’ll take that ride.”

The ride was short and quiet, your mind occupied with your date with this mystery stranger. Nikki was right, you don’t know him, and he could be this crazy guy. But you’re also excited; the butterflies haven’t left your stomach since Saturday. You feel like you know him, and you don’t even know his name. He is just caller #17.

She pulls up to your building, and you hug her, preparing to run inside and shower. You know Nikki is still worried and means well, even if she sometimes acts like an overbearing old sister.

“Come over tomorrow at two if you can,” you announce. “You can help me get ready and meet my date in case anything goes crazy.”

“Alright,” Nikki seems relieved. “I’ll be there.”

You shut the door and shout your goodbyes before sprinting inside.

“Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

The next day went fast, like a blur. You slept past your alarm and woke up after twelve, making you two hours late.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” you shout as you scrambled out of bed and tripped over a blanket. You throw on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater from the University, your hair in a wild ponytail as you brush your teeth and high-tailed it out the door. You ran to class, forming an apology along the way, your heart beating out of your chest. You are met, however, with a closed door and a white paper plastered on the door:

NO CLASS TODAY. ENJOY YOUR WEEKEND.

“Really?” You huffed, leaning against the wall. It’s not like you are late for class; your alarm was

set despite you being up late last night. But whatever, fuck it. You aren’t about to let this ruin your day.

The leaves flow softly with the wind as you walk back to your dorm, the sun playing hide and seek in the clouds. All you can think about is tonight and what concert you are going to. Maybe it’s a huge concert, and that’s why he is picking you up early… or perhaps it’s a local indie band at a bar. Your mind runs with endless possibilities, excitement pumping through your veins. You aren’t a hopeless romantic or a love-at-first-sight kind of person, but something about this person makes you feel good… like you finally have someone who can relate to you on some level. Granted, you have only talked with him on the phone, but you have a gut feeling and are rarely wrong about these things. You finally return to your dorm and take a well-needed shower, washing and detangling your hair with much-needed privacy. Your dorm has shared showers; you usually take them when everyone is asleep at night. Fortunately, there were only a few people, allowing you to have time for yourself. You allow yourself to think of the water running down your body as him, his hands caressing your body, his lips maybe touching yours— “Is anyone in here?” You snap out of your daydream quickly, and the water turns cold right on queue. “Y-yeah?” “I am here to clean the showers,” a woman’s voice calls from the door. “O-okay, give me a second.” Cursing silently, you quickly step out and dry yourself, throwing on your robe and grabbing your shower caddy before exiting the bathroom. You are met by an older woman wearing a shirt representing your college and sweats, with cleaning supplies in tow. “You were in there for a while,” she remarks as she sets out the wet floor sign. Do you have a hot date tonight?” “Something like that,” you shrug. You walk back to your room, and to your surprise, Nikki is outside your door. “You’re early,” you remark, unlocking the door. “Yes, I know,” she said. “But we will need more than two hours to get yourself right.” “You act like I can’t dress myself,” you scoff. “I just wanted your company, that’s all.”

“Oh yeah? Mon ami, when was the last time you changed your makeup?” You open your mouth to rebuttal but close it immediately. You hate to say it, but Nikki’s right. It’s not like you are going anywhere besides school, the music store, and the pizzeria. “Exactly,” Nikki says, setting her stuff down on her bed. “I went and got you makeup close to your teint, just in case.” She pulls out brand-new makeup from Revlon from mascaras, concealers, powders, and assortments of lipsticks of my choosing. She also bought nail polishes, saying it was time to add some color to your life. As much as you want to roll your eyes at her, she is right. As harsh as Nikki seems sometimes, she has a big heart and always looks out for you when you least expect it. You know a thing or two about style, but she takes it to a whole different level and isn’t shy about giving advice on it. You appreciate her so much. Being honest with yourself, you are nervous as hell. You have had crushes before, but you have never been pursued like this, where someone likes you enough to ask you out formerly, even if it was via a note. This person cares about your mind or seems to. You aren’t sure how to feel; you want to be excited and have a good time, but you have a wall up for a reason. You don’t want to be disappointed again like your family has. You figured if the people you love the most can abandon you like that, there is no hope for you out there. You lived with that hard truth for a long time, and you were content with that. But god, this guy has you curious. “What’s on your mind?” Nikki finishes with your makeup and hair, gazing at you through the mirror. “Butterflies in my stomach are killing me,” you grimace. “I can’t believe I am even doing this.” “Oh, relax,” she blows a raspberry. “You always do this thing where you talk yourself out of things you deserve. Stop that. D'accord? “Yes, mother,” you tease. She sucks her teeth, and you get dressed, putting on the new clothes you bought and your black leather boots. Checking out your appearance, you are satisfied with your look, and Nikki gives you a thumbs up while she cleans up. Knock, Knock! You look at the door, the butterflies fluttering deeper in your stomach. You look in the mirror one last time as Nikki opens the door, a brief silence followed by a heart chuckle. “Mon ami, your date is here.”

