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luveline · 11 months

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991

The air here smells like sulphur.

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.

Probably.

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.

Or when you're with Eddie.

As you stupidly told him.

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…

You grip the door.

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.

"I'll see what I can do," she says.

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"

"And is he expecting your call?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who's calling?"

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–

"Transferring now."

You hold your breath.

The phone clicks twice.

"Hi?"

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."

"Hey. How's Florida?"

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."

You can still save it.

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.

Wrong.

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.

"Okay, good."

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?"

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.

You know exactly what he means.

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"

"I should hang up on you."

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say.

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats.

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles.

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.

Eddie could get used to this.

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.

“You’re too busy,” you finish.

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."

"No, at the store."

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."

"Nerd."

"Loser."

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.

"They'll have yours."

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."

You gawp at him. "You did not."

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.

"You don't think you would?"

"I'm not really tenured."

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.

"What do I play?" you ask.

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

"Something fun," he says.

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."

"I'm telling people you said that."

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.

"No."

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.

"What do you know?"

"God, I know everything. You should know that."

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.

You're in awe.

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.

"S'what I get for trying to show off."

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."

He licks his lips. "You're cool."

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.

"I'm worried about people finding out about us."

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"

"No," you mumble.

"Oh. Good."

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."

"They've clocked on."

"Cruel!" he says, delighted.

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"

"What am I getting into?"

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."

"But I don't get that, we don't get along."

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.

"Okay," you breathe.

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."

"You're not on thin ice."

"I should be."

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.

"What's for dinner?" you ask.

Eddie smiles.

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.

"I miss you," he'd said.

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"

"Is there any room?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.

He whistles. Can't help himself.

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.

"Sorry. You're just pretty."

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."

About what? he'd asked.

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.

"Don't push me away," he whines.

"Don't make fun of me."

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.

"You don't like that word?"

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.

"You like Status Quo?" you ask.

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"

"Showaddywaddy?"

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.

"Because you didn't know me."

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"

"Sweetheart, we met before."

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.

"We did," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list.

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."

"You took your time," he says.

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"

You're already forgiven. "Three photos."

"Deal."

"Should've asked for five."

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.

"I've seen them," he disagrees.

"You have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"I'm seeing them right now."

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"

You beam at him. "Right."

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say.

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He hadn't meant to ask like that.

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.

The camera clicks.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic

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somethingubercool · 2 years

Text

my petite protégée (bau x reader/spencer x reader)

Y/N is new to the BAU and works under Garcia. she finds herself being able to see something in the case no one else does, impressing the team, including a specific doctor

this is fem!reader but i will try to make my fics more gen later. in requests btw, if you would like to, please specify what gender you would like the reader to be

genre: fluff

word countL 8.7k

trigger warnings: just regular criminal minds stuff

A/N: So, this took a different turn, a fluffier turn. Originally this was gonna be an angst fic but then I was in a cute mood so. Tell me if you guys want me to continue the Techie Reader series because I would be happy too. Also, the reader is around 20, and I’m placing Spencer at 26-27 so there is a bit of an age difference, but not too much. This is around season 3

UPDATED A/N: I wrote this in 2020 and then deleted it when I deleted my old Tumblr. But, I was really proud of this fic, so....here it is.

This system was far more complicated than what you’ve practiced with when you were at the academy, but you shouldn’t be too surprised knowing the kind of equipment that the FBI tended to use, it was all taught to you at The Academy.

“And I’ve developed all the software myself!”

In addition to the fact that the software was designed by Ms. Penelope Garcia herself.

“This is...amazing,” You gawked, eyes scanning over the array of code Garcia so gracefully decided to show you, whether it was for you to study or be in awe at. Either way, you were doing both, leaning forward in order to scan your eyes over as much of the sequences as you possibly could, although you doubt you would remember it all. You were intelligent, IQ of 159 and almost perfect grades throughout all of your schooling, but you were better with making connections and remembering numbers than memory, so even if you wanted to remember all of Garcia’s code, it was nearly impossible

“That’s right, stare in wonder!” Garcia exclaimed in a grandiose tone, to which you nodded intrinsically, the blue hue of the laptop flashing into your eyes as you scanned the computer one last time.

“I am in wonder,” You replied directly, turning around in your rolling chair to look at the extravagantly dressed woman in all of her glory. “But how long did it take you to program this?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets, Y/L/N.” Garcia replied ominously, to which you gave her a deadpan stare before bursting out into a smile and shaking your head playfully.

“You’re the boss.” You whispered back, spinning around in your chair once more so you would be facing the computers, hearing the rolling of another set of wheels as Garcia pulled up an extra chair next to you.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to someone telling me that, although it feels nice.” She giggled, smiling at me before pulling the keyboard closer to her and entering whatever information was needed in order to pull up the FBI’s security page. As you read through the page, you could see all the requested information pertained to you, and even before you could reply with the needed responses, Garcia began to type.

“Do you have a middle name?”

“Ah--”

“Oh, wait. Never mind, I know that.” She scrolled further down the page.

“Age?”

“20.”

“Oh! You’re a youngster, younger than Reid even.”

You did not recognize that name but decided to not inquire about it.

“Address?”

“3--”

“Oh wait, I know this too. It was on your introductory paper.”

You begged to wonder why she was asking you these questions in the first place if she knew most of the information, but frankly, you didn’t mind spending time with Garcia so you plainly allowed this to happen.

“Alright, all your information is in. You’re now my protege, my little bear.” You giggled at the nickname as soon as it left her mouth.

“Little bear?” You asked, raising your eyebrow amused.

“Cause you’re cute.” She replied, making you pout appreciatively at her. Yeah, you definitely did not mind spending time with Garcia.

“So, what exactly am I supposed to do as your petite protege.” You asked, smirking at her when she raised her eyebrows appreciatively at you for your french,

“Well, mon petit ours, the BAU will be calling into us multiple times for references, further research on specific dates, events, records, anything regarding the situation at hand or regarding a potential witness or unsub.”

“Unsub?” You asked, confused.

“Unidentified subject. The bad guy.”

“The bad guy.” You confirmed, signaling her to continue.

“And sometimes, multiple members will call me at once, I’ll be too popular.” She exclaimed playfully, causing you to giggle again at her antics as you nodded in understanding. “So that is where you step in, my little bear. If I am currently researching a topic or on a call with another one of our special agents and am too busy to respond, they can call you.”

“And I can research the topic as well.” You asked in an attempt to confirm your position, which Garcia affirmed with a single nod.

“Exactly. I’m going to make a copy of my system to a whole new set of monitors that they should be bringing in tomorrow. It probably would have been here today but--”

Suddenly, the door was yanked open, shining a bright light into the relatively dimly lit room, causing both you and Garcia to squint and shield yourselves from the scorching rays.

“Garcia, we have a new case.” You heard a female voice say, one that you were too preoccupied shielding your eyes from to see.

“But there is a new case,” Garcia completed, sighing in relief when the blinding ray of light shrunk away as the female voice closed the door. As soon as your eyes were safe, you were able to unfold yourself from your shielded position and look at the source of the voice and the beam of light, a beautiful, petite blond woman with her arms crossed, a manilla folder in her hand, and an amused smile being the origin of it all.

“Aww, JJ! No sudden lights in the Batcave!” Garcia whined childishly, pouting at the woman, presumably JJ, who was now approaching the two of you with an entertained look in her eyes. She shook her head at Garcia as she leaned against her chair and held the manilla folder up at Garcia’s face. The moment Garcia’s eyes landed on them, they filled with dread.

“Please tell me this is just penny thievery.”

“Serial murders.” The woman replied flatly, causing Garcia to shut her eyes in discomfort.

“That isn’t penny thievery.” Garcia groaned, taking the manilla folder in her hands before throwing you an exasperated sigh to which you sympathetically smiled at. It was at that moment that JJ finally acknowledged you properly.

“Agent Jennifer Jareau, nice to meet you.” She greeted you, taking your hand in a simple shake as you smiled at her.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Techie.” You replied jokingly, to which Agent Jareau seemed to appreciate, smiling at you in a pleased manner.

“She’s my little protege.” Garcia commented, replying in an exaggerated French accent that caused all three of you to giggle.

“How old are you, by the way? You seem young.” She asked you, scanning your face as you politely smiled at her.

“I get that a lot. Contrary to popular beliefs, I can legally drink within a year.” You replied with a small smile, to which Agent Jareau tilted her head in acknowledgment.

“Can you believe it? She’s twenty. A literal baby.” Garcia whispered to Agent Jareau, however, clearly with the intention for you to hear, causing you to roll your eyes at her comment.

“Again, can legally drink in a year. In Europ,e I can do it right now.” You retorted playfully, smiling at Agent Jareau, shyly, who simply chuckled before nodding her head towards the manilla folder in Garcia’s handande gesturing towards the door.

“Come on, we need to talk to the rest of the team.” And with that, Garcia got up and prepared to head to where the team was, you presumed, leaving you perplexed on whether you should stay put in the room or follow Garcia and Agent Jareau, not wanting to intrude in places you didn’t know if you were even invited to. However, Garcia answered that question for you rather quickly, stopping her movements in order to spin around at her heel and point at you definitively,

“You should come with.” She stated, to which you looked back at her with wide eyes and an unknowing stare, baffled to what exactly is taking place. You could see that Agent Jareau had paused and look behind her in the corner of your eye, waiting for the both of you. You gawked at Garcia once again.

“Ahh...am I allowed to?” You asked dumbly, looking between Garcia and Agent Jareau for a concrete answer. Jareau fixated her eyes on Garcia who looked at you as if you were equally the most precious and most ridiculous person alive.

“Of course, you are. But, ah, just for investigation’s sake, why don’t you just sit so that we can give you the information precisely.” Garcia stated, looking back to Jareau for confirmation, to which she nodded and smiled at.

“Sure.” Jareau simply added, waiting for both you and Garcia to catch up with her. Pushing yourself up from the chair, you adjusted your top before walking towards Garcia, who threw you a proud smile and hum as both of you caught up with Agent Jareau and headed towards the briefing room.

“We call it the Roundtable,” Garcia whispered to you as the three of you started to mount up a set of stairs, your eyes preoccupied with scanning the numerous amounts of desks and workers around you, watching in awe. Even though you strived to work here one day, called even before you fully graduated, you still could not believe that you were now part of the Bureau. All those sleepless nights where you agonizingly worried if you would ever make it, finishing reports and projects on just caffeine alone, striving to be a part of the Bureau, none of it seemed real now that you were actually there. To you, all of this was insane.

“And this is it.” You were pulled out of your internal monologue by Agent Jareau’s voice, quickly fixating your eyes on the glass door that separated you and what seemed to be a round table surrounded by various chairs, propped a few feet away from a large screen and projector. Well, at least it fits the name.

“Come on, we have to set everything up before the team comes in,” Garcia said to you, taking your forearm gently and guiding you inside the room, to which you quickly pushed open and examined your surroundings. Wow, you were actually there.

“Can you two set up the monitors while I inform the team?” You heard Agent Jareau ask, causing you to turn your head around and stare at her with wide eyes.

Holy shit you were going to meet the team.

“Yeah, gotta call everyone in so we can stare at photos of dead bodies like any other Tuesday.” Garcia chirped sarcastically, causing Agent Jareau to throw her a playful, exasperated look while you let out a faint giggle. With that, Agent Jareau left the room, leaving you and Garcia to set up the monitors.

“Alright, mon petit ours, let’s do this!” Garcia instigated with an encouraging exclamation, to which you smiled and replied to with a slightly less optimistic exclamation of your own. Garcia could have told you to be more cheerful, but you were convinced that she saw your nervousness and decided that what you gave was sufficient. “Can you start setting up the monitors while I get the photos together? I’m gonna transfer you the file so that you can upload it to the monitor from your computer.”

“Why can’t we just connect the monitor to your computer?” You question with knitted eyebrows, to which Garcia smiled.

“It’s just basic training.” She stated simply, to which you snickered.

“Doesn’t everyone know how to set up a monitor?”

“You’d be surprised.” She said with an underlying tone of exasperation, making the smile on your face grow larger. Once you connected the monitor to your computer, you opened your account and waited for Garcia’s transfer, which happened immediately after you opened the account. You looked up at her in playful shock when the little ding exclaimed from your computer. “I’ll teach you how to be fast and efficient later.” She said with a proud smirk.

