#wonderboy!reader

[invincibledc]

||How They Sleep With WonderBoy!Reader||

⇒JON

Mix of big and little spoon, arms wrapped around so he can feel you by his side. Or at times he’s the one that’s the little spoon, liking how your arms protect him as well. He just loves to feel around him.

⇒KON EL

Either is big spoon, or is on top of you sprawled out like a fish. Bro does not know how to give you space ever since you accepted him to be his friend. But he gives you space for the few minutes of sleep, til his body automatically wants to be on you or by you. Try and make a pillow wall, he’s knocking it down.

⇒CONNOR

Big spoon all day and night. It’s rare to be little spoon, but he’s wrapping his strong arms around you tightly. You can possibly get out of his hold due to you and him being very strong, but he’ll just drag you into his arms. His protective instincts taking over. Don’t worry, just tell him you need space. It’s not like he’ll secretly overthink it and pretend it’s fine.

[shortnsweetsposts]

Wonder!reader: FIGHT ME YOU NERD-ASS PUNK!!

Damian: At least try to sound sophisticated when you threaten someone.

Wonder!reader: “Does thou wish to wish to engage in a duel, my good bitch?”

Damian: Somehow that was worse!?

[witchthewriter]

𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑮𝒚𝒗𝒆𝒓 & 𝑾𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒐𝒚: 𝑨 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄.

Paid story for @alohomorasomnium. Word Count: 1k Warnings: swears, mentions of previous domestic violence

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ          

The vet’s office had said to dress casual for the interview, but in this town, you had no idea what that meant. Driving into Charming felt like going back five…maybe even ten years. It wasn’t an old hick town, but it had a feeling of slowness. Like trends and updates took their time to reach Charming, even though it was a Californian town.

   You had chosen a white button up top, with short sleeves and a black pin skirt with a matching jacket. Your hair was in a French braid and you had nearly dropped your thin black framed glasses locking your front door that morning. Your aim was to impress; seem professional. But god it was hot. You weren’t expecting such a warm day – neither was the weatherman you’d been listening to on the tv last night.

   It was still an adjustment – moving into a new home, into a new street, new town… new state.

   “Change is good,” is what you had told yourself while you drove all of your belongings from your hometown to Charming. You said it over and over again.

 This morning hadn’t gone too badly, well, not until you got onto the main road and Charlie, your truck, conked out twenty minutes from your interview destination. You had considered walking, but it would take you at least an hour on foot. Especially since your GPS didn’t work without a power outlet.

 Bottling up your scream, you stood on the side of the road and popped open the hood of your truck. Steam blasted you in the face, fogging up your glasses and dirtying your white shirt.

    “The fuck is wrong with you Charlie! Why now?” You groaned, leaning your head against your arm. You counted to ten and pulled yourself together. Now wasn’t the time for a breakdown.

 Hooking the rod into place, you wiped your glasses on your shirt and looked for any damages. The oil was fine, water in the windshield wipers were full, hell everything looked perfect.

   Just as you unhooked the rod, you felt a presence behind you. Jumping, you turned around in a flash and dropped the hood. Bang! The sound seemed to ring out in the early hours of the morning.

     “Sorry ma’am, didn’t mean to startle you.” Having to look up to see his face, you saw a bearded man with a leather kutte covered in patches.

 “No need to apologise, just … having a rough morning,” you said, locating your keys and doing your best not to seem frightened. Your fear didn’t spawn because he was a biker, no. It was because he was a man.

   Moving to Charming wasn’t a choice out of freedom, but necessity. To put it simply, the man you had loved turned out to be a narcissistic, obsessive control freak. Breaking loose of him gave you your life, but parts of you would never be the same.

  “Looks like it,” Opie said in a humorous tone, “I work for Teller Morrow mechanics, I can take a look if that’s okay with you.”

 Polite.

        You weren’t used to big, booted men with being polite.

So, you were unsure, but time was ticking away, and you were in desperate need for this job.

     “Okay, you can take a look,” stepping back, you watched as he trudged over to Charlie and did exactly as you had done. After ten minutes he slowly lowered the hood and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  He shook his head, “Not an easy fix, looks like a part is missing.” Opie’s sunglasses perched high on his head as he looked at you. You noticed the tattoos on his neck and arms, and wondered how many more he had.

 After processing the words, your stomach sank.

      “God,” you shut your eyes, and held it in. Coincidence, you thought. This was all coincidence.

  “I can call the tow truck,” he said, moving toward you. Taking an instinctual step back, you noticed that the big biker stopped in his tracks.

“Sorry, it’s not you. I’m just –“

        “- not only having a rough morning?”

You crossed your arms and nodded.

  “Look, I’ll call a tow truck and take you to wherever it is you need to go, sound okay?”

  You looked from the ground to see what his transportation was. A Harley. How would it look showing up to the Vets on the back of a bike?

 Fuck. I’m fucked. This is fucked. How has my day come to this? You thought roughly, rubbing your temple. You looked at your watch, five minutes. Five minutes until the interview. Shit.

 Letting out a laugh (because if you didn’t laugh you’d cry), you nodded to the brown-haired biker.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked him, throwing a leg over the seat, trying not to let your skirt hike up too high.

    “What comes around goes around,” he replied, handing you the helmet and securing your handbag in his satchel.

  “Huh, Karma,” you muttered, and tried to fasten the helmet tighter.

“Here, let me,” large hands came towards your face but you didn’t flinch. There was something about this man. Being up close meant you could sense it better. Maybe you had been around animals for too long, but as they were able to sense a good person…somehow so did you.

  “I didn’t get your name,” you said as he was face to face with you. His large fingers gently tugged on the cords of the helmet, clicking it in place, his eyes flickered to yours and you noticed the faded freckles over the bridge of his nose.

“Oh uh, it’s – Opie,” he stammered lightly, moving in front of you and hoisting a leg over the bike. “Yours?” He asked over his shoulder.

   “Kaelie.”

“Well Kaelie, where we going?”

    “The Veterinary Clinic,” you called over the rumble of the bike.

He smiled and nodded. Flicking up the kickstand, instantly the two of you were off.

                                                            - 🛠 –

What should have taken you twenty minutes, Opie did in ten. You chalked it up to knowing the right streets, but a few times you looked over his shoulder to see how fast he was going. (It was fast).

   After parking you had handed the helmet back to the biker and smiled at him.

“Thank you.”

  With a half smile, he shook his head. You were about to turn around and head off but he pulled something out of his pocket.

  “Here’s the details for our mechanics. Your car should be done by the end of the day.”

You nodded, once again thanking him for his generosity.

    “Do you need a ride after your done here?”

Cocking your head to the side, you blinked a few times before nodding.

    “Hey, just helping a new neighbour.”

[asaarii]

little mark grayson x fem reader thing heh....

You’re three Pipeline Punches into a six-game loss streak when there’s a quiet knock on your window. Internally, you groan, pushing yourself from your chair before padding over to the source of your ire while your joints pop from lack of use.

As expected, you find none other than Markus Sebastian Grayson floating dumbly outside your window, his silhouette barely visible under the dim light of the moon. His gaze is distant, hands fiddling absentmindedly with a tear in his suit until you roll your eyes and drag him in by the wrist before you’re neighbor pulls in from her night at BINGO.

“What’s up with you?” Your lip curls into a half-hearted smile as you bump your shoulder to his, breath hitching when you finally catch sight of his deep brown eyes. Though, to be honest, he’d always been unfairly pretty, even in your younger years when he’d be showered in compliments by the neighborhood grandmas while they pulled your cheeks about being more ladylike.

Your question seems to pull him from his daze as he blinks light back into his eyes. He stares at you for a moment, his lips parted minutely while he tries with something—anything to say, but his mind draws a blank. 

So, he kisses you; the motion slow and practiced as he’s done a thousand times before. His hand finds a familiar purchase on your hip, tracing circles on the skin. You can feel the light chappedness of his lips, bloodied and bruised as they slot perfectly against your own with unmistakeable fatigue. When he pulls away, you can’t help but chase the feeling of his lips on yours.

“I just…missed you.” His voice is quiet—intimate in a way that has you smiling like a lovesick schoolgirl. He pulls you impossibly closer, holding you to his chest like you’re one of the only things keeping him going in this fucked up world.

“I take one night off heroism and you act like I’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth.” It’s meant as a jest, but the way he tightens his hold makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate the sentiment.

“I’d find you, you know,” he whispers into the column of your neck, “Earth, Viltrum, or anywhere else in this goddamn galaxy. There’s nowhere I wouldn’t go for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you laugh lightly, knowing full well the truth behind his words. You slap your hands to his cheeks roughly, pulling him away from the juncture of your neck. His eyes are wide momentarily with shock, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Especially not when you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky all for you. “C’mon, pretty boy, you really  need a shower and I need to rank up.”