You see him, and you're stunned. It dawns on you why he’s here, and you feel your heart drop all the way to your ass. This has to be some kind of joke. “Soonyoung? What are you doing here?” He walks more into your view, wearing a grey jean jacket with matching pants. His right hand is in his pocket, and he has a small bouquet of irises in his other hand. “I’m here to take you to the concert?” Nikki is behind him, trying to keep her composure and mask her giggles. Of all the people you thought would show up, Soonyoung was the LAST person on your mind. This is the person who was calling in every Friday and wanting to talk to you? Yeah fucking right. “What happened?” you accost him. “Did you lose some bet, and you had to ask me out? Or do you feel bad for almost hitting me with your car?” “No?!” he scoffs, clearly offended. “I mean, yes, I feel bad about almost hitting, but no one dared me to do anything. Do you think I am that kind of person?” “Well, yes.” You wish you could take back what you said, but it was too late. You knew you hurt his feelings, the crestfallen look on his face saying it all. “This was a mistake,” he sighs dejectedly. “Sorry, I wasted your time.” He handed Nikki the flowers and walked away, the air feeling thick and awkward. You couldn’t even look at her in the eyes. You knew you fucked up. “Well, that was awkward,” you huff. “And shitty.” You raise an eyebrow at her, and she stares you down. You don’t want to feel worse than you already do, and Nikki isn’t helping. “Honestly, I think the guy was telling the truth,” Nikki surmises. “He looked like a sad puppy.” You think about this caller #17 guy who would call in every week and share his thoughts with you about everything, with you having to do very little. You think about how scared he felt about being his true, authentic self and how much courage it probably took to ask you out. You know you are a tough cookie to crack and understand better than anyone how it feels to go against the grain and be who you are. “I fucked up Nik,” you slump on your bed. “Yeah, you did.” God, you hate her bluntness sometimes, but she’s right. You need to go find him and make this right. “Do you think he’s still here?” you ask, sitting up and grabbing your purse. “He couldn’t have left that fast.” “Only way to find out is to get off your ass and find him,” she says, pulling your arm. “Go find your guy.” You both rush out of your dorm, jogging down the hallway and out of the building, looking for a silhouette of him. You were scared you missed him and felt defeated, not seeing any sight of him anywhere. Surveying the area one last time, you noticed a black Jeep peeling out of the parking lot. It stops at the stop sign, the second to last car to go. This is your only chance. “WAIT!”

You sprint towards the car, barely meeting him as he is about to turn.

“STOP,” you exhale, relieved that you caught him. “Don’t go.” Soonyoung steps out as you rest your hands on the hood of his car, trying to catch your breath. He touches your arm, his hands soft as silk, sending shocks throughout your body.

“Are you okay?” He asks, taking a good look at you.

“Aside from me about to pass out, I’m good.” You take a deep breath. “Listen. I’m sorry. I was a jerk and an asshole and—”

“MOVING YOUR FUCKING CAR!”

A middle-aged woman leans out of the window and gives you the bird, followed by a slew of car horns beeping in annoyance behind you and Soonyoung.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung curses, realizing the amount of cars behind him. “Get in the car.”

You both get in the car and drive off from the angry drivers, pulling into the nearest gas station. You sit with your hands in your lap, this weight of regret sitting on your chest and guilt eating you from the inside. You look at him, and he seems surprisingly relaxed as if you didn’t reject him

not even thirty minutes ago.

“I’m going to get some gas,” he announces. “Wait here.” 

You watch him walk inside to pay and let out the deepest, most agonizing sigh. He should be calling you every name in the book, and rightfully so, as you insulted him. Why is he being so nice? Does he really like you that much?