At that moment, the glass doors of the room were swung open, causing you to jump slightly in shock. In walked four individuals, of them only two recognizable to you, them being Agent Jareau and SSA Aaron Hotchner. He was the one who you first spoke to when you walked into the Bureau, and although he was quite stoic and straightforward, he was nice to you. When you two made eye-contact, he gave you an acknowledging nod, and you gave him a respectful one back, smiling quickly before turning your head towards the laptop, quickly downloading the slide-show that Garcia sent to you before projecting it to the monitor. Once you had finished, you looked up and sent Garcia a nervous smile, to which she sent you an encouraging one back.

At that moment, you could feel two pairs of eyes staring at you, belonging to the other two agents you didn’t recognize, one of them being a beautiful, raven-haired woman and the other a handsome, darker-skinned man, both of them looking between you, Hotchner, and Garcia expectantly. SSA Hotchner turned to Garcia, who jumped into action, walking over to your place in front of the monitor, near the table, and placing two hands on your shoulders with a firm grasp.

“My Power-Rangers, this is Y/N Y/L/N. Our new Techie and my petite protegee!” She introduced, making you blush at the sudden attention before bowing slightly, one of which you found embarrassing because who even bows in America before straightening yourself and throwing a nervous smile to the two agents. They both gave you polite smiles, the raven-haired lady coming up to you and holding out her hand.

“Hi, Agent Emily Prentiss.” She introduced, to which you replied with a soft smile before taking her hand and giving it a shake. The male agent followed, holding out his hand as well and throwing you a comforting smile.

“Derek Morgan. Nice to meet you Y/L/N.” He said, smiling as you shook his hand with a slightly more relaxed demeanor now that introductions were essentially over. You pulled away from them and looked at each member of the team, smiling nervously before tilting your head sideways to look at Garcia, who gave your shoulders another encouraging squeeze before you spoke.

“I look forward to working with everyone.” You said politely, to which Hotchner nodded, Agent Jareau smiled, Agent Morgan gave you an amused nod, and Agent Prentiss spoke up.

“Can I ask how old you are? Sorry, you just look so young for someone to graduate from the Academy.” She questioned, looking between Garcia and you for an answer. Before Garcia could explain, you decided to interject.

“A-actually, ah, I didn’t.” You explained, fumbling slightly as you attempt to elaborate on your response. “The, ah, the BAU was looking for another Technical Analyst to help with the spike in crimes, and, ah…” As you felt your words start to lag, Garcia gracefully stepped in and finished the elaboration for you, thankfully.

“And now she works under me, haha! I am the master.” She explained in an overexaggerated tone, one that made you giggle and relax, in alliance with how Penelope’s jokes usually made you feel.

“That she is.” You agreed, pushing yourself to make a playful comment. Agent Morgan gave you a smile for that, and even that slight gesture made your tension lessen.

“Well, we can all get to know each other later. Right now, we have a case.” You heard Agent Hotchner say, and immediately, your demeanor changed, becoming serious as you nodded at him and walked over to the computer you set up near the monitor. Garcia returned to her respective laptop, pulling a chair to sit in between Agent Morgan and Agent Hotchner as Agent Jareau handed out files to each member of the team. However, you could not help but realize that there were two extra files in her hands after she finished giving each agent their file. Neither you nor Garcia needed one.

Shaking your head slightly, you decided to not dwell on the miniscule detail and focus on the case, pulling up the slideshow Garcia had sent you before reaching for the remote near your hand, handing it to Agent Jareau who thanked you politely and gestured towards the empty chair at the table, inviting for you to sit. You took the invitation, kindly, and watched as various images popped up on the monitor. What you saw, what was presented to you, the team, caused you to flinch and divert your eyes for a second, before you realized that you yourself would now have to see these images almost weekly, daily even. So, stomaching your disgust, you turned back to the monitor and laid your eyes upon the images of the bloody and brutal girls presented on the screen.

“Two days ago, 26-year-old Lina Turner was found dead in her own home in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her face was mutilated along with her sex-organs.” You tried to suppress the gag that was coming up your throat when you looked once again at the monitor, photos emphasizing the consequences of the gruesome acts committed flashing before you before the images switched to an entirely new woman, this one with red-hair and of short stature, contrasting the previous woman presented on the screen, who was a slender, yet tall brunette.

“Only thing consistent with the victimology is the fact that they’re females.” You heard Agent Morgan state, his eyes fixating on the two photos of the woman now displaying next to each other on the screen.

“Well, considering the fact that they’re both females and their sex-organs were mutilated,” Emily shook her head in empathy and disgust. “the unsub could be male?”

Your head tilted down as you reminded yourself what the term meant, mouthing ‘unidentified subject’ to yourself before turning and looking back up to the other agents. For a split second, you saw Agent Jareau smile at you endearingly before returning to the table.

“The women were also objectively attractive and fit, coupling that with the mutilation to their genitals, we could most likely have a sexual sadist on our hands.” Agent Hotchner said as he read through the files.

“Well, nonetheless, Philly PD wants us there as soon as possible.” Agent Jareau informed, to which Agent Hotchner closed his case files and stood up from his seat, nodding to Agent Jareau who turned off the monitor and handed me the remote with a quiet thank you. “Wheel’s up in 20.”

“Where are Reid and Rossi?” Agent Prentiss asked, causing your ears to quirk up and your eyes to land on her in confusion before glancing back at Garcia, who acknowledged your confusion with a smile.

“At the Academy. They’re giving a lecture.” Agent Hotchner informed, pushing the leather through the latches of his satchel before heading towards the door.

“Oh boy, Reid trying to talk to a group of young adults, that’s gotta be fun.” Agent Prentiss joked, snickering at Agent Jareau, Agent Morgan, and Garcia who all seemed to share the same opinion and knowledge on a subject you were completely oblivious to.

“At least he’s got Rossi,” Agent Jareau sighed, cradling her files in her hand before catching up with Agent Prentiss.

“Hey, Y/L/N, shouldn’t you be in class now too?” Agent Derek said as he turned towards you, a playful smile on his lips that you internally, greatly appreciated, but externally, you still donned a look of surprise.

“Ah, yeah.” Confidence, Y/N, confidence. “Should probably tell my professor I won’t be able to finish my programming project by tomorrow.” You joked, earing various laughs, chuckles, and snickers from the present agents in the room, causing you to feel accomplished.

“Hope he’s not angry,” Morgan added, leaning against the door.

“Ah, he might be, but I’ll just hack into his computer and delete all his files.”

“You can do that?” Agent Prentiss asked, slightly alarmed. “Those are files secured by the bureau.”

You grinned leisurely and shrugged your shoulders. “It wasn’t too hard.”

“Wasn’t?” Agent Prentiss gawked.

“Uh oh, with her you two are double trouble, mama.” Derek exhaled, to whom you assumed to be Garcia, who let out a chuckle before walking over to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder, which you easily relaxed into, feeling quite comfortable with her now, already.

“Apparently all you have to do to get a government job is hack into the government,” Garcia added, leaning her head against your shoulder, causing you to giggle.

“What a simple task.” You replied, sarcastically, causing Agent Prentiss to shake her head in disbelief before smiling at you.

“Oh, I like her.” She commented before pushing open the doors and heading down towards her desk, Agent Jareau laughing at the whole interaction before catching up with the dark-haired agent.

Agent Morgan looked between you two, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek before letting out a quiet chuckle in content. “You two are gonna completely destroy the office,” he said before pushing open the door with his shoulder and turning outward. “See ya later, Baby Girl. See you later, Pretty Protegee!” He called as he walked down the hall and towards the stairs, leaving Garcia smiling and you with a slight blush on your cheeks, a grin plastered over your face as well.

“Pretty Protegee?” You asked, turning towards Garcia with a wide smile.

“Ah, he does that with a lot of people. Although, I will admit—well, gloat,” You snickered at this. “That I have the most nicknames. But yeah, he does that a lot. Its one of his endearing qualities.” She explained, causing you to nod in understanding.

“They’re really nice,” You commented, before remembering something that irked you earlier. “Who are Rossi and Reid, by the way? There names were mentioned before and Agent Jareau had extra files in her hand so, I assume they were for them.”

“Ah!” Garcia exclaimed, wrapping her arm around your bicep as she placed her computer under her arm and started to lead you towards the door, your laptop and file already in your hands. Rossi is this, like, super-rich author who was actually one of the original starters of the BAU. He kind of retired to work on his books, which are like uber-famous, by the way, but came back not too long ago.” You pouted in acknowledgement as she fed you the information, walking across the catwalk with her and towards the elevator. “And Reid—he likes to be called Doctor Reid, by the way.”

“Is he a Doctor?” You inquired, pressing the elevator button corresponding with your floor.

“He has like, 3 PhD’s and can read a bazillion words per minute. He’s super smart, like Einstein smart.” She ranted, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke.

“Einstein discovered the theory of relativity, Garcia.”

“Well, Spencer has an IQ of 187!”

That shocked you, the piece of information donning on you as you both ascended to your chosen floor, your mind trying to rap around the thought.

“Jesus Christ…” You gawked, looking at Garcia with wide eyes.

“Yeah, he’s an actual genius.” Garcia cemented, wide eyes mimicking yours in empathy. You shook your head in disbelief before the doors of the elevator opened, allowing the two of you to step out and head towards Garcia’s lair.

“How old is he? You said he was young.” You asked, opening the door for her, which you thanked you kindly for before walking in.

“Twenty-six.”

“You’re kidding…” You whispered, eyes wrapping around the idea of working with a genius. Of course, everyone in the bureau was intelligent, but people easily get wrapped around by numbers, and you were quite enamored.

“Yeah,” Garcia said, waking up her computers before taking a seat in her comfy chair, and you had followed close after.

“Hmm, does Morgan have a nickname for him as well? Young genius? Einstein?” You asked, opening the case file as you started your laptop back up.

“Yeah, it’s Pretty Boy.” She said with a chuckle, causing your head to spin around in interest.

“Pretty Boy?”

“Cause he’s pretty!” Garcia giggled, spinning towards you in her chair, her fingers fiddling with the fluffy end of the pencil that she decided to pick up.

“He’s pretty?” You inquired, raising an eyebrow before turning back towards your laptop, which still had Garcia’s presentation displayed on it. You quickly exited the screen, shivering in disgust at the memory of the photos.

“Yeah…” There was a slight quirk in her voice that did not settle with you well.

“…Garcia.”

“Why are you so fixated on the fact that he’s pretty?”

“I’m not, Garcia I don’t even know him!” You defended, although you don’t know why you were defending yourself at all, but the slightly upbeat in Garcia’s voice pushed you to explain yourself as if you were caught doing something wrong.

“But the fact that he is pretty interests you.”

“Garcia, again, I don’t know him.

“I think you’d like him, my petite protegee. He likes Star Trek and reading and a whole lotta sugar in his coffee.” She giggled, turning back to her monitor, causing you to stare at her in defense as your mouth moved and contorted to spit out explanations and excuses that never came. Instead, you decided to sigh defeated, slumping in your chair before you loaded your file up to the presentation you desperately hated by knew you needed to look at, quickly skipping towards the ID photos of the two victims before you opened up your case file.

A beat of silence went by.

Screw yourself for being inquired by this guy.

“…so, he’s a nerd?”

Another excruciating beat went by.

“Yeah, he is.” A pause. “Are you into nerds, Y/N?”

You do not know how this escalated so fast, but god do you wish you could turn it back.

* * *

“Your magic oracle is here to serve you, oh wise one.” Garcia said as she picked up the phone, causing you to burst out into laughter behind her, earning a playful glance before she turned back around towards the phone. “Ignore my petite protegee, she has lost all her magical senses. Whatcha need?”

You heard a faint question of ‘petite protégée?’’ from the other end of the phone, and as much as you wanted to stop yourself, you could not help but wonder, Reid? However, logically, the voice sounded too old to be Reid, and by process of elimination, assuming that it’s not a Philly officer due to how the voice seemed genuinely confused by your presence, you concluded that it was Agent Rossi. Though, you cursed yourself for allowing even the thought of Reid to slip through your mind.