Mark finally shifts his gaze off you to your monitor, his cheeks still smooshed lovingly between the palms of your hands. He can’t help but snort, the tension once sagging his shoulders now lifted as he finally laughs. 

“Rivals? Really?” He spares a glance at your clock, “At three in the morning?”

Your eyes narrow playfully while you usher him to your bathroom with a half-baked scowl, “Just go take your shower, Wonderboy. Should have some spare clothes you left in the basket next to the sink.”

With one last lingering kiss to your lips, he disappears behind the bathroom door and you make your way back to your room, queuing up for another dreaded game, praying for teammates with any semblance of brains.

You don’t hear the shower stop or Mark pad over curiously over your aggressive clicking and the curses muttered beneath your breath, but you do feel him snatch your freshly opened drink from your hands. “Wha—Hey! I was still drinking that!”

He rotates the neon pink can in his hand and shakes his head as his eyes scan over the ingredients, gaze momentarily flickering to the three other crushed cans tossed haphazardly into your trashcan. “I don’t think it’s healthy to chug these, babe.”

You spin in your chair to face him with an inquisitive quirk of your brow, the word “VICTORY” displayed proudly behind you. “And I don’t think it’s healthy to be thrown through the city like a ragdoll, but hey, there’s a reason why we’re heroes and not life coaches. Besides,” you start with a shrug, cracking open an actual bottle of water for the first time tonight while powering down your pc, “I could just tear out my liver and regrow it if I needed to. Would probably take, like, two minutes tops.”

Mark grimaces at the gruesome imagery, burying his face in your comforter to take in the lingering scent of you. He feels the bed dip when you crawl into the space next to him, somehow burrowing your way into his arms as though it were second nature. He can’t recall when you’d turned all the lights off, but he can’t help but melt against you like freshly soldered iron. His nose finds your neck and your hand cards through his semi-dry locks. 

“It’s not safe to sleep with wet hair,” you murmur, sleepiness still edging its way into your voice despite the amount of caffeine coursing through your veins.

“Thought we weren’t life coaches.” His chuckle is deep, reverberating through his chest and soothing you to the very core.

“We’re not, but you’re very annoying when you get sick.”

“Like you’re any better.”

“Well, unfortunately, regeneration doesn’t solve issues with my immune system, so sorry if I bitch about my useless power.” 

Mark feels the way your lashes flutter against his forehead as you roll your eyes slowly and he smiles, pushing himself impossibly closer to you in an attempt to mold into you.

It’s been so long since he’s had a moment like this. A moment that made him feel like the nineteen-year-old he was. A moment that made him feel like a rebellious teen sneaking into his girlfriend's bedroom to gossip and play video games before curling beneath the comforter to just sit and chat without the weight of the world’s gaze bearing down on his back.

He’d meant what he said earlier about searching through the galaxy just for you, no matter how close to choking he was, he’d still search until he’d found himself right where he belonged in your tender hold.

A beat of comfortable silence passes and he can feel you shift in his arms. You call out his name so sweetly as opposed to your normal rigid tone that he can’t help but indulge you, humming softly into your neck.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site

[luveline]

If you have any interest, how about a Spencer blurb where he's off on a case and gets or misses a late night call from the reader and is super worried, only to call them back and find them drunk and missing him. And of course the team rags on him after.

thank u for ur request! fem!reader

Spencer looks down at his phone and goes ghostly white. 

"What?" Emily asks. "They had a sale at Waterstones and you missed it?" 

Spencer clicks a bunch of buttons on his phone and brings it to his ear, crushing limp hair to his neck. "Seventeen missed calls," he says. 

Derek comes to the rescue, though the lightness in his voice is slightly forced, "Don't panic, wonderboy. Who wouldn't be eager to talk to you at… two AM?" 

"Is that the time difference?" Emily asks, leaning forward in concern. 

Even Hotch puts down his pen. The team listens to the phone ring. It loops, loops, loops, and everybody breathes a sigh of relief when you finally answer. If something happened to you Spencer wouldn't survive it. Nor after everything he's already been through. 

"Hey?" he says. There's a gap of silence. "Y/N, are you there?" 

"Spencer!" 

Spencer turns away from the table they've congregated at and looks through the open window at the parking lot, police cars roaming in and out of spaces. "What's wrong?" 

"I miss you so much." 

Spencer's nose wrinkles of its own accord. "Yeah? You sound odd. Are you– are you drunk?" 

Derek laughs. Like marionettes held tight with strings suddenly cut, the team stop their stressing and send each other knowing, amused looks. 

"Just a little bit!" you promise, clearly lying. Your voice catches on the syllables like they're coated in sticky honey, the slightest slurring tripping you up at the end. "We went for– to Chilli's. I had a blooming onion and seven margaritas!" 

"I can tell." 

"I'm really sorry, Spence, I know I'm not s'posed to call when you're away," you begin. 

Spencer glances back. Rossi and JJ have returned with coffee and a late dinner, neither of them bothering to act as though they aren't listening to the conversation. 

"No," Spencer says, turning back around and hunching inward, "that's the opposite of what we talked about, isn't it? You can call whenever you want to, but I can't, you know, always answer. I thought something bad happened. Maybe next time you could text me?" Rather than call almost twenty times and give him a heart attack.

Laughter echoes from behind. They team act like a teasing family sometimes, Spencer their teenage son who's never dated. 

He would fluster if you weren't talking to him in loud but loving tones, "I can barely walk, texting wasn't happening. I'm para-spelgic." 

"You're not," he says, firmly at first. "Are you? Who's with you? Is Rebecca there?" Rebecca being your best friend. Spencer trusts her to take care of you.

"She was, but she said that I– uh… She said I talked about you too much and made her nauseous. I feel kinda sick, too, but I just needed to talk to you, Spence. I miss you. I miss you, are you home soon?" 

"Is Rebecca really not there?" he asks. He thinks about the room full of special agents he's standing in and drops his voice to a murmur. "I miss you too." 

"She's making toast or something." 

"That's good. It'll soak up the margaritas." 

"I don't want toast, I want you! Please come home safe, angel. I really wish you were here to do that thing with my ear." 

Spencer has to give in. You're speaking so loudly it's impossible the team hadn't heard it, but he can't find the will to be embarrassed any longer. You're drunk and ridiculous and all you can think about is him.

"I wish I was home, too. Do I need to worry about you? Make sure you're drinking water, okay? Alcohol makes you dehydrated, you'll get a bad headache." 

"It makes me miss you," you whine. 

He smiles fondly. "There's no cure for that." A door opens over the line. "Is that Rebecca?" 

"Yeah." Murmurings. "She says sorry for letting me get so drunk, but she didn't let me do anything. It's like you always say, Spence, I can do whatever I set my mind to." 

"And you set your mind to getting drunk at Chili's." 

"Exactly!" 

You talk a little more before he hangs up. He knows you're getting taken care of. 

A gaggle of smiling faces greet him as he turns around. "Everything okay, 'angel'?" Derek asks. 

Spencer puts his phone in his pocket. You'll text him in the morning with a hankering for Tylenol and sore eyes, but you'll be fine. "Everything's great." 

[luvmist]

I WONT SAY (IM IN LOVE) 1 · جونغكوك

‘no man is worth the aggravation, that’s ancient history been there, done that!’ oh but who do you think you’re kidding?

wc: 9,126

pairing: fem reader x hero jeon jeongguk

genre: smut, romance, angst, humour, drama, hercules au, fantasy au, grumpy x sunshine, forbidden romance

warnings: v self indulgent fic based on my fav song of all time.

an: my debut is here, how daunting. sm stuff in the works but i decided to just bite the bullet + start posting in hopes to gain some traction. so hi guys, im nani and im new to writing. gen hope u enjoy cuz putting myself out there is insanely scary. much more 2 come unless this flops in which case i will be crawling back into the hole from which i came. pls reblog if ud like. and pls leave some constructive criticism, ive never written before lol. srry if this is ass. still finding my rhythm as a writer.

“get off me you salivating little salamander!” you screamed, nessus’ hands wrapped tight around your waist as you thrashed about in his determined grip.

“oh, cmon, sweetheart. all i want is a little kiss” his disgustingly gravelly voice turns even more sinister, “besides. who was it wanting a favour, huh?” his hands squeeze your torso even tighter as he leans in. “cut it out, fish-lips.” you snap back, fingers clawing at his enormous arms. his laughter boomed across the swamp, raising you higher in the air. “oh i like ‘em firey!” he laughed with ecstatic perversion. you struggled against his hold, contorting your face in utter disgust at his proximity.