He returns a few minutes later, shoving his pockets with change left over, and you both lock eyes with each other. In another situation, you would’ve been able to appreciate his good looks, trendy clothes, and tiger-like appearance. But instead, you feel sick to your stomach, disappointed in how you acted. You look down, twiddling your thumbs until he finishes pumping his gas and returning to the car. This is not like you at all. “Hey,” he says. “Hi,” you stammer. “I’m sorry again. I feel like a terrible person, and I shouldn’t have bit your head off like that.” “I know you were intense, but Jesus Christ,” he exhaled. “Why do you think I wouldn’t be interested in you? You made it seem like I lost a bet to ask you out. You made me feel like crap.” Every word felt like a punch in the gut, and you deserved it. Despite your parents' many flaws, they always taught you not to judge a book by its cover, and that’s precisely what you did. You were pretentious and stuck up about him. In some ways, you aren’t any different from them. “I guess…” your voice trails off. “I just saw you as the athlete that everyone is in love with. Your friends, I know the type, and we’ve never really crossed paths with each other unless I was bumping into you or almost getting hit by your car.” “So… you saw me as the very thing I told you I didn’t want to be seen as.” You didn’t have to answer back. You both knew the answer, and it was eating you up inside. “I’m sorry, I am just gonna go.” Before he could stop you, you exited the Jeep and started walking back toward your dorm. You are embarrassed and can never face him again. This is why you don’t don’t talk to anyone. This is awkward; it feels weird. You lose yourself in your thoughts until you reach the street light, waiting for your turn to go. The air is slightly chilly than usual, the smell of the ocean taking over your senses that you would enjoy any other time. Yeah, a walk to the beach sounds nice, you say to yourself just as the street signal turns green. You feel someone’s hand pulling you away, and you twirl around, facing Soonyoung’s back as he takes you back to his car.

“You’re dramatic as hell, you know that, right?” He shouts over his shoulder. “You didn’t even let me respond; you just hopped out like you were on the run.” 

You stayed silent. What more could you say? He was right. He opens the passenger side, letting you slide in and shutting the door behind you. A few seconds later, he is on your other side, turning on the ignition. 

“You not a terrible person,” he breathes. “A terrible person wouldn’t come sprinting out of their doom in boots and a nice outfit trying to apologize. You said you’re sorry, and it’s fine.” “Is it?” 

“I mean, I’ll get over it,” he shrugs. “I wouldn’t have pulled you back here if I didn’t want to be around you. Now, do you still want to go back and forth about this, or do you want to make it up to me by going to this concert?” It’s a brief moment of silence as you seriously consider your options. You can tell Soonyoung is still bothered by what you did, but his small smile clarifies your decision. “Lead the way, tiger.”

He chuckles as he pulls out of the lot, pulling into a line of cars headed in the same direction. The sun starts to set, the golden hour hitting the horizon at the sea. You fold your arms, confused as to why he is being so nice to you, despite you being a bitch to him earlier. You haven’t felt forgiveness in a long time, which feels foreign. Uncomfortable. You hope this feeling will go away as the night goes on.

You mainly rode in silence aside from the music on the radio, and the hour trip to the venue seemed to be double that. You pull up to Bayfront Amphitheater, packed to the brim with people screaming their hearts out to the band onstage. Your heart skips in excitement, realizing what concert Soonyoung took you to. 

“The Foo Fighters?” you grin, unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’ve been wanting to see them forever.: “Yeah, I remember you were talking about it on the radio, so I figured why not,” his voice trails off. 

Your heart feels like it is going to burst at the seams. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you, and you had the nerve to be a bitch to him earlier. 

“Hey,” you clear your throat. “I’m sorry again. I feel really shitty about it.”

“I know,” he says. “Look, let’s just enjoy this concert, and I’ll forget about it, okay?” You nod, walking towards the loud music. The rhythm of the drums and guitar blended together, hyping the crowd. You let Soonyoung lead the way, checking your tickets and guiding you to your seats. The crowd is thick, with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol flowing freely, and everyone is caught in their own zone. You wouldn’t say you are claustrophobic, but being packed like sardines isn’t your definition of a good time. Soonyoung notices your discomfort and grabs your hand, holding tight until he finds your assigned seats. You felt safe with him, a tiny spark in you that made you swoon. 

“Are you okay?” He shouts over the noise. “Do you want a beer or anything?” “Nah, I’m good,” you shake your head. 