“Baby girl, can you look up to see if any of the victims recently had a plumber or any kind of manual worker come to visit them recently?” You heard Morgan on the line ask, and even before you could glance at her, Garcia had started to search away, which at this point you should expect.

However, what you did not expect, was for the other desk phone to ring.

Quickly, you looked at Garcia for guidance, who paused her furious typing to stare at you in expectance, encouragingly nodding at you to pick it up. You pushed yourself off your chair to reach for the phone, bringing it up to your ear in preparation.

“Hel—”

“Garcia can you check to see if the victims all went to the same school?”

The sudden question surprised you, causing you to become speechless as your nervous mind attempted to connect with your mouth and form concrete setences.

“Ah…”

“Garcia?”

“Ah…I’m not Garcia.”

“You’re not?”

Process of elimination.

“No, I’m her new assistant.”

“Oh.”

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Spencer Reid.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

“Y-you’ve heard about me?”

Your nerves released themselves via soft chuckle as you awoke your laptop from sleep mode.

“Garcia told me a lot about you.”

“What did she say?”

‘Reid.’ It was faint, quiet, but it definitely came from Agent Hotchner, the firmness indicating for Reid to be punctual and to not become distracted by whatever you two were doing. It seemed like the two of your snapped out of your weird trance simultaneously, your fingers hovering over your keyboard and phone placed on speaker as soon as Reid started to talk.

“R-right! Sorry. Y/L/N, can you see if the three victims went to the same high school?”

At this point, you could barely feel the keys on your keyboard as your fingers aggressively typed away, pulling up various records of the victims before key-searching on education and diplomas.

“Same high school.” You concluded, surprised by the connection.

“That’s what I thought.” You heard Reid whisper on the other line, but you were certain that it was more towards himself than you. “Thank you, Y/L/N.”

“No problem, Reid.”

Then the line suddenly cut, and you were left in slight dazzlement at the little interaction you got with Doctor Spencer Reid, the man whose voice was too soft and adorable to be true.

You turned agonizingly slow in your chair back towards Garcia’s direction, dread evident through your body as your eyes fell upon her plotting grin, her smirk putting the Chesire-cat to shame.

“….what?”

“What was that little thing you two had in the beginning?”

You let out a groan in dramatic agony.

“Garcia! I barely know him!”

“But you seem smitten.” Her last word was too punctuated for you to be comfortable, so you threw her a sharp glare before turning back towards your laptop and pulling up your programming exam.

“Oh, you are not going to ignore me!” She exclaimed behind you in offense, to which you have an exaggerated shrug of your shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Garcia, but I have important matters to attend.”

“Oh, this is not over, missy.” She let out an offended gasp, and you bit your inner cheek to inhibit yourself from letting out a chuckle as you loaded up your Java program.

* * *

“Your oracle is ready for you, sir.” You heard Garcia say into the phone, your seat rolled up next to her as you both leaned in towards the device, the entire BAU team compiled on the other end.

“We looked through various records and backgrounds, but no one seems to fit the profile.” You heard Agent Hotchner explain from the other end, Garcia immediately pulling up the information you two have collected on the victims and previous suspects so far. Still, it seemed as if the team has got gotten anything conclusive, and since the last time you called, apparently, another body was discovered in a hotel room, more brutally mutilated than the others.

‘He’s evolving.’ You remembered Doctor Spencer Reid say in a previous phone call, only meaning that the situation was getting worse and the team was running out of time.

“Okay, let’s get over what we know so far,” You heard Agent Morgan start, speaking to both the team and the two of you present in the computer lab. “This unsub is efficient and quick,”

“He sexually assaults the victims, humiliates them,” Agent Prentiss added, disgust and fatigue evident in her voice.

Wait.

“Mutilates their bodies and their faces, so he has something against their looks” Agent Jareau voice emulated from the speaker.

Why is it…

“All the victims are from the same college, so the unsub is connected to them in that means. Former student or staff member?” Reid threw, voice questioning.

Why can’t it be…

“These girls were all pretty and popular, maybe he was upset that they made fun of him, or never dated him?” Rossi tried, hoping to find something, anything to add to the case.

Hold on.

“Why do you keep saying that the unsub is a ‘he’?” You interrupted, much to the surprise of Garcia, who looked at you, taken aback, and to the silence of the team, which you interpreted as surprise as well.

“…what do you mean, Y/L/N?” You heard Hotch ask through the phone, causing you to become flustered by your outburst, voice wavering slightly as you attempted to justify yourself.

“I-It’s just—” You felt Garcia’s hand squeeze your shoulder, helping ground you, and you took a soft breath before speaking. “You guys kept talking about how the unsub was neat and efficient. You said it was most likely a sneak attack, right?”

“Right, but the preference in females and in relationship with their sex organs—”

“Lesbians exist, Prentiss.” You interrupt, causing both you and her to chuckle slightly before continuing. “But, it doesn’t have to be sexual.”

“You think it might be revenge?” You heard Agent Rossi ask, and before you responded, you pushed yourself away from Garcia’s desk towards your laptop, opening up your closed device and pressing on the various files that you researched during the case.

“So, I got bored when you guys didn’t call us,” You heard Agent Morgan let out a chuckle. “And I started looking into the victim’s high school backgrounds since Doctor Reid mentioned the fact that they all went to the same school.”

“You can just call me Reid.” You heard him tentatively say from the phone, and you forced yourself not to react to Garcia’s smirk before continuing.

“Okay, since Reid mentioned the fact that they all went to the same school. These girls were the queen bees of the school, the Heathers, the Regina Georges.”

“The what?” It was Reid again, and you could not help but let out a giggle at his confusion.

“We’ll discuss that later, Doc. But they were the meanest girls you could think of, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wanted revenge. You said it might be a boy, but what if it was a girl? Girls, especially high school girls, can be vicious to other high school girls. Maybe one of them snapped.” You explained, displaying your findings to Garcia who scanned them impressed, rubbing your shoulder in pride.

“If they did snap, it would be recent.” You heard Agent Hotchner state quickly before continuing. “Garcia, can you look up any girls from that school who had mental problems during their time in high school, had any psychotic disorders after they graduated, or had any interaction ever with any psych facilities.”

You heard the furious clicking of keys before they came to a sudden halt.

“This is quite a list for such a small school.” Garcia said breathlessly, causing you to shrug.

“Not all of them were bad, some of them might just give anxiety.” You reasoned, to which she smiled softly.

“The unsub, even if brutal, was neat, almost professionally neat. They also would need the specific tools and information to correctly damage and mutilate their sex organs. Baby girl, look up doctors, nurses, med students—”

“Focus on med-students. The victims were 26 and taking in the change that the unsub is also, they probably would still be in med school.” Reid specific, causing Garcia to open her key-searcher and specific the search even more.

“Ahh, geez, I got three names.” She replied, to which you scrunched your eyebrows in shock and disgust.

“How?” You exclaimed softly, to which she shrugged before turning back towards her keyboard.

“The unsub knows the area well to dump the bodies in secluded yet well-visited sites, so search locals, people who were born here, raised here, and stayed here.” Agent Jareau finalized, and in a sudden halt, one name and picture centered at the screen.

“Rebecca Malwizer. Twenty-five. 3356 Walnut Drive.”

“Let’s move.” You heard Agent Hotchner command before the phone was picked up and his voice was heard sharply. “Good work, Y/L/N.” Suddenly, the line was cut, and the bat cave was filled with silence.

Until Garcia enveloped you in a bone-crushing hug and spurted various praises and exclamations to you.

“Ahhh! I have the smartest protegee in all of existence, that was so good!” She gushed, rocking you two back and forth as you laughed at her antics, your hands grasping onto her forearms as you two swayed, chuckling softly at her.

“I learned from the best.” You replied, enjoying the wonderful warmth that was Penelope Garcia.

“Aww, well I can assure you that Doctor Spencer Reid loves smart women like you.”

“Aaaand, you ruined it.” You replied flatly, rejecting her once comforting hug and making attempts to escape them, which she did not allow, only pulling you tighter into her mother-bear embrace.

* * *

“They should be coming any moment!” Garcia exclaimed, jitterily walking towards the elevator with you dragging your feet behind her, smiling softly as you hugged a soft, pink blanket around you,courtesy of Garcia herself.

“They’re probably tired,” You said behind her, catching up to the excited blond with a sigh, leaning against the desk you found yourself near, the entrance to the floor only a few feet away from you. The BAU had been gone for three days now, each day requiring the team to work for countless hours without sleep, meaning neither you nor Garcia got to sleep either. You mentally cursed at the bribing you would have to do with the professor before remembering that you now worked under the Behavioral Analysis Unit and could ask the department to help you be excused.

“Which is why we need to help cheer them up!” She countered, sending you a wide yet strained smile, forcing you to shut up and bend to her will, chuckling to yourself as you cuddled into the blanket, closing your eyes just for a moment as you waited for the team to arrive.

Not even a minute later, the doors creaked open.

“Hello! Hi! Welcome everyone! Hello!” Your head jutted upwards when you heard Garcia exclaim, body jolting straight so you could face the team in front of you.

Agent Prentiss, Morgan, and Jareau all laughed at Garcia’s greeting, with Agent Hotchner giving her a firm nod, acknowledging her before his attention turned to you,

“That was good deduction, Y/L/N.” He addressed to you, giving you a slight grin that filled your whole body with pride, even if all you could return was a tired smile.

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.” You said, voice as professional as you could make it in your exhausted state.

“Call me Hotch. No one on the team calls me Hotchner,” He said before gracing you with a full smile, which only made you feel more accomplished.

“Okay, sir.” You replied, glancing slightly to see Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, and Garcia all smiling at me as well.

“Oh, on that note, call me JJ. That’s what everyone calls me here.” She said, tilting towards you,

“Will do.” You replied, nodding.

“So, you’re the new technical analyst.” The source of the voice was an older gentleman with dark hair and a slight beard, his face appearing as if it had seen the worst that the world had to offer, while at the same time the owner of seventeen yachts. “Y/L/N?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Y/N Y/L/N, sir. You’re Agent David Rossi?” You asked, feeling nervous again at the presence of one of the agents, especially one who apparently was world-renowned.

“I am,” He affirmed, holding out his hand to shake, which you took instantly. “So, tell me, what did these knuckle-heads tell you about me?” he teased, earning a chuckle from you, pulling your hand away from him to tug on the blanket that was slipping from your shoulders. You wanted to be polite, but you were cold.

“All good things, I can assure you.” You smiled, looking over to Garcia out of habit. However, when you did, you saw a slight twinkle in her eyes, snarky and maniacal, in the most well-intended, Garcia fashion possible. You decided to follow where she was staring, and as soon as you did, your eyes landed on her intended receiver.

Oh.

“H-hello.”

Oh fuck, he was adorable.

“H-hi.” You could physically feel Garcia radiating from where you were.

“I’m, uh, Doctor Spencer Reid.” He said, adorned with a soft, half smile and a quick wave of his hand.

Ohhhh, Garcia was never going to let this go.

“But you told me to call you Reid, right?” you said, smiling at him softly. He looked stunned for a second, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes wide. He gave you a dazed nod, to which you didn’t know if you wanted to smirk at or blush, so, you decided to do both, looking at your feet timidly.

“Y-yeah. I did.” He finally chirped, his voice a tad higher pitched than it was before, for reasons that you were too red to consider.

“Well then,” Oh you did not like the airiness in Morgan’s voice either. “It looks like everyone knows everyone.”

“Well, we can get to know each other more later. Right now, we all need some rest. All of you have the weekend off.” You heard Hotch announce, followed by various sighs of relief and pure pleasure—that’s the most accurate way you could describe it—by the other members of the team, causing everyone to head to their desks tiredly.

You felt Garcia’s arm wrap around your bicep before she laid her head against your shoulder.

“Please drag me back to the bat cave so I can get my stuff.” She mumbled, cuddling into you, to which you giggled and rested your head on top of her hair.

“Come on, Garcia.” You said, affectionately, maneuvering yourself around so both of you could go back to the tech lab and grab all your supplies.

As you did, however, you quickly locked eyes with Reid, to which both of you gave each other a soft and timid smile before continuing your courses of action.