“now, now. let’s play fair. ill make nice with your boss, if you make nice with me.” he grinned.

“keep your mangy mouth away from mine—“ you began, kicking at his chest. but the brute persisted anyway, pulling you down towards him until you could feel his rancid breath fanning over your face. you shuddered.

“drop her.” said a sudden voice.

nessus halted his actions, holding you mid-air as both he and you turn your heads simultaneously.

the voice belonged to a man, a tall, lean man. standing proud in the the water below you. you knew who this was, how could you not? you were working for sedah, after all.

jeon jeongguk. athens’ beloved saviour and number one hero — a ‘prodigy of justice plucked from the masses,’ they called him. and, as it so happens. your boss’ life-long obsession and entirely one sided arch-nemesis. you hadn’t had any direct involvement in any of the orchestrated schemes sedah had constructed specifically to kill jeongguk — not that any of them had worked, anyway. but oh yes, you knew who this was. however, nessus seemed not to.

“keep moving, squirt. you’re interrupting my playtime.” scoffed nessus, a cocky smirk now covering his revolting face. he was much, much bigger than jeongguk and clearly was living under the misapprehension that he had the upper hand here. you knew better.

“looks more like a harassment case from where im standing.” answered jeongguk, clenching his jaw.

you didnt have time for this pissing contest, you had work to do. part of that was getting nessus to pledge allegiance to sedahs’ cause in preparation for the uprising. so you decide to interrupt them both, “he’s right, junior. get lost.”

nessus looks at you with the most surprised expression you’ve ever seen on any man’s face in all grecian history, eyebrows raising so high they almost disappear into his nonexistent hairline — this is quickly replaced by deluded smugness.

jeongguk’s face, on the other hand, turns into a portrayal of utter confusion. wonderboy clearly wasn’t used to being turned down. “b-but aren’t you a damsel in distress?” he stammered out, looking up at you with wide doe eyes. cute. you’d never seen him up close before. athens’ number one hero stutters, huh?

“im a damsel” — you struggled against nessus’ grasp again, “im in distress” — you stretched yourself further “i can handle it.” — you looked up at him with a smirk of your own. “have a nice day” you smiled, brushing a strand of wet hair away from your cheek. jeongguk was dumbfounded.

“ha!” spat nessus. you scowled at him. pompous ass. “you heard the lady, pipsqueak. now scram.” he laughed.

jeongguks turned his gaze from you to him, his eyes going from wide genuineness to narrow disdain. “listen here, you overgrown, balding hippogriff. if i see a beleaguered woman i have a responsibility to intervene.”

“what if you see a woman dying of boredom from watching a wimpy male turf war, what then?” you mutter under your breath, your elbow now on nessus’ hands as you rest your cheek into your own palm. jeongguk turns his eyes to you for a split second to furrow his brows in indignant disbelief. as if to say, ‘really?’

you keep your stern eyes on him and answer with a bored nod. as if to say, ‘really.’

unfortunately nessus decides to interject into your silent conversation, “well i dont really see what you can do about either of those scenarios, puny boy.” you raised your eyebrows in mild amusement. who’da thunk nessus had a word as big as ‘scenario’ lurking inside is hollow noggin?

jeongguk however, was not amused.

“did you just. call me. puny.” he gritted out. oh, brother.

it happened fast — jeongguks clenched fist colliding with nessus’ face, sending the colossal monster plummeting back through the swamp at least a hundred yards. having released you from his clutches during, you were falling quickly through the air. but you never hit the water, jeongguk caught you seconds before. strong hands supporting your thighs as you coughed into his chest from the shock. you knew he was strong, inhumanly so — you’d heard the stories of his performances through the nearby city, and knew the reason behind his superstrength, even though he didnt know it himself. but actually seeing it in person, that close, well. it was glorious, and fucking impressive. maybe all those fawning girls at his feet weren’t so laughable, after all. your friends being a few of them. you felt yourself being placed gently on one of the rocks by the swamps aperture.

“gee miss, im really sorry. that was dumb.” he says sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

you pull your wet hair in half to reveal your now recomposed face, “yeah.” you deadpan. another interaction was short-lived, as both of you became privy to the sound of nessus’ hooves furiously galloping back through the water towards you.

jeongguk gave you a shy smile and held up a finger, excusing himself by mouthing ‘one minute.’ before turning around.

you furrow your eyebrows in amusement, straining some more murky water out of your locks as you watch the fight.

“now that’s what im talking about, kid! aha!” said a new voice next to you, you turned to your left, a satyr. god. haven’t you dealt with enough bald hoofed men for one day?

you keep your eyes on the fight in front of you, “so wonderboy is actually for real, then.” you say, mostly to yourself. “what are you talkin’ about? a’course, he’s for real!” says the satyr, tone and demeanour becoming suggestive after he gets a better look at you, “and by the way, sweetcheeks, im real too. the names jyp.” he sits his compressed little half-man body onto your lap and puckers up his lips, giving you a racy wink.

“ugh.” you snub, shoving him off into the water.

jeongguk and nessus seemed to be busy still, until jeongguk lands a tremendous punch under nessus’ chin, sending him flying up and away until he was nothing but a blue little blip in the sky. he laughed in triumph and ran his way back up through the bog towards the satyr — or jyp, whatever his name was.

“hell yeah! you see that, j?” celebrated jeongguk, clapping his wet hands and grinning as he shook water out of his sandals.

“alright, reign it in, rookie. you almost slumped it by getting distracted by that gammy doll-face over there.” spat jyp, hoisting himself up and pulling a flapping fish out his horns. that ‘gammy doll-face’ clearly being you, but you paid it no mind. more concerned with your drenched skirts. still, you listened a little further to the conversation happening a few feet away from you. curious about the strange dynamic between jeongguk and the satyr, who seemed to be his…. coach. or at least an authority figure in one way or another. this little imp was lecturing athens’ number one hero. seriously?

“you can get away with mistakes like those in the minor decathlons, but this is the big leagues! we’re in thebes now.” scolded jyp.

“at least i beat him, didnt i?” jeongguk groaned.

“that’s not the point, kid. you stalled. next time dont let your guard down because of a pair of big goo-goo eyes!” jyps’ naked head was so red you could’ve fried an egg on it. he kept at it, droning on about training and rules and a disciplined approach. you stopped listening after that. letting out a sigh, you got yourself off the rock and made your way to river bank, leaning down gather some clean water into your palms. but you couldn’t help but gaze back at jeongguk who was still being reprimanded by the goat. you watch as jeongguks face goes from attentive to distracted and awe-struck as he meets your stare, and suddenly — much to jyps angered indignance — he starts walking towards you. his manner completely dazed. an extreme contrast to his previous confident violence towards the swamp centaur nessus. was he always so gentle outside of combat? either way, his disorientation seemed to be strong given he walked past his pegasus, ignoring the high-five it had held out to him to make his way to you. now both the pegasus and jyp were seething. you stifled a laugh and turned away.

it wasn’t long before you heard his timid voice behind you, “a-are you alright miss—“

“yn. yn ln. and you are?”

“y- uh, well. m-“ he laughs nervously,

“they didnt give you a name with all those rippling pectorals?” you look down at his abs and back up at him.

“h- no! ah, jeongguk! my name is jeongguk. jeon jeongguk” he managed to get out, rubbing his bashful face with his calloused palm.

“i like the name jeongguk” you nod, popping a dimple.

he blushed at that. hard.

“sh- oh, wow. huh. th-ank. uh, ha” he muttered looking down.

“are you always this articulate?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow. what you really wanted to ask was ‘why are you behaving like a crushing schoolgirl when you have every girl in athens at your feet, famous boy?’

“thank you. fuck, i meant to say thank you.” he let out, big bunny teeth biting down on his bottom lip. sweet.

you sit back down and start fiddling with the strap of your dress.

jeongguk clearly didnt want the conversation to end there though, given he was lingering, rocking back and forth on his feet like a toddler about to ask his mummy for a lollipop. “so uh- how, how’d you get mixed up with that pinhead?” he asks, referring to nessus.

you obviously cant tell the truth so you plaster on an unbothered smile and told yet another, plausible and evasive lie. this has become something you’ve had to do several times a day for almost two years now. you were not only good at it, you were accustomed to it. so why the odd twinge of guilt?

“well, you know how men are. they think ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and ‘get lost’ means ‘take me, im yours’,” you answered, and then added “present company included.” for good measure.

he didnt like that.

“i think you mean excluded.” quips jeongguk.

“nope. told you to get lost too, didnt i?”

“w-well, yes.” he starts, embarrassed again, “but i can’t not help if i see someone in need, that’s just who i am.” he states somewhat confidently. his demeanour switches straight back to shy after he’s met with your unimpressed stance, arms folded across your chest.