The opening act finishes their set, the crowd politely cheering as the members walk off the stage. There is a small intermission, with people disbursing from their seats to grab drinks or making quick trips to the bathroom. You can feel Soonyoung looking at you, his eyes burning into the left side of your face. You lick your lips and pull strands of your hair to the back of your ear, a blatant attempt at flirting. 

“Are you gonna stare at me all night?” You feel bold, turning your body towards him. “I might,” he purrs. “I have a beautiful, mysterious girl sitting beside me.”

“I’m not that mysterious. We’ve been talking for weeks.” ‘Yeah, in front of thousands of people on the radio. Now I have you all to myself, and I want to get to know the real you.”

“Uh huh,” you nod. “Well, I’m always the same on and off air. You’ll see.” “I hope so.” He smiles at you, and gotta admit the man can flirt. Soonyoung is devastatingly handsome, and he’s quick with his words. It excites you. You like being around people you can banter with and not take shit personally. It takes a load off your shoulders, not having to hold yourself back every time. You just want to be you and be free. It feels like Soonyoung is chasing the same thing. 

“I wouldn’t have predicted you’d be into rock bands like the Foo Fighters. What made you want to go to their concert aside from me?”

“Well, you might be surprised to hear this, but I actually like the band,” he laughs. “I’ve been following them since their debut.”

“Really?” you say. “That’s cool.” “What?” Soonyoung leans closer, your shoulder barely touching his. “Do I not seem like the Foo Fighters type?” “Aht aht,” you playfully wave your finger at him. “I’m not getting tripped up on that question.” You fell into a rhythm of laughter that felt natural as if you had been doing this all your life. Despite your fuck up, he makes you feel cozy and open. The sun makes one final appearance, shining its glorious light on his beautiful, tanned skin. You can fully admit to yourself that he’s handsome as fuck, taking him all in before the sun dips below the horizon. “No, but seriously, I don’t seem like the type to be into them?” You pause before responding, being careful with your answer. “On the surface, no. But I am learning that there is more to a person than meets the eye.” There is a comfortable silence between you two, the sweet-smelling breeze keeping you at bay as you sit and enjoy each other’s company. You have so much you want to say but don’t simultaneously. You savor this tiny bit of peace with him. “I think I am gonna grab a drink,” Soonyoung gets up suddenly. “Do you want anything?” “Yeah, like a juice or something.” You watch him leave, checking out his ass as he stands in the concessions line. Nice and firm, definitely a football player’s ass. You look away before being caught, watching the crew prepare for the next act. You feel like a young girl who just realized you have a crush on a boy. You’re giddy inside, hypersensitive to everything around you and how you look. You hope he finds you as attractive as he says he does, or if not, keep up the lie a little longer. You’ve been dealt many disappointments in your life, and you can’t let this be one of them. 

“Here. I got you a lemonade.”

You gaze up at Soonyoung, carefully grabbing the cup from his hand. He has a cup of beer in the other, sipping before making a face. You laugh in your cup, tasting your sweet drink with some tart. You feel refreshed and a little bit alive, thanks to him. “Ladies and gentlemen, who’s ready for the FOO FIGHTERS?”

The crowd erupts into a roar as the band joins the stage, getting their placements to perform. Jolts of electric excitement course throughout your body, screaming your heart out before the first string is played on the guitar. You’ve always wanted to see them in concert, being a huge fan of Nirvana and following Dave Grohl after. Despite everything, he seems like a rad guy, and

if you ever had the opportunity, you would want to pick his brain and jam out with him. “ARE YOU MUTHAFUCKERS READY?” Dave Grohl shouts into the mic. 

 You both scream as the first song is played, the drums scratching the excellent part of your brain while the guitars take you to another level. You look at Soonyoung, his attention on the band with his arms folded, in awe of the performance being given. He looks adorable, and all you can do is smile, satisfied that you are in this space and can experience this moment. The band keeps playing hit after hit, the energy around you making you want to levitate in the clouds. You haven’t been this happy in a long time. You reach the last song of the night, and the key changes, the guitars riffing into a song you know all too well. “I want everyone to sing this song with us— this is for the regular heroes out there.” 