* * *

“Hey! Y/L/N!” You heard your name be called right as the elevator door was about to close, causing you to glance up in surprise. When your eyes locked with the warm brown ones of a certain doctor, your hand instantly reached for the elevator buttons and you pushed for the doors to open again.

“Thanks,” Spencer whispered softly as he got in, standing next to you in the elevator and waiting for the doors to close.

“No problem, Reid.” You replied, giving him a polite smile as the doors finally shut, and both of you started to descend downward. The both of you were silent initially, and at that moment, you quickly glanced over at the man, taking in his purple cardigan, the brown sweater-vest peaking from under it, as well as the sleeves of his white undershirt, and his leather satchel, which he held onto the strap of with two hands. With the addition of his converse, mismatched socks, one pumpkin themed while the other one contained math equations, and his floppy brown hair, the only thing that radiated from the man next to you was warmth, a warmth that competed with the pink blanket that was wrapped around your shoulders.

Oh, right, you still had that one.

“Is that Garcia’s?” Reid asked, referring to the suspected object.

You gave him a curt nod in affirmation. “Indeed, it is. I should probably give it back to her but its too warm.” You joked, causing both of you to giggle slightly, the young doctor giving you a soft smile that made your heart tighten.

Oh wow, he was adorable.

“You, ah, what you did during the case, that was really cool.” He complimented, looking up at you with appreciation and earnestness.

“Thanks, Reid. But I’m sure you have those breakthroughs all the time, being a genius and all.” You complimented, causing him to shake his head and smile.

“It was still impressive.”

“I appreciate that, Reid.” You thanked, looking at him softly, and keeping your gaze on him, your mouth slightly ajar in thought, to which he waited patiently for. Suddenly, your expression broke, and you decide to ask him now, or never, because what the heck?

“So…you like Star Trek?”

You have never seen a twenty-six-year-old’s eyes widen so fast.

“Do you like it too?” he exclaimed, voice loud and excited, causing you to giggle loudly.

“I prefer Star Wars, but—”

“What?! Why?” The way that he looked so wounded and sounded so devastated almost made your heart break if it was not for the current subject matter, which you were very passionate.

“Because Star Wars is superior!” You exclaimed, causing Reid to audibly gasp in offense.

“I couldn’t disagree with you more.”

“I am so sad that you believe that Star Trek is better than Star Wars, Reid. Truly, that is a great tragedy.” You replied in faux sympathy, causing him to scoff playfully before turning back to you. By this time, the elevator had reached your destination, but both of you were too engrossed in your conversation to care, walking off together into the parking lot.

Both of you continued to argue about which film series was better, animated, and passionate until you reached your car, to which you leaned against before turning back to the young doctor.

“Okay, fine. But answer me this: Sherlock or Doctor Who?” You looked at him challengingly, watching as the man paused his movements to ponder, expression frozen as he tracked through his mind to find his answer.

“Doctor Who.” You wanted to let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank god. For a second, I thought I would have to murder you, Doctor Reid.” You joke, causing him to smile at you broadly before laughing himself, making your insides to fill up with warmth like they previously did, smiling dopily as your rested your head against the window.

“I like Sherlock, but the tenth doctor is just—”

“David Tennant is a gift from God, I completely agree.” You said, smiling widely at him. For some reason, this caused a pause in your conversation, one that was not odd, but almost relaxing, natural. You were honestly taken aback by how comfortable and easy the conversation between you and Reid was, and you had a hunch that he felt the same.

“Ah, it’s getting late. You should probably get home.” He said, causing you to raise an eyebrow.

“I should get home?” You inquire, causing his eyes to widen and his demeanor to change.

“I-I don’t mean that in, ah, a demanding way, its just ah,” He was fumbling for a response, and you didn’t know if you should relieve him of his anxieties or let him continue out of amusement. “I-I’m sure you’re capable of taking care of yourself—”

“I’m sure that I am too.” You hummed, only causing him to spur further into his defense.

“I—Just, it’s late and unsubs are out at this time and—”

Of course, he still called them unsubs, even off the job.

“Relax, Reid. I get what you were trying to say.” You interrupted, your eyes softening as his body visibly relaxed, head drooping slightly as he looked down at his shoes, giving you a shy smile when he lifted it up once again. You returned him one equally as shy. “But thank you for looking out for me.”

“Ah, no problem…”

Then, you two just looked at each other, eyes soft and demeanors gentle, the quaint and quiet atmosphere that the nearly empty parking lot surrounding you in a serenity that made the situation more intense, but…warm.

Maybe warm was the best way to describe Doctor Spencer Reid.

“I should, ah…” You interrupted softly, breaking the quiet atmosphere that encompassed the two of you, to what seemed like Reid’s disappointment. But you didn’t want to read too much into things. “I should get going.”

“R-right.” He affirmed, nodding towards your car before looking behind him “I should get going too, enjoy the weekend before Hotch calls us in again for a sudden case.”

“Oh, god, does he?” You groaned and looked at him defeated.

“You sadly cannot control when a psychopath will attack”

“Those damn psychopaths.” You murmured jokingly, causing Reid to laugh. You let out another giggle before reaching over and unlocking your car door, throwing your bad into the backseat before turning to Reid once more, holding your blanket closed with one hand before extending the other out to him. “Well, goodnight, Reid.” You said, waiting for him to shake your hand in affirmation.

When he stared at your hand for more than a couple seconds, you could not stop yourself from being confused, scrunching your eyebrows at the young doctor.

“Reid?” You asked, looking up at him.

Suddenly, his head snapped back at you, then glanced back down at your hand, before unwrapping his hand from where it was on his satchel strap and taking yours, holding your hand gently as you shook.

“G-goodnight, Y/L/N.” He said softly, smiling at you timidly. After a few seconds, he stopped shaking your hand, and to your shock—and secret pleasure—he held on for a few more seconds, before letting go and quicklyreturning his hand back to his satchel strap, awkwardly rocking on his feet. “I-I’ll see you Monday.”

“I’ll see you Monday.” You confirmed, looking up at him.

Neither of you made an attempt to move.

“Hey, Reid?” You asked, slightly dazed at the continuous contact.

“Y-yeah?” He replied, seemingly as entranced as you were.

Whatever the hell was happening, you didn’t want to stop. But you had to go home. Your professor might kill you for not turning in your programming assignment on time.

“I really gotta go.” You giggled out, causing the boy to almost jump out of contact with you, pulling back his hand and wrapping it around his satchel strap. You smile at the flustered expression on his face, one that you are sure matches yours.

“R-right. Sorry…” He trailed, but you instantly shook your head.

“Don’t be. It’s just...I got this programming assignment, and my professor would kill me if I don’t turn it in on time.” You explained,

“Oh! I’ve programmed once. I programmed on Java and even was able to create a program where—”

“Reid?”

“Hm?”

“I gotta go.”

“Right!” He exclaimed, blushing ever so darker at his own antics.

This, however, got you thinking.

“How about you continue your thought Saturday night, at my house.” You offered, and for a moment, Reid didn’t respond, choosing to stare at you stunned. He started at you long enough for you to regret your question, considering it a mistake, before he answered.

“Y-yeah! Sure!” He finally replied, his face sporting a wide smile that immediately allowed you to relax.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, umm, I’ll text you the address?” You offered, to which he looked at you awkwardly.

“I, uh, don’t text often.”

“But you text on the case?” You asked, puzzled.

“Yeah, but I don’t bring my case phone home.” You explained, to which you let out a soft breath, expecting nothing else from the doctor, with the minimal knowledge you had of him.

You hoped that the knowledge grew.

“Then…your home number? I’ll call you to tell you.” You offered.

“Can’t you just tell me now?” He questioned with a raised eyebrow, to which you shrugged nonchalantly.

“Yeah, but this is more fun.” You giggled, and he smiled in response.

Quickly, you pulled on your backpack so you could unzip the small compartment, pulling out a sharpie before turning around and holding it out for him, as well as extending your wrist.

He ogled the two offerings in confusion.

‘Your number, Reid.”

“Oh!”

Quickly, he grabbed the sharpie, and with a gentle hold your wrist, one that caused butterflies to flutter in your stomach, he quickly jotted down his number. Once completed, he let go on your wrist and gave you back your sharpie.

“So, ah, Saturday?” he asked, to which you confirmed with a nod.

“Saturday. Then I can show you how much better Star Wars is than Star Trek.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” You retorted playfully, causing you to laugh.

“Okay, okay, or we can watch Doctor Who?” You asked instead, to which he gave you a satisfied nod. “Cool…” You turned back to your car, knowing now that you have to leave, or your professor will murder you. “See you Saturday, Reid;”

“See you Saturday, Y/L/N.”

You could not help your heart from fluttering when you saw Reid stand in the parking lot and watch to make sure you left safely.

You also could not help the soft smile you sported once you got home and when you saw Garcia’s text, exclaiming about how she saw you and Reid, and demanded you tell her the details.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!readr #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fluff #reader x bau

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masterjedilenawrites · 4 months

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I'm just going to make it a tradition to write about tender loving spicy Crosshair on my birthday each year 😊

Crosshair x fem!reader | 500 words

Content: just a short drabble where Crosshair acts suggestively while you make a cake

You slowly twisted the cake stand in front of you, careful to keep your other hand steady as the knife glided along the frosting. What had started out as a simple birthday cake had now turned into an ostentatious mess... multiple layers askew, clashing colors of frosting, sprinkles galore... You were having a blast.

Now you were focused on the finishing touches. With your frosting designs all set, you then reached over for the box of candles. No sooner had you placed the first on top, however, did two mischevious hands start to snake around your middle.

"Cross," you warned as he pressed himself up against your back and held you close. You weren't sure what kind of mood he was in, but you highly doubted it was a helpful one.

"Looking good," Crosshair mumbled before wiggling his nose into your neck.

You couldn't help but squeeze your shoulders in response to the feathery tingles it sent across your skin. You paused to refocus yourself and then placed the next candle into the cake.

"It'll taste better than it looks."

"I sure hope so," he hummed, bringing his mouth up to the shell of your ear. You felt yourself immediately flush from head to toe.

"You weren't talking about the cake were you," you forced out a laugh and continued to place more candles. Gods, there sure were a lot this year.

Crosshair unburied himself from your neck and rested his head gently against the side of yours. "Oh, yeah, that looks good too."

You only had one candle left. You held it up toward him. "Care to do the honors?"

He plucked it out of your fingers and gently stuck it right in the center. And then swiped at some frosting as he withdrew his hand. You didn't have time to react, though, as he deposited some of it onto your nose before licking the rest away.

"Cross!" you finally gasped. You turned in his hold to find an amused glint in his eyes. His whole face seemed so light and carefree. You loved to see this side of him. Even if it was at the expense of your cake.

He leaned in to kiss the frosting off your nose, causing you to giggle and scrunch up your face in protest. His lips then found yours and you allowed yourself to taste the sweetness on them for a slow, blissful moment.

"Happy Birthday, sweetheart," he pulled away with a smile. But the fondness in it quickly shifted back into mischief. "Can't wait to eat."

You wanted to roll your eyes but found you couldn't. Even after being spoiled for most of the day already, you were eager to continue being dotted on. It was your birthday after all. You were allowed to be a little greedy.

"Not until I open my presents first," you flashed a playful smile of your own, accentuating your meaning by rubbing your hands along his chest.

Crosshair crouched just enough to get his hands under your thighs and hoisted you up onto his waist. "We have a lot to do then. Let's not waste any time, birthday girl."

Every Character Tag: @dangerousstrawberrypie, @justanothersadperson93, @arctrooper69, @sleepycreativewriter, @techie-bear, @theroguesully, @cw80831

Bad Batch Tag: @kaijusplotch, @rebel-finn, @lucyysthings, @marvel-starwars-nerd, @nekotaetae, @severalseashellsbytheseashore, @lackofhonor, @flowered-bicycles, @foodmoneyandcats, @nahoney22, @dangraccoon, @mishakoon

✨Join A Tag List Here!✨

🍾 One Shots Master List | 🌙 Master List of Master Lists

#star wars #the bad batch #crosshair #crosshair x reader #birthday #one shot #drabble

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tblsomedoodles · 2 months

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Family Web failed apocalypse Future Designs

(part 1 of 3. eventually. They do not exist yet. Later this week for sure)

Since there's a lot of information for all these guys, i'm going to post them in batches.