“that’s alright, shorty—“ you nod your head at jyp, “—can explain the concept of rejection to ya later.”

jyp basically growls at that, glaring up at you.

by the way the sun is sitting in the sky you can already tell you’re late, sedah said not more than an hour to complete the nessus task. you’d wasted enough time already. “well thanks for everything, jeon. its been a real slice.” you give him a mock salute as you turn away.

“wait! can we give you a ride?” asks jeongguk, almost desperately. little sucker wanted you to stick around so badly, and for what?

there was no need to make up an excuse for all that, though. his pegasus snorted before pouncing up into the tree above, neighing at you very matter-of-factly.

“i dont think your pinto likes me very much.” you laugh.

“pff! bam? dont be silly! he’d be more than happy to—“ jeongguk never got to finish that sentence, bam having dropped an apple onto his head before whistling away to himself in faux-innocence as jeongguk rubbed his head.

you actually laughed at that. you might actually like this horse. but you had to get rid of wonderboy, “ill be alright. im a big, tough girl. i tie my own sandals and everything.” you tell him, giving his broad chest a small punch. “bye, bye wonderboy.” you give him one last look, he towered over you with the softest, most entranced expression. “b-bye” he sighed.

you dont turn back as you walk off but you can hear tiny bits of the dialogue between jeongguk and jyp that’s happening —

“woah, she’s something isnt she?” jeongguk, enamoured.

“oh, yeah, yeah. something. a real pain in the patella!” jyp, absolutely livid.

you get too far and the voices die out after that, but you allow yourself a little snicker. shame that wonderboys’ time will be over soon enough once sedah eventually manages to make it happen, cause he’s actually kinda nice. all the same, you cant let yourself dwell. good people die all the time. that’s the way things are. so you fix your face back to indifference and make your way to the part of the forest where the sun doesn’t shine. you have a very painful meeting to get to.

reaching the dark forest you knew he’d be there waiting for you. sedah. your boss, or rather — the man who owns you, and spends every waking moment deriving sick satisfaction from reminding you of that fact. you saw a swirl of smoke, before you saw it morph back into an arm. and there he was, leaning spitefully against a tree.

but his smirk quickly turned into a scowl, “why are you alone?” he barked, “where’s the swamp centaur?”

“i gave it my best shot but he made me an offer i had to refuse.” you state, pursing your lips and looking away.

his smoke swirled again and came flowing from him to your chin, with it he tilted it up and brought your body floating towards him, a habit of his.

“yn, my little flower, my little vixen, my little puppet. what exactly happened here? i thought you were gonna persuade the swamp guardian to join my side for the uprising, and here i am sorta swamp guardianless,” he grumbled, voice dripping with sarcasm and mockery. “so i think instead of subtracting two years from your sentence, im gonna add two on.” he went on, faux-nonchalance encasing his every word. this was his favourite game, giving you impossible tasks and then adding time to your sentence, which was now standing at 36 long years. this came as no shock, given you had spent 2 years under his tyrannical enslavement already and were familiar with his merciless manner.

“you enjoying this, huh, puppet? you know if i didnt know any better, id say you really dont try hard enough to earn your freedom,” — now he was in the mood to taunt you, his temper festering under his fabricated cool exterior — “i mean, as i recall, you did sell me your soul so willingly. oh, how sweetly you begged me. all to save your poor boyfriends life. and how’d that go again, im a little fuzzy on the details, remind me? no? no matter. i think i remember, ah yes,”

“enough.” you interrupt, not wanting painful reminders of your shadowed past and your ex lovers’ betrayal which got you into this predicament in the first place.

“look it wasn’t my fault, ok? it was your wonderboy hercules.” you defended. this seemed to get his attention.

dropping you from his smoke he stood, eyes fixed, mouth open, sharp teeth almost chattering in outrage.

“he’s here? in thebes now? that little mutt left athens and now he’s trying to become the number one hero in the country!”

“seems so. fighting crime, that’s for sure. guess he’s putting your plan in action before you could.”

sedah takes a moment to compose himself. “well, well then. i guess we’ll have to speed up his elimination process—“

“the one you’ve been trying to get done since he started?” you interrupt, taking your own turn to taunt.

sedah’s scowl was chilling. “yes, the very one. but this time we have him in the city. and ill be there to supervise, so todays the day we correct this egregious complication. instead of relying on my inefficient connections in athens.”

“you won’t beat him easily, sedah. boys a hunk.”

“i’ve heard the stories.”

“they dont do him justice. i saw it in action myself, today.”

“yn, yn, yn. now, don’t tell me you’re sweet on him?”

“dont be daft. he sauntered about with his innocent farm boy act but i could see through that in a minute.”

sedah was clever, but he was also ill-tempered and impulsive. he wasn’t heeding your warnings, more preoccupied with his malicious teasing. but you were telling the truth. the poison potion pain and panic — sedahs henchmen, had bottled jeongguk with when he was only a baby, the one that backfired and gave him godly strength — it was beyond anything you’d ever imagined. no matter how wild and exaggerated you had allowed your visions to go when you’d heard the tales. truly, they didn’t come close.

“i have something no mortal man can withstand up my sleeve,” sedah promised, “and this time. no foul-ups.”

the city of thebes. bustling, grimey and downright unsalvegable. nicknamed the city of turmoil. you made your way to the city center, your orders were simple. find jeongguk, lure him to the gorge. upon his last breath, you’d be free.

you only had to look for the biggest crowd of doting fans and there he was, right in the middle. in his element. charming smile adorning his feautures as he greeted and grinned, shaking hands and signing urns. letting little boys sit on bams’ back and doing reps with young, giggling women as they hung from his bicep. must be nice to be so loveable, you thought for a second. then you quickly swatted that away. remembering what people are, and how little their love truly means.

you gasped a few times, and ran a hand through your hair, trying to make yourself look breathy and tired from the running you hadn’t done. its go time.

when you were within range you quickened your pace and started shouting, “help! help! somebody, please help!”

his head turned instantly. eyes morphing into crazed worry and recognition. “yn!” he yelled, jogging to meet you halfway. so the little chuck remembered your name and everything. you almost felt bad, here he was gripping your arms with all the care and attention in the world, unbeknownst to the fact that you were leading him straight to his death.

“oh, jeongguk! thank god. you have to help me,” you exclaim, putting on your best desperate expression.

“yn? what is it, what’s wrong?” he demands, big hands coming to hold your waist as you pretended to feel faint.

“there’s been a terrible accident! right across town, two little boys they were playing in the gorge. there was this rockslide, a terrible rockslide. they’re trapped!” you rush out, panicking as best you could.

it was like a switch went off, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders stiffened. the same switch you had seen in the swamp. “im on it,” he said, the crowd around gushing praises and anecdotes of his bravery, everyone dashing in the direction of the gorge. the citizens of thebes clearly giddy with anticipation to see jeongguks heroic performance for the first time. he was moving fast too, about to climb onto bam who’d doubtlessly have him by the gorge in a matter of seconds. but he broke his focus, for the tiniest of moments, turned his head back to you, softened his gaze into the most tender look you’d ever seen any human give another. he whispered “its good to see you.” giving your cheek a small peck. you didnt have time to process or react, before you could so much as open your mouth, he had mounted bam and was off and away. civilians chasing after him on foot on their way to the gorge.

you were left in the center, alone. with nothing but silence and a heavy heart. you’re doing this for your freedom. you told yourself. but your hard heart softened regardless, you stood and looked at the fountain. you allowed yourself a true moment of atonement. you had just played a major role in ridding the nation of a hero, from his warm, giving hands you were placing everyone into the claws of an evil man, who’s reign will bespeak an eon of terror. you stare at your reflection in the fountain. you touch the part of your cheek he kissed and allowed a single tear to flow down your face. “im free,” you murmured. “its over, now. im free.”

that night you slept in your own bed, not returning to sedahs’ crypt. it was a tiny, rented shack in the woods. but your own nonetheless. you heard the rain pitter-pattering outside the window before you opened your eyes. so thick with sleep, you couldn’t understand why you had woken up so early given your exhaustion, the rain surely wasn’t loud enough for that. you waited a second more and you heard something else, a rapping against your door. an intentional, conscious action. ah. rubbing your eyes you rose and made your way to answer it, must be the neighbours. but before you could reach for the doorknob the rapping halted abruptly, and something was slipped under the door. you picked it up, a copy of this mornings paper.

your eyes widened in disbelief. no. it cant be, its impossible! the dragon had regenerating heads, for fucks sake!

but yes, there it was. clear as day. an article on jeongguks monumental success yesterday in the gorge. he was alive, your heart began to race, thundering against your ribcage. he was alive. he won. he made it. you turned the paper over, there in black, scratchy handwriting was the aftermath of the news you were stunned to hear —

“BOYS ALIVE. DEALS OFF, BABE. MEET ME IN MY LAIR IN A HALF-HOUR, AND MAKE HASTE. IVE GOT A NEW PLAN.”

you gripped the paper so hard your nails dug through it. no. this wasn’t the deal, you’d done your part. you got him to the gorge, didn’t you? this couldn’t be happening. you were back in sedahs slimey possession after not even a day. you fell to your knees and wept, but only for a time. you hadn’t long to pull on your frock and meet him. you knew better than to be defiant, sedahs temper was especially supple after a defeat. you had a sickly feeling dancing about inside you. what could he possibly want from you now?