You feel the emotion and intensity in Dave Grohl’s voice, making you emotional. The song is about the ordinary person and their potential; you wish your family saw your potential. You wish you could share your music with them and see you thrive in the elements you’re most comfortable in. But instead, you’ve been cast out, and as much as you worked hard to get over it, it hurts you deeply. “Are you okay?” Soonyoung looks at you wide-eyed; you’re unaware of the tears trickling down your face. All you want to do is be held and told everything will be okay. As if he read your mind, he holds your hand, his thumb rubbing your palm softly, keeping you anchored in your emotional storm. Nothing else needed to be said between you two; the song lyrics moved your spirit. Kudos, my hero

Leavin' all the mess

You know my hero

The one that's on

There goes my hero

Watch him as he goes

There goes my hero

He's ordinary

“Thank you for taking me to the concert. I had a really good time.”

You sit with Soonyoung in his car, sitting outside of your dorm. You talked about music all the

way back home, singling your hearts out to whatever is on the radio. Soonyoung is surprisingly a good singer, hitting some notes even better than you can. You wonder if he had any training. “I’m glad I was able to make it up to you,” he grins. “Oh, please,” you wave him off. I’m the one who started us on the wrong foot.” “True. But I think you more than made up for it tonight.” “Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes playfully. “Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” 

“Why were you crying during the concert?” You knew this question would come eventually, but you still felt unprepared. You hadn’t really talked about your family life with anyone besides Nikki, but you were determined to keep it to yourself. But he makes you want to open up. “The song really hits me,” you point at your chest. “I feel every word and every percussion note as it plays. It reminds me of my mom and dad, and I wish they saw me as a normal person with their own aspirations rather than the person they want me to be. It was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Soonyoung nodded his head, understanding what you were saying. 

“My parents wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, and I just don’t see myself doing that. I fell in love with music and singing, and when I shared that I wanted to do songwriting full-time, they made me feel so low. Like I am stupid and naive for wanting a career, I would actually be happy.” You huff, wiping fresh tears off of your face. “I just wanted them to support me, but they couldn’t even do that. Aside from my grandparents, they cut me off completely.” “That’s not cool,” Soonyoung scoffs. “So they just went cold turkey and quit talking to you?” You nod, bitterly reliving the last conversation you had with them before you made no contact. “Why can’t our parents just let us live the lives we want? It’s like they want to live vicariously through us.” “Right?!” You exclaim. “See, you get it!”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he mumbled. You turn your body to look at him, studying his face and the possible thoughts he is having. You may see more eye to eye than you realize. ‘So, what’s your damage?” You poke at him. “It’s the same as yours,” he revealed. “They just want me to keep playing basketball so I can go into the big leagues and take care of everyone. I am essentially everyone’s meal ticket.” “Well, you don’t have to be,” you say. “You could just say fuck ‘em and live for yourself.” “Easier said than done,” he sighs. “I’m the first person in my family to attend college, and I actually like playing basketball. I believe in it, bleed it, all that… but whenever I am around my folks or friends, that’s all they want me to be about it. It’s like I’m not real. I am a person with complex interests and feelings, too.” 

“I know exactly what you mean, tiger.” 

You smile reassuringly; you understand that last sentence all too well. Your family would rather consider you the family fuck up, the black sheep, instead of understanding that you wanted different things. Why is that so fucking complicated? You stifle a yawn, looking at your watch and seeing how late it was.

“I really like talking to you and being around you,” Soonyoung confesses. I hope we can do it more.” “Yeah,” you gaze into his eyes. “ I would love that.” He walks you to your dorm, opens the doors, and holds your waist as you walk up the steps. His hands bring jitters and butterflies in your stomach that you hope you can experience more. You know you have a hard, cold exterior on the outside, but deep down, you want to feel love and adoration from someone. You hope Soonyoung can bring that. 

You never want this feeling to go away.

“Thank you for walking me in,” you say, unlocking the keys to your room. “I know I was being a bitch early, but thank you for showing me a good time anyway.” 

“It was worth it, seeing a smile on your face.” 

“Was it?” 

“Yeah,” he leans in closer. “I want to see it more.”

His lips touch yours, your chest bursting like fireworks as he deepens the kiss. Your arms rest on his shoulders, feeling natural and comfortable like a glove. He is gentle and kind, not doing too much but making you feel safe and like you can depend on him. It's crazy how one kiss can have you seeing your future. 

“We should do that more often,” you joke, leaving one last peck. He chuckles, pulling you into a hug. “We will. I’ll make sure to do it more often.” 

“Okay,” you say, walking into your dorm. “I’ll hold you to it.”