Edit: Leo and Mikey can be found here and both forms Raph can be found here

(i'll put info under the cut b/c it got long)

Donnie is 24 by the time they find Raph's kids. (he got Clara when he was 20. like He kinda just walked into the kitchen with a tiny tot one day, grabbed a cup of coffee, and left while everyone was still processing the palm sized turtle he had in a washcloth.)

He tried to go to college for a computer science major but he already knew what they were teaching and kept trying to correct the teachers. The whole thing frustrated him to the point of Rage quitting after a month and starting his own freelance business as a security consultant.

Basically, he gets paid to walk into a building (or sit down at one of their computers), tell them the biggest flaws in their system and suggest what they can do instead. If they pay him enough, he might even set up a design of his own.

(when the people don't believe him about how bad their security system is, he or Jennika break into the building in the middle of the night and leave a business card in their most secure place. He usually gets a call back within 24 hours lol)

He mostly works in the hidden city but he will branch out to human companies (with use of a broach) if suitably asked.

As far as his gear goes, after fighting the krang (and his little apocalypse trip) he refuses to be unprepared. But he can't go around fully suited all the time so he has his gear hidden/collapsed into bulky bracelets and necklaces (some mystic required lol). All he has to do is press the little medallion around his neck and it all folds out from there (like mama touching her broach sometimes to transform : ) ) So yes, Donnie gets a little techy magical girl transformation. as a treat

Jennika, on the other hand, is 22 at this point. She's fully taken on the job of Mama's assistant, pay and all, and has an absolutely killer information network for spy work.

She and Donnie are thick as thieves by this point. Between the two of them they know ALL. And as such, they will occasionally help each other with their jobs, if the mood strikes them. (or if the other has a suitable payment for the inconvenience.)

Jennika took some classes in college but it really wasn't her scene. So she dropped out.

Like Donnie, she wants to be prepared at all times. So she always has on a ninja outfit (reinforced via tech and Mikey webbing/mystic). But she wears bulky outfits over it so it looks more normal, and so she can just take the bulky outer clothes off quickly and be ready for anything in a moment.

So there's my Adult "Must Know Everything" Duo

Up next is probably going to be Leo and Mikey. Followed by Raph's 2 forms.

#asks #tmnt #rottmnt #family web au #my doodles #good future

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hum-suffer · 5 months

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I'm Yours 2

Ishan has always been a light sleeper. His mother was proud of him and his dad, a man who craved snacks at midnight, bemoaned his habits.

So when he wakes up on Sunday morning with a fresh gajra tied on his wrist, for a moment, he wonders if this is a hallucination or a dream. He blinks and pinches his thigh, the sharp sting reminding him that it's reality. He frowns, and touches the gajra. It's real.

Ishan takes a deep breath.

"Let's bathe first and then deal with this," he says to himself. Another beat passes as he reconsiders his promise to himself. "Maybe have some tea first."

____________________________________________________

He's so fucking glad that he had the tea first.

The moment he was more awake, he was panicking.

Someone fucking broke into his house? His house? His ancestral, beloved house that had marble flooring which made clancking sounds everytime he walked? Ishan cracks his neck and takes another fortifying breath, staring at the discarded gajra on the dining table. It feels very audacious. And flattering.

The thought is horrifying and for a moment, Ishan imagines his grandfather shaking his head at the bloody idiocy Ishan possesses. Wryly, he says outloud,"I'm a very good source of entertainment, aren't I, Dadaji?"

The house obviously remains silent. In a surprising turn, the loneliness he often feels seeps right back in.

He glances at the gajra again. "Hey, at least, someone alive gets entertainment from me."

He knows he should report this. But for now, he doesn't want to care. It's a bloody Sunday and he will be damned if something ruins his Sunday, even if it's a stalker/admirer.

A message pops on his phone just as he's about to wash his cup. 'Did you like the gajra, love?'

'don't have the hair for it, dude.'

He probably shouldn't antagonise a probable sociopath.

But hey, what is life, if not had decisions taken in the spirit of loneliness?

____________________________________________________

When he's more settled, in the evening, Ishan goes out for a walk. His body aches in protest and the ink marks on his fingers dictate his profession to anyone who cares to see.

End of semester season is horrible, but more so when he already has to plan so much. Tomorrow's the seminar for something techy— Ishan doesn't know, he's the Hindi teacher, and he'd rather prefer not to know. Those things just rot his brain and he hates the seminars more than students, probably, but he'd do just about anything to take some load off of Virat bhaiya. Jaddu almost always lightens the mood at seminars, and he's back from his holiday to Jamnagar, and Ishan is counting on him to be the better part.

Apart from Shubhman, that is.

Ishan cannot get over his silly little crush, no matter how hard he tries and he hates it. That's a celebrity. A good looking, smart philanthropist who also owns a registered firm.

Ishan doesn't know the name of the firm, he realises with a groan. He gets his phone out, shoots a quick text to Shreyas to prepare the introduction speech for Shubhman.

The admirer, has sent him another message.

'Do you have any favourite colour?'

'yes, it's the shade stfu of the colour mind your business.'

'Lol. Really, tho. Don't make me dissect your wardrobe and make a guess, love'

Ishan's eyes narrow. He's not going to be ordered around by this bullshiter.

'Be my guest, love'

'i'm gonna overlook the rudeness for that endearment'

'Im gonna kill u'. Ishan doesn't even realise he's smiling until he casts a random glance at the windows of parked car. He controls his smile instantly.

'your looks already have'

Ishan scoffs at the blatantly cheesy line. Ew. 'Stay dead.'

____________________________________________________

'You have an awful amt of blue clothes'

The message greets Ishan early in the morning, and so does the smell of jasmines. He looks down and there it is— a gajra tied on his wrist.

The pounding headache that he already has becomes more pronounced as he passes through the motions of his schedule, the message a background chatter in his head until he has the cup of tea in his hands.

So.

That happened.

Yesterday's gajra and today's gajra, side by side, stare at Ishan. Ishan gulps. He should not have done that— any of that.

"Kya kar Raha hai tu," he mutters to himself as his thumb hovers over the block button. Why is he hesitating?

(Maybe because he doesn't care of he's dead or alive. Maybe because he wants the attention. Maybe because the idea of being so desired makes him warm. Maybe because someone only focusing on him makes him feel cherished.

Ishan doesn't dissect these ideas.)

He blocks the number and reports it for good measure.

He's already almost late— the quest to find his beloved oversized blue silk shirt had taken too much time. He's probably left it back home, maybe. He doesn't remember taking it there but he's always been clumsy so who knows? He'll continue the quest later.

The smell of jasmines cling to his nose even after he's deliberately choosen a woodsy perfume.

____________________________________________________

Shubhman is at perfect time.

Avesh, the admin staff manager, came almost running to Ishan when Shubhman, bless him, called in advance to say that he'll be at the college withing fifteen minutes.

If Shubhman keeps this up, Ishan will do something embarassing— like quoting Hannibal or something. The sheer appreciation Ishan feels for the man is beyond words.

As always, Rohit bhaiya had forgotten the matchsticks somewhere but Jas had come through and Ishan is now running around only making sure the height of the mic and the placement of flowers.

Siraj drags him forcefully to the gate of the faculty, to greet Shubhman. A volunteer student clicks photos as Virat Bhai hugs Shubhman, who always appears star struck at the attention from their resident King. Rohit bhaiya squeezes Shubhman in a tight hug and the smile Shubhman has on his face is blinding.

(Ishan wishes someone was as happy to see him. His colleagues are always fun, but they have lives— Ishan doesn't.)

When Shubhman turns to him, Ishan can't help but stare. He's wearing a navy blazer over a white shirt and dark blue jeans. His eyes, they're dark and intense. Ishan feels frozen.

"Ishan." His voice sounds so fucking good. He steps forward and before Ishan can hold his hand out for a handshake, Shubhman steps in his personal space and gives him a side hug.

Ishan breathes in, to calm his heart, and catches a distantly familiar scent from Shubhman. It's probably a kind of perfume Ishan knows, he's obsessed with scents.

"Shubhman. It's a pleasure to meet you again."

What the FUCK is he saying. Ishan wants to dig a hole in some lonely ground and bury himself. A pleasure to meet him? Could he be anymore obvious?

"Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."

____________________________________________________

The seminar goes on for two hours, perfectly adhering to the scheduled time and Shubhman has prepared enough to be also able to do a QnA. Ishan will marry him.

The students rush out of the seminar hall without a second thought, all of them sleepy and wanting to enjoy the rest of their day after the cancellation of their classes.

Ishan hums to himself as he wraps up the extra papers and wires, the bag for Shubhman ready to take. "Tulsi, reusable pen, certificate." He counts everything outloud and puts the bag aside. Someone lifts it up instantly. Ishan whips around, seeing Shubhman standing there grinning at him.

"Hello, there."

"Hi, Shubhman. How long have you been standing here?"

"Just long enough to hear that aap Mumbai aa sakte hai."

Ishan feels his face heat up instantly and shakes his head. Shubhman laughs. "Come on, I feel like we should close this hall before someone closes us inside it."

Would it really be so bad?

Oh god, when did he turn into a desperate teenager?

Ishan follows Shubhman out, talking about measley things like movies and songs, to see him off and help him settle with the gifts but they're met with Virat bhaiya and Rohit bhaiya standing at the gate of the faculty and a thundering rain.

Fuck.

They both despise the rain. Ishan does too, to be honest. Almost everyone at the college hates it. Mostly, because after rain, their usually pristine college roads turn into water holding corners at some areas and the greenery in their college always allows for mosquitoes after a good rain.

Virat bhaiya shakes his head,"Unnatural rains, at the time of diwali no less! Kya zindagi hai yaar."

"Why are you being dramatic?" Ishan asks with a groan,"I have to go back on my bike! I'm already applying for sick leave for tomorrow, Rohit bhaiya."

Before Rohit bhaiya can say anything, though, Shubhman frowns at him. "But why do you want to get soaked? I have my car, I'll drop you off at your place."

"Absolutely not, I'm not going to impose on you like that. And what about my bike?"

"I'll send Rutu or someone with it tomorrow to pick you up, bhai." Rohit bhaiya says. "Don't get sick uselessly! Shubhman is right, you don't need to get soaked for nothing."

Shubhman nods along,"And it's not imposing if I offered. Come on, let me do my good deed for the week."

Ishan looks helplessly at Virat bhaiya. He lifts his chin and gives him a reassuring look.

"Okay."

____________________________________________________

Tagging: @mayakimayahai @kyayaarkiraa @ispeakmorelanguagesthanyou @onthecloudseven @khwxbeeda @ek-ladki-bheegi-bhagi-si @fortunatelycrazyyouth @ishkrisq

#desiblr #suffer ye suhana nahi #desi tumblr #ishman #shubhish #shubhman gill #ishan kishan

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starsscribble · 1 year

Text

Little Thing

Fandom: COD Characters: Ghost A/N: There is no real plot. It’s basically cute one off scenarios that came to mind.

You had been working for two days on no sleep trying to crack the encryption on the laptop Gaz had recovered. Price kept breathing down your neck, and you were beating yourself up. It was hell all around. Groaning as you found a way past one wall only to hit another you slummed in your chair. “I’d kill for some caffeine right now.” You said to no one, or so you thought. Ghost had been passing by when he heard your request. If he had anything to do it was put on hold as he pivoted towards the kitchen.

Only when he had a hot drink in his hand did he make his presence known when entering your area; you didn’t notice. You were about to rip out more hair when a mug came into view held by a gloved hand. “Appreciate the thought. But I don’t drink-” “It’s tea love. No coffee.” He cut you off as he pulled up a spare chair to your desk. “Take some time to destress.” He half ordered sliding the hot drink closer towards you. He watched as you picked it up, carefully taking a sip of the tea and melted. At that moment it was just what you needed.