“so, what’s the plan?” you muttered in disinterest, staring hard at the rain pouring outside.

“yn, yn. my mangy little muttercup, always so……aloof,” taunted sedah.

you found your jaw jerking on its own from impatience, vexation and strong homicidal desire. your back was turned, facing the window you kept your eyes trained steady on the trees, the droplets of former rain slipping down the leaves. arms crossed, and very still.

“would’ya look at me,” he taunts again, “would’ya?” the sly, conniving, smirk in his voice was so evident it made you heave dryly before you turned around.

“there’s my girl!” he slams his hands against the desk. black, beady eyes sparkling with scorn.

“did you or did you not call me here to go over the plan?” you huffed.

“so serious. always so, so. serious.” sedah kicks his feet up onto his desk and stretches, hands behind his head. sick. fucking, smirk. widening. “loosen up, my lugubriousness! todays the first say of the rest of our lives. well, my life.” chuffed, he was.

you kept your face very still.

“alright fine, fine, i get it, tutz. we’ll get to it.” he takes his feet of the table and leans forward.

“you wanna start by giving me the outline?” you jabbed,

“the outline? babycakes, you don’t take jeon jeongguk down with an outline! don’t be demented. what i have is a masterplan.” every spiked tooth showed in his dark mouth.

“god, you’re obsessed.”

“with taking my place as greece’s mogul and ridding the world of a do-gooding toddler with a sleeve of tattoos? you bet i am.”

“well? what’s this masterplan then?”

sedah stands, in a few short strides right in front of you, but he doesn’t speak immediately. instead, he begins pacing. slowly, around you — like a shark circling its prey. you hold your breath.

you can tell he’s in the mood to vent, and he does just that: “you know, i know, i mean, let’s face it, we all know its been a long time comin’ it has. meddling, magnifying, manipulating, maximising! ha! but todays the day. see now, i was sulking last night — after he tore out my dragons heart that is, then this morning when the grecian paper published that preposterous article claiming jeon jeongguk to be the best hero our century has ever seen. and in my festering heart i saw the reality of it all, we dont need another monster, or another scheme. we just need to find his weakness. i mean, i’ve been going about it all wrong. silly of me, really.”

“none of this has anything to do with me, sedah.” you retort.

“see now, that’s where you’re wrong, puppet. you know i was gonna let you off the hook, really i was. til panic let me in one a little secret i deem irrefutably useful.

“yeah, what’s that?” you snapped.

“your little act last night in the square — dazzling exhibition, by the way — and the itsy bitsy kiss our loverboy left on your little cheek.”

your mouth fell open. shit. panic had seen that?

“holding out on me, are we? you could’ve told me wonderboy melts for you, but you didn’t. why’s that?” sedah was seething, he wrapped a hand around your throat and got closer.

he leaned right into your ear, “enough curveballs. he seems to be immune to them, now, we’re gonna throw the right set of curves at him.” his hand glided down to your hips and you tried to calm your erratic breathing. you could tell he was smiling despite the fact that your eyes were closed and he was standing behind you.

“this wasn’t the deal!” you sputtered, “you have no claim on me anymore. you said if i lead him to the gorge you’d free me,” tears threatened to break free from your eyes.

he tightened his grip of your throat, “did i, sweetheart? or did i say your freedom would come with jeongguks last breath?” you felt your stomach drop. “fellas still breathing.” he released your neck. you gasped, frantically bringing your hands to your aching throat.

“get me that weakness, yn.”

jeongguk was distracted, to say the least. he was missing his shots during training, chewing his lunch with his mouth open and found staring at nothing in particular repeatedly. his mind was full of you. he just couldn’t help it. you were so pretty. so pretty and so guarded. but why? what was hiding behind those big, brown eyes that seemed to be glossed over in a shield of your own making. he found himself missing you, so badly he couldn’t focus. every ounce of mental energy zeroing-in on trying with all his might to replicate your voice in his head perfectly, just so he could hear it again. having been a hero for a good couple of months now after leaving his home-town, he’d met plenty of girls, and after spending the entirety of his childhood and adolescence as the outcast no one wanted to talk to yeah, he allowed himself the indulgence of being with a few, now that he could. but woah, he’d never felt like this. since the minute he’d seen you in that swamp its like his every emotion and thought depended on you. he wanted you. craved you. needed to know everything that was lurking behind that flippant facade. then he thought he’d never see you again, until you showed up in the square. you, that violet frock. those dark locks, cascading down your back. you looked so scared, so needy. so beautiful. entirely disparate to the disposition you’d had only hours prior. and in that moment the only thing that mattered in the world to him was fixing whatever was making you feel that way. then he had the kids in the gorge to tend to, he knew he had to go. this is what he did, and they needed him. but god, how he wanted to stay with you then. feel your skin and hold you close. he told himself he’d see you when he was done. surely, you’d come to the gorge to watch like every other civilian. but if you did, he couldn’t find you after, no matter how much he looked — which was no easy feat given he was surrounded by the masses celebrating him and dragging him from one feast to the next which he tried to politely excuse himself from with little success. where were you? hours went by. he went back to the fountain in the city center and stared at the water for a while. he didn’t know why. just hoping you’d show. why didn’t you come? didn’t you want to see him after he defeated the dragon and saved the two little boys from the boulder? did you stay to watch and then leave after? how could you leave, was he not clear? did you think he kissed every girl he’d met briefly in passing just once before on the cheek? he meant it as a demonstration, he hoped you’d understand. he was reaching for you, putting the ball in your court. but maybe he was kidding himself. maybe there was no court, maybe you didn’t care enough for there to be one. plausibile, you were basically strangers. and you were a withdrawn, detached, gorgeous one.

yeah, you probably didn’t care. didn’t like him. didn’t think of him. didn’t feel anything when you looked at him at all. he cant recall a single moment of his first interaction with you where you displayed any emotion other than brazen boredom. that’s why the second time meant so much more to him, because you were animated, actually displaying some kind of sentiment. there was a strange tugging in jeongguks subconscious that told him the display had something disingenuous about it, but he pushed that thought away. jeongguk believed people, that’s who he was. he trusted and had faith in others. jeongguk didn’t have much experience with feelings, or women — but how was it possible that you possessed his every waking thought and you could feel nothing at all for him? he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. he knew, rationally, that he should…. but he couldn’t. jeongguk thinks he’d give anything to see you again, even if it was just for a minute. as badly as he wanted you in every way imaginable, he’d settle for a sixty a second interaction in which you insult him again like you did last time. jeongguk thinks of your silhouette, the way it moves — cautious, poised and casual all at once. its like you had built a cast around yourself, enclosing your true essence in relaxed exchanges. what were you hiding? he found himself thinking of you as a treasure chest pretending to be an open book. dismissing anyone who got near with your natural, informalities. but my god, you made him nervous. when you were around it waslike the air around him twisted itself around his lungs when he inhaled. like something was clenching his heart, hard enough to draw blood from the muscle. and he was better for it, happier for it. giddy and tense, his body was weightless and immobilised all at once. and his cheeks hurt like hell from the sheer level of smiling he couldn’t seem to stop doing. even when you caught him out, made fun of him. and when bam dropped that apple on his head and you laughed for the first time, a real laugh. true and girlishy sweet. yet another small smile creeps onto his face. smart mouth. smart girl. pretty girl. pretty girl with a smart mouth he wants to smother with his own lest he—

“oi. earth to jeon. earth to jeon!” yelled jyp waving his little hands and stomping his hooves.

“huh, what?” jeongguk seemed to be snagged out of his trance.

“what is the matta’ with you, kid? d’you hear anythin’ i just said?”

“uh, yeah. fff… yeah.”

jyp rolled his eyes, “at one ya got a meeting with king aegues. he’s got a problem with his stables. at two, ya gotta get a girdle from some amazons, at two thirty ya got—“

“alright, alright. i get the picture. full day, same shit.”

“well that doesn’t exactly sound like the attitude i was lookin’ for, dummy. wasgoin’ on with you, anyway?”

“nothing.” muttered jeongguk, letting his arms go limp.

jyp narrowed his eyes and let that sit a moment, then he was laughing.

“hah? what’s so funny?” jeongguk let a slight, confused smile break out on his face.

“you’re thinkin’ of someone with long eyelashes,”

“what!”

“oh yeah, yeah yeah, kid. dont deny it. blushin,’ gushin,’ barley eatin.’ i seen this before. hell, i been there myself more than a few times. its a girl, huh?” jyp couldn’t hide his amusement, “which one?”

“there’s no girl.”

“oh, sure, sure. and im six feet tall.”

“shut up.”

“not so friendly, huh? you must really like her.”

“what do i have at three?”

“defensive and evasive. you’re in love, chum.”

“whatever.”

they go over the schedule, sign some urns and then jyp takes begins to his leave — jeongguk has an hour or so of down time before his day gets busy. but just as he was about to let him get to it jeongguk stops him,

“hey, j?”

he turns around, “yeah, kid?”

“how do you know if you’re in love or not?”

“you just know, champ.”

your hands were shaking, your breath was shallow. you were beyond nervous, you had past the brink of nerves and fallen headlong into trepidation. to make matters worse, you couldn’t figure out why.

why had you become this jittering mess? all the high-strung tension of total defeat that had poisoned your blood-stream so long ago, the very same wounds you had absolved yourself of by giving up on the idea that change was possible, that good could come from others — the wounds you thought you had silenced from accepting that fact, the ones you thought you had ended, well, they seemed to be alive and well. flailing inside you erratically, and what’s more, is that they seemed to be completely outraged. but why now? this wasn’t your first rodeo, you had completed an innumerable amount of tasks for sedah, many of which involved utilising your skills of seductive flirtation to beckon men into divulging comprising and incriminating information. you knew how to make a man vulnerable, how to open him up and have him bare himself to you raw, all while remaining coy and inclosed within your own protection. many of these tasks had resulted in the death and demise of innocent men, and you’d trained yourself to exhaustion to forget self-sacrificial tendencies and ideations, and do what you must to earn your freedom. after all, self-sacrifice and the deluded misapprehension you used to live under, that any good could come from putting anything — or, anyone — ahead of yourself was the very reason you had sold your soul to sedah in the first place. the very reason for torturous incarceration which seemed to have no end whatsoever. you thought of jeongguk, just for a minute you let yourself wonder about those big, pure eyes. like a puppy.

like something you could never bring yourself to loathe or resent. but you must. you must or you’ll find yourself gasping for breath under sedah’s oppression forevermore. tomorrow was day one, day one of the task, day one of the nine days sedah had granted you to complete your mission. nine days, you had nine sunsets to get close to jeongguk, find his weakness, thereby allowing sedah to end his life, and issue his uprising on the tenth sunrise. you remembered his words now, clear as glass,

“by the last light on the ninth sunset, should jeongguk still be breathing,”

“you’ll make my sentence permanent, i know.”

“oh no, puppet. you won’t just be my slave for the rest of your days. ill kill you.”

[luludeluluramblings]

I really want to see one of the batboy as the Daddy !!! Either Dick or Jason. Just imagine the reaction of Bruce if it's the wonderboy ,the not so secretly favored robin who put reader in this state. The ultime betrayal😂. Or Jason the robin who cause him a lot of trouble and maybe he will be more indulgent because of what happen with thz joker🤔.

Anyways I really love your writing the litlle blurb that you give us recently🤗. I'm excited for the wedding planner!reader!

I can't remember the order these asks keep coming in, but Imma try to answer them all. Eventually.

But, I definitely addressed some of the drama behind Dick being the potential baby daddy in This Ask.

So, on to Jason. Do I think Bruce would be more lenient on Jason? Depends on if Jason intentionally knocked Reader up. (That is an option in this concept.) If it was an accident, then Bruce will solely judge Jason on how he treats Reader after the information comes to life. The more Jason pampers Reader the more Bruce backs off his case.

(Plus, Bruce would kind of use this as an excuse to keep Jason in the manor more and from doing anything too rebellious. Bruce loves with he gets multiple positive outcomes.)

Thank you for liking my writing! I really wanna work more on Weddingplanner!Reader, but seems everyone like the baby drama right now. I'll add to it. Though it might end up mostly comedic.

[urrockstar-xe]

Please, please, please - d.g x fem!reader

posted july 8th, 2024 10:11 pm

reidsexual asked: “please please please” with dick grayson🙏🙏

OHHHH NOW WE'RE TALKING i hope u don't mind the little twist I did with this one, i also think i could totally go more in depth with this idea but for now, heres ur blurb :)

masterlist

wc: 0.4k

just used brenton cause hes hot and the nightwing gifs are lacking, not necessarily or even close to titans!dick

not proofread

Dick knew full well what he was getting into when he began dating you, how couldn’t he? 

Getting with someone who grew up in the darkest parts of Gotham, raised by the worst of the worst, who all seem to have a knack for childcare. 

“And who exactly is your new little lady friend?” Of course, Jason was curious, he saw how Dick hesitated every time his little brother mentioned Dick’s latest partner in crime,

Metaphorically, of course.

But before Dick could even finish your name, Jason was in hysterics. 

“Her? She’s going to eat you alive, Dickie, and probably stomp in your chest in the process.” 

Jason was the 4th person to tell him a variation of that same warning.

“No, man, she’s different than you think, really” He promised. 

“Really, Jay, I have good judgment, trust me.” Jason just scoffed, chuckling at his insistence, 

“I don’t know if I should laugh at you or feel sad for you over the irony in that statement.” 

Dick cannot afford for you to make any mistakes.

Dick watched as you trained, focusing on how hard you were going on the punching bag. He walked up closer, grabbing the bag as you hit it, causing you to stop. “What?” You asked, out of breath. 

“Give me your fist” You did just that, watching as he moved your hand in a different position, “try that way, stronger hits. Can’t have you embarrassing me out there” He teased, winking at you as he held the bag. You scoffed, ignoring how your cheeks warmed and the grin that forced its way onto your face. 

“So, our date tonight,” You started punching again, listening to Dick’s hum as he waited for you to continue. “What’s the plan, Wonderboy?” 

“I was thinking, maybe, we could just spend the night in, get takeout, watch a movie, somethin’ simple” he suggested casually, shrugging. “I was kinda craving some fresh air tonight,” you teased, smiling at his date idea. 

“Oh but, baby, the ceiling fan is so nice”

“You just want to have me to yourself, greedy” you mused, punching again, catching him off guard as he chuckled, tightening his hold on the bag. 

“What can I do to convince you to let me have you all to myself tonight?” he asked, almost cautious to ask. “Beg.” 

here’s his reason to be cautious.

“Please baby, please, please, please.”

“Okay fine, we can have a night in”

His fear of getting hurt from this budding relationship was walking hand in hand with his fear of you crushing his ego, but he loved a thrill.

[thepixelelf]

superhero cheol x tech whiz reader warnings: coarse language, death threats, manipulation, injury, gunfire. wc: 1.7k

read part 1 & part 2 first

[anonymous nights 3] Seungcheol didn’t burn down the entire building. Minghao wouldn’t let him.

In fact, despite the urgent need find you within the maze that was the old seafood packaging factory and warehouse, now known as the sketchiest place in northern uptown, Minghao’s focus was completely on damage control. Seungcheol could feel Minghao constantly at the back of his mind, keeping him in check when all he wanted to do was burn the stupid place to the ground — after finding you of course. While Seungcheol barged through each and every door in his search, Minghao made sure he didn’t kill anyone in his way, and Seokmin lagged behind, healing said people with his rejuvenation and slapping them in zipties to deal with later. 

No one else was with them. Seungcheol had rushed out too quickly for anyone to call for backup, and only Minghao had the foresight to grab three masks before dashing from headquarters. That was why they were running so haphazardly through the warehouse — they had no one to guide them. None of them even stopped running to put on their masks, each fitting perfectly to their faces thanks to your latest invention in the supersuit department. 

It was when Seungcheol busted through a door roughly labeled “Storage Unit 3″, flames and all, that he finally froze.

“No sudden movements, hothead.”

You were in the middle of the empty unit, tied to a chair with your head hung limp. A man, the one who spoke, stood next to you, the tip of his gun a mere inch from your temple.

Seungcheol felt blindingly hot rage flow through his blood, but although every nerve in his body screamed at him to rush forward, he stayed frozen. His fingers couldn’t even twitch.