Ghost watches and listens as some hot shot talks at you; not with you at you. About how if you need help with throwing knives he was your man. You smiled at him in that sugary sweet way that told anyone close to you, how much you wanted to gut him. You nodded at his words and gave short and curt, “Mhm.” Letting him know that even though you hate this hold interaction you were still listening. But Ghost also notices your hand sliding out one of your throwing knives. He bumps Soap’s shoulder pointing it out to the man. “You don’t think she’s gonna kill him? Do you Lt.?” The worried man shot his superior a glance who simply shrugged. They both know if you did kill this poor man they would cover it up for you. You don’t kill the hotshot thought. As he is still talking himself up you glance only once toward the target and back toward him. Turning back to face him that sugary sweet smile still on your lips you throw the knife. The target beeps, pulling everyone's attention toward it. Your knife stuck straight in the dumb’s throat. Gently patting the man on the shoulder you sweetly say. “I think I’m good honey.” Ghost can’t help but watch as you walk away from the slack jaw man; his big grin hidden under the mask.

The intel they worked so hard for; had taken down a whole compound for was taken by Laswell. Everyone in the 141 knows she was just doing her job. But it was still a kick in the teeth. Watching the helicopter fly off the once joyous members were at a loss. They were back to square one. “So,” you started. “Is now a good time to say I made a copy?” All heads turn towards you. They are trying to see if you are joking; not that you would. But still, maybe you were trying to lift the mood in a not-so-great way. Yet you pull out a second USB from your breast pocket and their eyes widen. “You did not!” Gaz exclaims in total shock that you not only copied the intel but that you had the time to do so. “How on earth?” Price started as you give him a cheeky smile. “Know what you keep your secrets. Just glad you're on our side.” “Techie, I could kiss you right now,” Ghost said his smile hidden from the group as your cunning had saved the mission they work so hard on. “Now that’s a reward I would like.” You hummed, throwing the USB to Price. The captain caught it with ease and a grin.

It was late when Ghost returned from his mission. Everyone in the base was asleep, or so he thought. Passing the kitchen he saw you, dressed in an oversized cardigan and shorts. You were humming to music he couldn’t hear as you worked away with something on the stove. You turned to get something from the fridge when you saw him. Still in full gear, the scent of death lingering like it also did after a mission. You smiled at him as you pulled a wireless earbud out to speak with him.

“Heard you were coming back. Figured you would like a hot meal.” His heart melted, normally he would just rest in his room not even thinking about food. Yet he walked farther into the kitchen to get what you made for him. He waited quietly as you finished cooking and made him a bowl. It was a simple pasta dish, garden rotini with alfredo, bell peppers, and chicken nuggets. “This is one of my comfort meals. Hope you don’t mind.” You threw out cleaning up your mess from his meal. “It’s perfect.” He says after the first bit. No, it wasn’t a five-star meal; it was better because it was made by you.

Their last mission had been a rough one. So much so it didn’t take much to get Ghost to agree to join the group at the bar. People easily split into pairs. Price was off talking with Laswell, Soap challenged Gaz to pool, and you just didn’t move from your spot at the table nor did he. Both were far too sore from the mission to enjoy the activities the bar offered. It was nice to just talk with you outside of work. With each story you shared about yourself; he even found himself smiling more under his mask. “Alright,” you gently slapped the table before scooting out of the booth. “I’m getting myself another drink. Be right back because you owe me some Ghosty stories.” He chuckled and nodded before taking another sip of his beer. His eyes followed you with ease as you slipped through the crowd. He knew you could take care of yourself but in a crowded place like this, you needed someone watching your back. As you got to the bar waiting patiently for the server to get to you, Ghost noticed a man working his way towards you. He watched as this man came to stand next to you. He began talking and you engaged in patient conversation. However when he saw the man drape an arm over your injured shoulder making you flinch; he stood. You were far too nice to civilians. You wouldn’t push him away like you would the recruits. You would grin and bear it, something Ghost hated. “Tech,” he called out as soon as he was close enough to the bar to be heard. You and the man beside you turned. Your eyes lit up when you saw him and his heart raced more. “I’m heading out. Are you coming?” “Ya,” you flagged the bartender down to get your card back. You were thankful you hadn’t placed another order yet. Once your card was back in hand you slipped out from the other man’s arm and over towards Ghost. “Thank you.” You said once you were far away from the bar. “It was nothing, love.” He replied as you both slipped into the cool night air.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley imagine #ghost imagine #simon riley x #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x #cod imagine #cod x reader #cod x you

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simularity-sims · 2 months

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New Mods, Mod Updates, & No Internet

My ISP is having a bad outage. Internet has been out for three days and counting. I'm currently working off of my phone as a hotspot. I'm not sure how much longer that will last. Anyway, here's what's new today:

New Mods

Career Counseling - This mod works to cure your Sim’s career burnout and mental fog using an in-game method rather than cheats. Just place a call, go to the counseling appointment, and then your Sim will be feeling good again!

Re-Sorted Vacuums - Re-sorts upright vacuums into the Indoor Trash Bin category in Buy Mode to make them easier to find.

Mod Updates

Possessed Grounds Lot Challenge - Completely recreated with new buffs and more. Now requires Mood Mod Pack by Lumpinou. Now available only as a Lot Challenge. If you have the Lot Trait version, please delete that.

No More Time Capsules or Maps - Now works to stop finding capsules when digging in dirt piles in any world including Sixam.

Techie Trait - Completely recreated and improved. I also removed its custom fear for now. I may put that back in later, not sure.

Other Updates

I updated my Find & Delete Conflicting Mods & CC Article with new information and screenshots.

I plan to update all of my articles as soon as I am able to find the time.

That's all for now. I'll have more next week. :)

cc: @scarlets-realm @luthsthings

#simularity #the sims 4 #thesims4 #sims 4 mods #ts4 mods #sims 4 #simblr #the sims #ts4 download #thesims

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toweroftickles · 2 months

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❤️ Valentine's Day Morsels ❤️

(A Whole Month Late 😅)

These were all supposed to be done for the holiday itself, but obviously that didn't happen. The problem is that I care way too much about my writing and try too hard to make it actually good. That's not why anybody reads this crap. Anywho, I've been in an anomalously sappy, romantic mood lately and whipped up some sugary, snack-sized tickle drabbles involving a few of my all-time-favorite (canon) fictional couples. :) Hope these are sweet enough! Disclaimer: this is all obviously just meant to be cute, silly fun.

Link/Zelda (utilizing "Wilds" era)

Whenever Purah developed a revolutionary new piece of tech for the Hylian Royal Family, she of course needed a volunteer to test it out. At those times, Princess Zelda was always on-hand to make sure she had one. And it was usually Link.

The Sheikah techie was putting the finishing touches on a new observation platform propulsion system...she called it a "Skyview Tower." The Hero of Hyrule stood in the center of the device, bracing for the upcoming vertical rush. It was somewhat against his will that he was being held in place by six clinking, clanking Guardian arms. He felt like a prisoner in the teeth of a hungry beast as they hooked him to the machine, but Purah just clicked away happily on her control Pad.

“How ya doin, Link? You comfy?” she asked him. He nodded reluctantly. "Ok, I'm gonna launch you in 10...9..."

Suddenly, at the sight of Link ensnared in the repurposed robot arms, Zelda bounced up and down and excitedly tapped her compatriot on the shoulder. “Oh! Oh! Purah, wait!”

Everything paused. The princess knelt and whispered excitedly into the inventor’s ear.

What they were talking about, Link couldn’t decipher, but he saw that in the midst of Zelda’s sentence, Purah’s smile stretched bigger and bigger. After a breathy exchange, both ladies were giggling to themselves. Uh-oh. He recognized that energetic sparkle in Purah’s eye…that only happened when she knew her tests were going to have “funny” results.

Beep. Four of the Guardian arms remained holding Link's wrists and ankles still, but the other two raised up and took on new purpose. The octopoid metal tendrils zipped around his torso, snapping their claws like hungry snakes. Their laser sights booped to life and swam their little red eyes all over him...targeting certain areas...and once Purah pressed that button again, they dove right in for the attack.

The little pincer claws skittered and tap-danced under his arms, across his stomach, between his ribs. At first he panicked. Then he grinned. Squirming and struggling, Link began to laugh.

“HHHHeh…Heheh…Heh-Heh Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! Z-Zeld…Heh! Haha!”

"See, I told you he was ticklish," the princess chuckled.

"Oooo, and you were right! This is fun! Look at him dance!"

"Heh-Heh, Heh-Heh Ha...Haha-Heh! Nn-Heh!" Bolts of Gerudo lightning didn't make Link jump around this much. It wasn’t until Zelda sauntered over and tickled him herself that the machine finally wound down.

And just like that, being shot out of an untested military-grade cannon didn't seem so bad.

******

Parzival/Art3mis (Ready Player One)

Spring Center Fortress was always a fun place in the OASIS for testosterone-soaked one-v-one games. Each arena in the cubist coliseum was a giant trampoline, regardless of size or layout, and combat was fast and frantic when no one could stand still. Only true acrobats thrived in the chaos there. Entering one of the battle boxes, Parzival and Art3mis removed their shoes and jackets and stepped barefoot onto the bouncy black floor.

"Choose your weapon, sir." Arty's declaration of war was cheekier than usual. She smirked, already sure of her victory, and make a flashy show of unveiling a fully-2D Airbender staff. Rare gear.

Parzival eagerly cycled through the digital blue pockets of his inventory...lots of options to choose from. Neither he nor Arty were pulling admin privileges and just dropping rare junk into their accounts; this loot had to be earned like everyone else’s. Oh, there was a good one...

"Toymaker Energy Bo," he finally announced. The glowing green stick popped from hammerspace and into his hands, extending four frog-like fingers from its tip that snapped and pinched at their target.

Art3mis nodded. She looked impressed. "Spy Kids 3D. Nice."

At the sound of the buzzer, a blade of cartoony wind sliced through the room and nearly split Parzival's staff in two. Their weapons clacked together as the couple danced and dodged on the springy terrain...the fight was a wild flurry of flips, leg sweeps, slides and parries. Dodging a strike at her knees, Art3mis bounced into a full backwards aerial somersault, a mere hair's breadth away from the Game Over bo's snapping claws. Just as she landed and stumbled back, the very tips of metal fingers pulled at her body, grazing against four particular spots along her torso that they couldn't quite snare.

One, on the right side of her neck. One deep in the hollow of her left armpit. One just above her hipbone. And one smack in the center of her right side, under the ribcage.

“BAH!!” Art3mis nearly slipped on the undulating floor, swiveling on her heel and pointing her finger at Wade, and had to catch her balance against the back wall. Her staff zipped off on an air current and glided away across the stadium. Disarmed. In her most stern, commanding voice, the Goddess of the Hunt blurted “Hey! No. ...Z. No tickling."

"Hey, come on, it was an accident," Parzival laughed.

For a moment everything was still, both anticipating the other's next move. But he'd seen the flash of panic on her face...blood was in the water now. Her eyes darted to her glider. Slowly, Parzival raised his staff again. Its four-pronged hand spun around and wiggled in Arty's direction, closer and closer, and the sight made her jaw clench.

“...God, sometimes I love these Boot Suits.”

“Wade, no. N...HHHA-Ha Ha-Ha! …Ng-Heh! Nuh...nonono, God n-HNN!!"

Art3mis' arms contracted, trying to block the ravenous mechanical fingers, but that only pinned them even more snugly to where they could feast on her ticklish ribs. Her trembling knees buckled. Soon she was wrestled flat onto her back and rolling around atop the rubbery floor, her leg weakly kicking at the air. The Spy Kids staff no longer attacked her...it was Parzival's own fingers that she felt clawing beneath her loose crop-top, squeezing her belly until the cackles burst out of her. The two were bouncing and wrestling and laughing until the floor squeaked. Streaks of charcoal soot blackened her soles…the trampoline's worn surface had almost-literally painted a target on her bare feet, a target which Parzival didn't ignore for long. Arty was surprised by how hard she was cracking up...and, despite the soreness in her cheeks, by how much fun she was having.

“What, what’s the matter? Ya n00b. Stop laughing.”

"Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! Uncle! Uncl-hle!"

The dull fingernails that had been scribbling beneath her toes retreated. Arty was free again. Up and down, the trampoline reverberated to the rhythm of her diaphragm's spasmodic wobbles. Even after all this time, it was still an out-of-body experience, to catch one's raspy breath as a digital avatar...when she was worn out inside the OASIS, her real-world meat puppet followed suit. Slowly she and the trampoline both calmed. She sat up, folding her arms across bent knees, and her middle finger dabbed at her eyelash.

"Ha......Ahhhhhhh Ha Ha....Huheh...Okay, okay, you got me," she chuckled. Her toes clenched up against the rubbery ground. She tried to affect a serious expression, but that wide-eyed grin of hers just wouldn't dissolve. “But don’t do that again!”

"Eh, can't make any promises," Z taunted, helping her stand. For that, he received a playful punch in the shoulder.

Like most of the OASIS, there were no real rules in Spring Center Fortress. The important thing was how you won.

******

Aang/Katara (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Waterbender training was going...as Sokka would put it...swimmingly. Aang and Katara stood ankle-deep in the waters of Chameleon Bay, practicing their stances. Liquid swirled around them, rising and falling like tides at their command.

"How's your octopus form?" Aang's teacher asked him.

Quickly, Aang struck the proper pose and focused. A stream of ocean foam snaked upward into the air and corkscrewed multiple arcs around his body. With a twist of his arm, the water coalesced into a near-solid tentacle, its rippling surface smoothed out, and he made it sway back and forth in a friendly wave. Katara giggled. She, meanwhile, was focused on maintaining six hovering spheres of water that orbited around a rock in front of her. Gesturing with her palm, she relaxed into a simple Single Whip posture, her right knee bent and arms outstretched, and the water balls merged into a lash. She was focused and precise...and totally oblivious to what her pupil was doing.

Guided by Aang's slow dance, a water tendril slithered across the bay and breached the surface. As soon as Katara wasn't looking, its tip rose up and wiggled against her tummy - right next to her belly button.

"Ah! Haha…Aang, stop it!" Laughing, she jumped in place and covered her ticklish spot with her hand. Instantly the Avatar’s octopus construct fizzled into droplets and splashed the flowing sea below. He stood there all sheepish and rubbed the back of his tattooed head, grinning like a buffoon.

"Heh...sorry. You were wide open." Aang couldn't escape his own mischievous nature. He was 12, after all.

There was a brief and fearful pang in his stomach...is Katara mad at me? But her smile was the brightest he'd seen on the waterbender's face all week. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he could've sworn she was starting to blush. Both benders just laughed shyly and turned to face the sandbank once more.

"Alright, let's keep going."

******

Gwen/Miles (Spider-Verse)

The multiversal headquarters of the Spiders didn't just have a lockup, a science lab, and a cafeteria (no bagels allowed). There was also quite a museum of trophies and mementos gathered from past battles, defeated villains, and fallen heroes from all across the cosmic web. It was like Batman's basement on the scale of the MoMA. And Gwen couldn't wait to show Miles all she'd learned there.

Clasping one another's hands they dashed through the halls, often pulling eagerly in opposite directions. Miles was a kid in a candy store, and every time his eyes lit up, it reminded Gwen of a thousand reasons why she liked him. After passing the wrecked granite namesake of one "Big Wheel 5000 BC," the two skidded to a stop, lured by an exhibit that stood out from the rest: a single hand, perched atop a pedestal.

An Infinity Gauntlet, this was not. It was a cheap canary opera glove, with long, fluffy white feathers glued to its digits in lieu of fingernails. The plastic plaque beneath declared in full voice to the pair:

“‘The Tickler?!’" Frog-mouthed in shock, Gwen doubled over, laughing wildly. “No. Freaking. Way."***

"Are you serious right now? Ha…Wow, they just get lamer…”

"Heheh-Heh! Ok, ok; you’ve gotta hear this: 'Crude homemade weapon retrieved from Whedon Winslow, Earth-57780.' Some name... 'Failed stand-up comedian who turned to larceny. Distracted victims and pursuant Spider Society with...'"

But Miles wasn’t paying attention to Gwen's narration. He was busy cracking his knuckles and reaching toward his distracted girlfriend from behind, trying to project confidence from a playful smile that was actually quite shy. He was gonna get her so good, he encouraged himself.

In the midst of Gwen's sentence, kneading fingertips hooked right into her sensitive, squishy waistline.

Her gasp was loud and shrill. The girl almost popped like a chocolatey toaster pastry, but a right forearm encircled her collarbone and held her firmly in place. Before she knew it, Gwen was immobilized in a tickle hug and fell straight into Miles' lap as the two collapsed to the floor.

"AH!! *gasp* Huhuh-Huhuh Heheh! *gasp* Ah Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha! St-HOP ihit! We're supposed to be quiet!!"

She screamed and elbowed Miles in the stomach, but he maintained his hold. Then she tried pulling on his wrists. No good. Gwen was the most squirmy, wiggly human being Miles had ever seen; champion swimmers didn't kick their legs as hard as she did. He might as well have been trying to hold onto a hagfish in an oil spill…even with sticky fingers, it was a challenge! But watching her smile and laugh like this was so worth it.

“Wait, hold up a minute!” Miles laughed as if Gwen would actually obey him (not that she had much choice). One THWIP! of spider-silk from his wrist, and The Tickler’s glove was yanked right off its perch and into his hand. Miles didn't put it on...all he needed to do was hold one of the fingers and wield the feather like a wand.

The quills prickled like thousands of tiny needles against the nape of Gwen's goosebumpy neck...right at the signal source from whence her Spider-Sense was screeching. Any measure of defiance left in her crumbled to dust. Both of her palms slapped over her face...anything to hide it from Miles. She could have fried an egg on her cheeks for how they sizzled.

“VVVVVVVFF-EEEE!!! *Yeek!* OmigodNO - N-no feath-hers, oh my GAWWD, no feahehther-her-hers…*SNORT* AHHHMilesstoppit!” she whined and cried. The feather stroked down across her collarbone, her shoulder blade, under her armpit...

It wasn't long before one of the nigh-innumerable Spider Society horde noticed the sound of embarrassed squeals echoing throughout the gallery and swooped in to investigate. But when this particular Peter Parker entered the hall, it was found vacant. Nothing but various museum exhibits, all undisturbed in their places. And so he left.

Miles, as it turns out, had been practicing a new technique. He wasn't the only person that he could turn invisible.

"Shhh!" he whispered. Gwen was absolutely trembling in his lap, even though the tickling had stopped - it took two hands to stifle her uncontrollable belly laughs. There, with his arms around her and feeling her heartbeat against his, a warmth washed over Miles. There were a million worries flapping around inside his brain...his future with the Spiders, his parents, and he & Gwen...was it right, how they felt about each other, what they were doing? But for a few quiet moments, where nobody could see them, none of that mattered.

He almost kissed the top of her head, but got too antsy.

Maybe next time.

******

*Note: Actual Spider-Man villain. Seriously. I did not make this up.

Victoria/Misto (Cats 2019)

The Egyptian Theater was warm and sleepy that evening. The old sun-shaped stage prop created the perfect napping spot for a young Jellicle, and the white cat lolled blissfully in its hollowed-out cradle. Her left leg dangled down off the side, pendulous and swaying like a metronome, right next to her boyfriend’s nearby head. Mr. Mistoffelees was kneeling there on the floorboards directly beneath, fumbling with a deck of cards.

Victoria peered over the side of her perch and smiled, unnoticed. Just laying beside her magician (well, a bit higher and to the right of him, anyway) carried her off in a cozy bubble of comfort. She just felt content around him. Her hands couldn’t reach to pet him…not from this angle…so instead, she held her slender leg out and, with her big toe, traced gentle crescents behind his ear.

His ear twitched. At first Misto instinctively ducked away from the impromptu scalp scratch, inquisitive chuckle aside ("Heh...what are you doing?"), but he soon came around to her affection and began to purr. His head rolled around across his shoulders, his back arched, and his ears flopped and wagged. Tori could tell the scritches were making him happy. Tufts of black fur shot up like grass between her marble toes, bristling the ball of her foot back and forth, until out of nowhere it made her shiver and pull away.

"Hmhm! Hmf..." she giggled sweetly through her nose. "Your fur tickles."

The tuxedo cat grinned and looked up at her. There was his opening. "Oh, it does?" he taunted. "It does?" With one quick yank, Victoria’s foot was down near his chest, and she was laughing and gripping the sunbeams with all her might. In her meek struggle for balance, that varnished wooden nest fought back with bumpy scrapes against her stomach and her thighs. Taking hold of his tail in his left hand, Misto started painting broad brushstrokes across Victoria’s foot with its fuzzy black tip, and she immediately began to fidget. “What about this?” Misto asked her.

"Heehee-Hih! *gasp* Hn-Hih! Th-hat's not fair, I'm stuck...Hee! It tihickles," the snow-white kitten’s jubilant squeaks bubbled up from inside her. Her ears flattened shyly. Why did this kind of thing happen to her so much? She didn’t hate being tickled, but lately it felt like she’d become something of a Jellicle magnet. If this kept up, she’d have to start wearing her ballet flats 24/7.

Almost as soon as it started, Misto let her go, and Victoria scurried her legs back up inside that little hovel, before turning around and facing him once more. She loved the chalky pink way his nose blushed, and that awkward, crooked smile of his, the one that popped up whenever he finally let himself be playful. He loved how her persimmon lips stood out against her face, and the way her head dropped timidly down to her shoulders when she giggled.

Soon the two were snuggling in each other's arms inside the heart of the sun, just waiting for the Jellicle Moon to rise again.

******

Vi/Caitlyn (Arcane)

The papery bandages around her forearms chafed against Vi's chin. Her elaborate clockwork tattoos peeked out through the rips on her sleeveless blue-hooded top. Pink-and-orange sunset streaked through the glass. She still wasn’t used to laying on a bed as big and comfy as Caitlyn’s.

"I haven't had a back rub in...probably forever," she mused, still a little apprehensive about this kind of intimate contact.

"It's really relaxing, I promise.”

Warm palms kneaded into the Trencher girl's scapula. Spindly fingers performed slow, smooth taffy-machine pulls on the muscles between her shoulders and neck. At first she resisted, but slowly surrendered to the touching and let herself sink deep into the soft mattress.

“Wow, your…you’re rock solid,” Caitlyn murmured, impressed. Under that jacket, Vi’s physique felt even buffer than it looked. And that intricate body art…Caitlyn was so busy admiring that she neglected to notice how her hands were moving faster, stroking in tandem with a nervous pulse.

Vi froze. Her fingers skittishly drummed against the bedsheet. Everything about Caitlyn's technique was wrong in precisely the right ways: the thumbs were rubbing a little too gently down her lats, the fingernails squeezing a smidge too firm between her ribs. It was clumsy, inelegant...ticklish. All it took was one especially-wrong nerve hit, and when she could no longer keep her mouth shut, Vi’s whole body shuddered.

“DAH, Huhuh-Heheh! Hey…watch it,” she laughed. "Careful back there."

“Sorry,” Cait replied, smirking. Her hands plunged back down.

Oh come on…not again. Vi felt like a grape in a wine press when twisting thumbs pushed down hard on her obliques. Her lumbars. Her hipbones. Every knot in her lower back. Her eyes widened, and all the air in her chest squeezed out from between her lips like a squished football deflating.

“Mmff…PFFFFTHnhn!” More wriggles. The bed whined from the kicking lower legs that thumped against it. Caitlyn was at a befuddled junction halfway between offense and joy, between pouting and grinning. Vi always made things difficult for her.

“I am trying to do something nice for you; could you just hold still?”

“GRRRR, stop tickling me!” Vi snapped.

No apology this time. Only a playful tsk, and then the massage resumed.

The fluttery rubbing sensation drilled down through Vi’s back until it scorched the inner wall of her stomach. Her frustrated, reddening facial features scrunched themselves tightly together. She repeatedly slapped the nearby pillow with the ferocity of a grunge drummer. If her bared teeth had ground any harder together, her gums would’ve bled.

“NGK! Nooo-hoho; Hng-Hn! Gkkkk…Sss-sss-st-hop i-hih-hit…! Kkkkk!!” The redhead choked on desperate glass-shard sniggers that scraped against the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t stop her angry tough-girl giggling, and it drove her nuts.

"C-hut it ouuut, I'm gonna punch you!!!"