No sudden movements, Minghao reminded him in his head. Normally, Seungcheol would try anything to block Minghao out of his mind, but he had to get his priorities straight. He tried to clench his teeth, but couldn’t.

They’re alive. Let’s try to keep it that way.

I get it, I get it! Seungcheol barked back in his thoughts, hoping Minghao could hear him. He felt the hold on his control loosen.

Seokmin’s still back there, we need to—

“What, nothing to say, dear heroes?” the man interrupted without knowing, his voice reverberating off the cold stone walls. “I must say, when I found out that idiot lackey of mine let this little bitch get a phone call, I expected the cops.” He waved his free hand as he spoke, gesturing towards Seungcheol. “But who would’ve guessed this twerp was all cozy with the hero brigade?”

The man’s laugh rang hollow, and it sent a shiver down Seungcheol’s spine. He never shivered.

Can you get in his head?

He’s a goddamn psychopath, Minghao complained.

But can you?

It’ll take a minute. Keep him talking.

“Ignoring me now?!” the man yelled. His finger twitched on the trigger, the sight causing Seungcheol to dig his nails into his palms. “Maybe I’ll just shoot them right now, just for pissing me off.”

“Touch one fucking hair on their head and I'll turn you to ash!” Seungcheol bellowed, his restraint finally lost. Minghao’s hold on him had completely let go once he started focusing on getting into the motherfucker’s head.

“Oh, he has a voice,” he teased. “Solar Flare, isn’t it? Everyone’s favourite fiery hero. Well I have news for you, wonderboy—” his jaw tensed “—I’m already dead.”

Flame erupted from Seungcheol’s hands, but he stayed still. The man laughed again, dry and cynical.

“So why don’t you just let it happen, huh? Neither of us—” he waved the gun at your head “—are getting out of here alive. You could let me end it quickly and painlessly, or…” Seungcheol bit his lip as he watched the man’s disgusting smirk grow wider. The man spun your chair so that Seungcheol could only see your side, and he stuck the barrel of his gun in the dip of your eye socket. “…I could rain so much hell, you’d have to bury a faceless body. You decide.”

“Just let them go.”

“I could,” he said casually, “but a deal like that needs a trade, don’t you think?”

“What kind of trade?”

He laughed. “For their life, I want mine in return. All you have to do,” he explained through a smirk, “is let me walk away.”

“Fine.” It didn’t matter what Seungcheol agreed or didn’t agree to as long as Minghao could stop him. (Though he was taking his damn time.)

“And.” The man paused, cocking his head to the side with an air of confidence. “I want a plane.”

“I’m not fucking SWAT. I don’t have that kind of power.”

“Well then we don’t have a deal, do we?”

You used to tell him about the books you would read as a kid, and the strange things that would happen in them. One thing you would always complain about was the “slowing down time thing” that you claimed people used too much in both books and movies. “That doesn’t happen in real life,” you’d said. “Unless we find a time-controlling superhero. You know what? That’s a great idea actually, remind me to write that down.”

But Seungcheol felt it now, the way time slowed as he watched the man’s finger tighten over the trigger, and he felt as if the fire burning in his hands no longer had the power he's feared his entire life. His voice couldn’t come out in time. The step forward he tried wasn’t fast enough.

He lost.

A thundering gunshot echoed throughout the room, and Seungcheol barely registered that he had closed his eyes. He battled with himself over whether to look, to finish that bastard off right then, but a strangled scream forced his eyes open to watch as the man collapsed to the ground, the gun clattering to the floor as his eyes bulged. He thrashed and squirmed on the ground before falling still, his eyes turning blank.

“Shit,” Minghao breathed out behind Seungcheol. He fell to his knees, clutching at his own hair with eyes screwed shut — evidence of overworking his mental powers. “Fuck.”

Seungcheol took a shaky step towards you, his feet slow as everything began to settle. The room was silent save for Minghao’s uneven breaths and the distant sound of Seokmin’s footsteps. He wanted to ask Minghao if you were alive, to check with his power because he was too scared to get close without knowing, but he could tell Minghao was in no condition to get up, much less get a read.

So he stumbled your way, uncertainty driving him.

Minghao had to have saved you. That was what they did. Save people.

You had to be okay.

You had to.

The adrenaline seeped from him, leaking out so that he could finally hear the pounding of his own heart. He fell to his knees at your feet, first looking at the floor, then slowly raising his head. Cupping your face in his hands and lifting it up, Seungcheol let out a breath of relief when he saw nothing on your slack face other than a few scrapes.

He’d never cried in front of you before, but today, now, he allowed himself to let go, dropping his face into your lap. You were still unconscious anyways.

After a while, he dimly registered voices whispering behind him, and when he lifted his head again, Seokmin had his hand on the back of your neck, his eyes closed as he focused on healing you. It wasn’t as simple as that, but Seungcheol felt solace knowing that you’d live to see tomorrow.

Once Seokmin finished, you began to stir, and Minghao clapped Seungcheol on the shoulder. “We’ll be outside,” he said. “Seokmin, grab the guy on the ground. He’s not dead yet, but I don’t want him waking up before backup gets here.”

Seungcheol watched as they left and dragged the lump of a man with them, then focused on you as your eyes scrunched tight. You let out a pained groan.

“Hey,” he said softly, untying your restraints. With you freed, he gently guided you to the floor with him so that you sat on your knees, your top half slack against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, one landing on your back where his thumb rubbed in circles. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s me.”

You tensed in his hold for a second but relaxed after another few, soothed by his quiet assurances. A small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you, and Seungcheol shut his mouth.

“A fucking cult,” you mumbled into his shirt. The words were so quiet that Seungcheol barely heard them.

“What?”

You laughed again, and while ten minutes ago, Seungcheol had been begging any god he could think of to hear your laugh again, he didn’t want this. You sounded so… sad. Defeated.

“A cult, Solar Flare,” you said louder this time, though he could tell your throat was dry. His heart panged at the use of his alias, recalling how real his actual name had sounded during that phone call. He wondered if you would ever call him that again. You clutched your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, which was starting to get soaked by the tears he hadn’t noticed before. “That son of a bitch was sacrificing kids to some fucking moon god and I — fuck, I don’t know. I just wanted to get a closer look. I didn’t think… I didn’t…”

You took a deep, ragged inhale, the breath shaking your entire body in Seungcheol’s arms, which only made his grip tighten. Another bout of laughter escaped your lips, but he knew it was to cover up your crying. Though Seungcheol was the superhero, you were always the one wearing a mask — one to cover up how you actually felt.

“Fuck, Solar, I was so fucking scared.”

He gave you a few pats on the back. Then, quietly, “Well maybe don’t get any ‘closer looks’ from now on.”

Nothing sounded better than your real laugh.

“You’re probably right,” you admitted.

“Of course I’m right. You may be the brains of the operation, but you can be a real dumbass sometimes.”

As you giggled into his shoulder, Seungcheol closed his eyes as the world aligned itself once more. You were alive, You were laughing.

“That was really smart of you,” he said after a short while. He didn’t know how long you needed to recover, but he also didn’t want to stay in the storage unit for long. It already had bad memories. “You know, the tracking chip thing.”

“Oh, that?” You raised your head, meeting his eyes with a small smile. “Yeah, I’ll have to disable it and install a new one for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Well—”

He gave you a look -- the one you tended to give him.

“Fine. There won’t be a next time. I’m still installing a new one though.” Slowly, you stood, shaky on your legs with Seungcheol to steady yourself on. You kept your hands on his shoulders. “And Seungcheol?”

He paused, hands on your upper arms in his attempt to help you stand.

“Sorry about what I must've said. You know, on the phone. I know I probably made you uncomfortable, but I’ve kinda had that scenario written down for six years, so I didn’t really have a choice. I didn’t mean to weird you out with all the gushy first date stuff… Sorry, I’m making it awkward again.”

Dropping your head, you sighed and moved to go, but Seungcheol held you still, making you look up at him with question.

“So the things you said,” he began to ask, his words slow with doubt as he licked his lips. “You didn’t mean any of it?”

“No?” Your brows furrowed. “What? Did I say something weird?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really… The guy knocked me out, and before that I only remember one of his followers letting me have a phone call. But you’re here, so I must’ve told my cover story. What did I say?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened. “Um, you said… uh.”

“Uh…?” You gestured for him to go on.

“Forget it!” Seungcheol gulped down whatever he wanted to say and dropped his hands from your arms, swiftly turning and walking to the exit.

“What?!” you exclaimed, following after him and catching up at his side. You turned your head as you walked, but Seungcheol kept his eyes forward. “What do you mean forget it? I’m trying to remember what I said to you. C’mon!”

“No. It was stupid.”