That one wasn't a threat; it was a genuine, heartfelt warning. Caitlyn couldn’t help but flash a buck-toothed grin...that was probably enough, for both their sakes. She drew back her hands and watched Vi's quivering shoulders slow down, listened to her breath steady itself.

"Ugh...What the hell, Cait?"

“Sorry, it wasn't on purpose. You’re just…I think it’s very…*ahem* …" Now it was the cop's turn to be flustered and rosy-cheeked. "...adorable. How frustrated you get when you’re feeling ticklish.”

Caitlyn was expecting a tease, a playful slap, a snarky reprimand...some kind of retaliation...especially when she saw that smirk in the corner of Vi's mouth. But instead of payback, she got a pleasant surprise: Vi sat up, turned around, and shoved her lips into Caitlyn’s so hard and fast that the blue-haired Enforcer almost fell backward.

...Perhaps she'd have to try this again soon.

******

Kiki/Tombo (Kiki's Delivery Service)

“Hey, Kiki, I was wondering…can witches call their broomsticks to them like a magnet?” Tombo asked studiously, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He and Kiki were relaxing on Ursula’s front porch with glasses of fizzy lemonade, the sticky kind that makes your spit hurt when you drink it. It was a foggy spring morning and the crows were flapping in the damp emerald lawn.

“Hm…I don’t know; I’ve never tried,” she observed. Spying her broom across the clearing, rested against a tree stump, the young courier witch reached out her right hand, poked her tongue out, and concentrated. Unfortunately, Star Wars hadn't been invented yet, so it didn't occur to her to make an Empire Strikes Back reference.

At first her flying stick merely turned. It rocked in the crook of the tree’s roots, but nothing more. Maybe she wasn’t concentrating hard enough? But no sooner had the idea entered her mind than the crude vehicle hoisted itself horizontally, hovered a few feet off the grass, and charged. An invisible hand threw the broom at Kiki like a chucked javelin, and it was soaring straight for her face.

"Whoa! Look out!" Tombo immediately sprung into action, and his quick dive shoved Kiki out of the way just in time for him to take the blow. The broom's handle shot into one sleeve and out the other, dragging the junior aviator off the porch and tossing him headlong to the ground before it finally twitched its last.

“Oh my gosh, Tombo! Are you ok?!” Panicking, Kiki rushed to pull her friend up out of the grass. The broom handle was caught against his neck, parallel to the red-and-white stripes on his chest. He wobbled a bit when he stood...a few green stains on his knees...but was otherwise unscraped.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine. Just a little crooked here," he reassured her, swinging his arms around like a weathervane.

“Oh, thank goodness...Heh...you know, you kind of look like a scarecrow that way."

She was right...he did...but the boy’s gangly T-pose did nothing to deter Ursula’s avian buddies. In fact, right on cue, several of them flocked to his outstretched forearms. One even pecked at his ear.

“Heh-Heh! Guess I’m not a very good one!” The two shared a chuckle, before Kiki helpfully flapped her arm and shooed the birds away. "Hey, thanks. Can you help me get this out? My arms are kinda stuck."

But Kiki wasn't interested in helping right away...his pose had given her other ideas. Before Tombo knew it, Kiki's fingers were strumming up and down his sides with gleeful abandon. She kept pinching his belly and in between his ribs and affectionately watched him wiggle.

"Heh! Heheh-Haha! Hey, cut it ou-howt! Heh! You know I'm ticklish!" Tombo's smile was wide and sunny and dorky as he jumped around in place. Kiki, meanwhile, was positively giddy. She only tickled for a few more seconds...any longer and she would've gotten much too embarrassed...before carefully extricating the misbehaving broom from Tombo's sleeves and throwing it out into the field. Crisis averted.

"Heehee-Hee! I'm sorry, I couldn't help it!"

The boy brushed his sandy hair back and grinned broadly as the two sat again. "Well, you know I can't just let you do that!"

Kiki glanced down. Slowly...making sure to stretch out each moment of tension to its unbearable limits...Tombo was reaching his hands towards her, performing a spidery midair dance with his fingers.

The teen witch was already in a fit of helpless giggles and starting to blush. “Hmhm! Oho no, please don’t do it…” But instead of fleeing or curling up like an armadillo, as Tombo expected, Kiki bent over and quickly slipped her shoes off…first left, then right…and then lifted her arms skyward. “Heehee! Oh my gohosh, no, please…please don't...”

Suddenly, an old door hinge groaned. Bare feet creaked on the cold grey porch step. When Kiki & Tombo turned to look at the source of the noise, there stood Ursula, grinning and tapping her fingers on a steaming blue coffee mug.

"Hey, what are you two doing out here?"

*******A Few Seconds Later*******

"AHHH, Ha-HAAAAA Haha! *gasp* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!" Kiki screamed.

"Heheh...Heh! Hng…Heheh-Haha Haha...Hng! Heh! Stop!" Tombo's turn.

Ursula was pinning both of her young friends down to the floorboards, aggressively wiggling her nimble fingers across their bellies and watching them squirm & kick in sync together. “Uh-ohhh; look out! I'm the world's most evil tummy tickler!” She laughed, they laughed; Ursula was clearly relishing her position.

That is, until Kiki and Tombo managed to grab the artist’s ankles amid their struggle, tripped her up, and tickled her feet with her own paintbrushes until she was completely out of breath from laughing.

Kiki often wound up in tickle fights with her friends back home. But she couldn't remember one that was this much fun.

******

Robin/Maid Marian (Robin Hood)

Cops and robbers, such as they were, didn't exist in 12th-century Britannia. So "Robin Hood vs. Prince John" was the game of choice for the rabbit brood. Skippy was playing Robin Hood, of course, which meant Sis & Tagalong were his cohorts. Maid Marian volunteered to be Prince John, so Lady Kluck had to be the Sheriff. That left Robin himself to portray the benevolent King Richard, and Toby Turtle as Sir Hiss.

“A pox on the phony king of England!” Robin cheered. At his command, his noble servants were chasing the “Prince” all over the castle courtyard. They all ran in wild circles over and over, laughing merrily, until Skippy and Tagalong managed to hop up and grab Marian by the wrists. The bunny siblings dangled off of her like bracelets swaying in the breeze, and she bent at the waist as she tried to keep walking.

"We've gotchu now, Prince John!" crowed Skippy. "Give up?"

"Oh no, what-EVER shall I do?" Marian giggled in her most over-dramatic performance yet. "Sir Hiss, seize these scoundrels!"

Toby's head - SHLUNK - sucked back into his shell. He certainly wasn't going to help. Eager to catch their dastardly villain, Sis took matters into her own hands. Jumping in front of the pack, the bunny girl reached up and pawed at the struggling Maid Marian's belly, and Skippy joined the fun by grabbing her side. Immediately, the vixen broke into breathy peals of soft, melodious laughter.

"Ohoho no...Oh no-ho-ho-ho! *gasp* Noooo; anything but tickling, Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!"

She knew full well that a plea like that would only goad the rambunctious tykes on, but if she were being honest, she was having far too much fun to care. This was as close as she'd get to playing with kids of her own, at least for a little while. Letting loose an enthusiastic yip, Marian fell into the dandelions, and the wrath of the rabbit swarm rained down upon her.

A sextet of bunny hands and paws were grabbing and squeezing and scratching at her tummy. Their little fingers pulled through creases in the silky dress she wore; their feet slid and stomped along her sides and made her wiggle. The kids' squeaky machine-gun giggles were very contagious, and the already-helpless fox couldn't stop laughing herself silly. She jostled and squirmed and had to push Tagalong off of her stomach.

“Ah-Ha Ha-Ha! *gasp* Help! K-Klucky-Hee…Ro...Robin, Heh-Heh-Help!”

"Bawk! Milady! Yer noicest drrrrress!" Klucky honked.

Robin himself was busy chuckling at Marian’s misfortune. Quite clever of them, he thought. They'd make Merry Men yet. His yellow bycocket cap shifted atop his vulpine ears - and suddenly, his thoughts turned to the feather that adorned it. He removed the hat, pulled the long scarlet plume from its sheathe, and twisted it between his fingers, amused. "Ah, there we are..." the outlaw remarked to no one in particular, as if he'd made some unexpected discovery.

Kneeling down, Robin grasped Marian's right ankle and gingerly lifted her leg up out of the weeds. With that roguish, wry smile and an absentminded hum, he stared right into her eyes and swooshed the feather back and forth across the bottom of her foot.

"Oh!! *gasp* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!! *gasp*hic* Haha-Ha! Oh dohon't, please, I...I d-hon't think I can stand any more, Ha-Ha Ha!” she cried. Pools of pink stained her cheeks. Her long eyelashes were dripping wet.

"Hmm, I think the prisoner has learned their lesson, don't you, kids?" Robin declared. Despite a few protests and "awwww"s, everyone backed off, leaving the exhausted Marian alone in the grass to catch her breath. "The Prince has been vanquished!!"

"Long live Robin Hood!" Skippy cried, holding his wooden sword triumphantly aloft, cheered on by his adulating sisters. While the kids danced in a circle singing "Prince John the Worst" off-key, Robin traipsed through the flowerbed over to his lady fair and tenderly offered her his palm.

"Oh, my hero; you've come to rescue me," Marian sighed, still all atwitter and breathless and fanning herself.

But instead of taking his hand, Marian pulled Robin down into the sunny spring field with her. Robin sent her his most disarmingly handsome smolder, and when she shied away, he slowly kissed her cheek. Their embrace was perfectly accompanied by the sounds of Sis and Tagalong giggling at them in the background...and of Skippy pretending to vomit.

"Blech!" he mumbled. "...Sissy stuff."

******

Neytiri/Jake (Avatar)

Neytiri sat up and slowly pulled her feet from beneath the powdery white sand. Infinitesimal shards of salt and earth and coral and glass sifted through the gaps between her toes with a quiet hiss. Pandoran beaches were very soft.

Jake emerged from the water and strode over to her resting spot. The sand was so smooth that he didn't even leave footprints; the pale flecks of dust simply clung to his body. "You think we should get back?" he asked her. "Mo'at's probably gonna be pissed."

"Mmmm..." Neytiri sighed contentedly and closed her eyes. "Not yet. I am too relaxed to move."

“Well here…lemme help you.” Not waiting for a rebuttal, Jake immediately stepped over her reclining legs, turned his back, and plopped down right on her ankles, straddling them. Neytiri looked bemused by his antics.

"What? What are you...AHH!!!! HN...Huheh-HEEE Heehee-Hee! NO! No PLEASE; HA-HA HA-HA!!"

The Omatikaya princess’ loud shriek scattered the nearby flock of tetrapteron into the salty air. Her grin threatened to split her cheeks open. Jake's fingertips were mercilessly prodding and caressing underneath her toes, and every single touch made her want to scream.

"Not that! G-get AWAY from MEE-HEE!!!" But her mate said nothing. Grinning, Jake bent all ten of his fingers...those damn Sky People with their extra digits...and scratched them up and down on her massive sky-blue soles.

“J-Jake!! My JAHAY-HA-HA-HA!!!” Neytiri tried to beg, but couldn't get the words out. Her voice leapfrogged through the entire octave scale, from bird chirps all the way down to breathy hyucks erupting from deep in her belly. She thrashed around frantically, her butt bouncing against the sand, and left a flurry of stinging open-palm slaps across her husband's back; even he could barely wrestle her down. Braids and beads tangled themselves like seaweed across her screaming face...how undignified it was, to constantly spit out strands of dreadlocked hair in between her bouts of tearful hysteria.

Jake didn't quit torturing her until she managed to lurch herself forward...the crunch burned her elongated stomach...and threw both of her hands at his armpits. He laughed and jumped aside at the unexpected tickle, before spinning around and scooping Neytiri into his arms. In a moment she was flat on her back once again, with Jake hovering over her and blotting out the sun, a toruk in his own right. The tremors in her chest slowed down, but her anger only boiled hotter. The smug, dopey jarhead smile of his...why didn't she hate it?

"I...*huff*...will...make you suffer for this...*wheeze*...Jake Sully," she hissed at her mate, flashing jagged fangs.

Rather than fear her, or even apologize, Jake simply tweaked her nose and pecked her on the forehead. What an asshole.

Maybe she could let him off the hook. Just this once.

******

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