“Well now I really wanna know,” you whined. “What did I say? Did I confess to stealing your chips because if I did I was lying. That definitely wasn’t me. Or was it that I have two stray cats in my apartment that I need you to take care of because I promise you, now that I’m alive, I can take care of them by myself. Wait, I didn’t tell you where I live, did I? Because that’s against company policy and I really don’t want boss finding out that—”

“You said you love me!”

At his outburst, the both of you froze in the middle of the hall. Seungcheol’s hand rose to cover his mouth, but the damage was already done, he’d already said everything. A terrible few seconds passed where nothing happened, and Seungcheol wished he could just steal Minghao's powers and snap his fingers to make you forget any of this ever happened.

Your face twisted with a playful smile, eyes lit with your classic mischief. You began to laugh, your own hand coming up to your face.

Fuck. Obviously that was part of the script. No one could love him. All he did was burn things. All he could do was destroy.

You couldn’t love him, not in a million years.

“Seungcheol.”

His name again. Hearing it in your voice (for, what, the fourth time?) brought pause to his melancholy thoughts. You stepped closer, leaning in to take his hands in your own and hold them between you.

“Of course I love you. I love you in a way I’ve never loved anyone before. And I choose to feel that way. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“And you care about me too, Seungcheol. I know that. We might not be like that high school couple I talked about on the phone, but we’re a team. We have each other’s backs. I trust you with almost everything I have, and you? You came all the way to this shithole just to save your tech assistant.” You squeezed his hands, not minding the heat that seemed to rush through them, nor the red on Seungcheol’s cheeks. “We’re partners in crime. Or I guess, partners in fighting crime, and we’re here for each other. If that’s not some type of love, I don’t know what is.”

Seungcheol trembled, unsure of what to ask out of the hundreds of questions he had on the tip of his tongue.

“C’mere,” you said, pulling him into a hug.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding tight because if he let go again, he wouldn’t know what to say. In his head, he whispered, I love you, over and over again.

I love you I love you I love you.

One day, he thought as you brought him outside by the hand, your features outlined — illuminated — with the red and blue lights of the police car sirens. One day, he’ll tell you out loud.

part 1 | part 2

[markantonys]

gotta love it when some readers complain that the show hasn't done enough with the wonderboys yet or given them any character development. ah yes, i too am missing my favorite character developments arcs in the series, book 1-3 rand (i'm going to be carted around by the plot like a wet noodle -> i'm going to try to run away from the plot and then still be carted around by it like a wet noodle), book 1-3 perrin (i can talk to wolves and this upsets me -> i can still talk to wolves and this still upsets me), and book 1-3 mat (i'm a prop whose sole function is to hang around being a dipshit -> i'm beginning to show signs of being an actual character)

[ariseur]

um so like i already requested this but when i had orginally requested it i hadnt noticed requests were closed at the time, so my apologies for not checking that previously!! may i request a zack fair x reader with a meg and hercules dynamic? a seductive, nonchalant woman w a lovesick man is everything to me

you blew a hair out of your face as you felt strong arms catch you from your fall, blinking once or twice as you tapped the man’s shoulder— a signal to let you go. you scoffed amusedly at his eyes, so big and full of wonder when he looked at you.

“you can gawk at me when you let me down, you know.” you teased.

“o—oh, right.” he said, before letting you down from your princess carry a little too rough. nothing you couldn’t handle, though. you dusted yourself off, your eyes trailing back up at him. he stared at you, hand on his hip and a head cocked at your skeptical gaze. you couldn’t deny that he was a pretty boy, especially with such gorgeous eyes and even in a SOLDIER uniform.

“if i hadn’t been there..” he grimaced until you audibly scoffed and placed a hand on your hip yourself. your words lured zack in as they flew past your lips laced with velvet, “i would’ve been fine. i didn’t need wonderboy..” you trailed off.

“zack. zack fair.”

“wonderboy zack fair, to save me.” you shrugged a shoulder and threw him a sly smile, getting closer as you placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rough material of his sleeveless turtleneck beneath your fingertips. he gulped, praying you didn’t hear how loud his heartbeat was in his chest as you danced your fingers on his shirt. noticing the way his mako infused eyes darted everywhere else, only flickering to you for a split second as his ears grew a soft shade of pink against his fair ( pun intended ) skin.

“but i must ask,” you whispered, “how shall we go about your payment?” zack’s words died at the back of his throat at your mutters. it’d be a strange sight to an outsider for sure, a SOLDIER being so easily charmed by someone is not a thing you see everyday.

“payment?”

you hummed in confirmation. using your other hand, your gently directed his gaze towards you— meeting his eyes, and at this proximity you could even see the mako swirling around. zack’s eyelashes fluttered as you placed your hand on the back of his neck.

you smiled sweetly at him. you put your hand on his shoulder, urging him. “duck,” was all you said. zack snapped out of his daze, blinking a few times, “duck!” you crouched down with him. looking past his figure, you see a slew of hedgehog pies as they bounce around with their fire spells.

you watched as zack charged into them, rolling your eyes, “wonderboy zack strikes again.” crossing your arms, you checked your nails and drowned out the clashing and whooshing of his sword. you huffed in surprise though, when you looked up only to find zack clapping his hands clean from dirt with a triumphant grin painted on his face. he sauntered back to you with his head held high and his hands placed on his hips.

“so, about that reward?” he teased, a smug smirk on his face as you almost reluctantly feigned a smile at him. “yeah, well.. so very impressive.” you mumbled.

it was painfully jubilant when zack exclaimed, “thanks!” and you almost laughed at his antics. ever the restless puppy, just wanting to save you. you almost felt a little bad for teasing him. but alas, you spun on your heel and began your walk away from the SOLDIER.

“h—hey! wait, where are you going?!” he cried. he took one step further before you threw him a look over your shoulder. you stopped, turning back around. he couldn’t deny that your gaze was intimidating. was he attracted to you? oh god, what was wrong with him? barely met you and he’s already—

“you’ve gotten your reward.” your voice, smooth as ever, called out.

zack’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his hands extended in a, ‘what do you mean?’ manner. this time, you actually smiled. a real, genuine, smile. he watched in awe as even your eyes were alluring, holding so much emotion and not at the same time.

once, again you placed a hand on your hip. “i saved you.”

[invincibledc]

||Pretty boy headcannons with wonderboy!reader and supersons||

Pretty boy!reader who literally used his sword once for a perfect eyeliner shape

Pretty boy!reader who is always called pretty boy by Damian when frustrated. Even Damian hates how he can’t insult the boy he tries to hate and insult on so hard.

Pretty boy!reader who has Jon always asking what eyeliner he uses. Jon just wants to know so he can try and surprise you with more small makeup products you look at.

Pretty boy!reader who dick calls the “future pretty boy of heroes.” Dick cries at night knowing his title will be taken. But he’s glad it’s you.

Pretty boy!reader tries to deny that he isn’t that pretty. But he literally is the most prettiest boy in metropolis and Gotham. And the superson trio

Pretty boy!reader who once got asked for a model agency when he was trying to save people from harm.

Pretty boy!reader who sometimes gets asked if he is a model. He has to say no to many times he can’t count.

Pretty boy!reader who actually model walks around his house, stopping when embarrassed when Jon walked in amused. Jon immediately calls Damian asking if any model agencies are open.

Pretty boy!reader who has long eyes lashes that even girls who admire him, hate him.

[shortnsweetsposts]

Damian: Prince, your size nor your mouth intimidate me.

Jon: wat

Wonder!reader: Pardon me?

Damian: “Pardon me?” Oh, don't we get posh?

[witchthewriter]

𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑮𝒚𝒗𝒆𝒓 & 𝑾𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒐𝒚: 𝑨 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄.

Paid story for @alohomorasomnium. Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: swears, implied past domestic violence/abuse (no details at all), implied stalking

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ

Jax was on his way out to see Abel at the hospital and Tig was headed to do a few errands for Clay. They nodded goodbye to you as they left. The rumbling of their bikes making you jump. The noise was like a low growl at first – animalistic, then as they sped off you could hear them until they were at least five blocks away.

“I’ve got some bad news,” Opie said, leading you into the workshop as they left.

The sun was warm, but the bare concrete at the garage made it five times hotter. You were glad to be under the shade, the beginnings of sweat gathering on your forehead.

  “Oh fuck, what is it?” you braced yourself for the worst – that Charlie was unable to run…ever again.

Opie stopped in his tracks and looked at you with an eyebrow raised, and an amused smile toying at his lips. He did not pin you for a swearer.

  “What? A woman can’t say fuck?” You replied, quirking your head to the side, and putting your hands on your hips. That was one thing you weren’t going to tolerate, in this town or any other – men telling you what you can and cannot do.

His greased and oiled hands shot up, “hey, you say whatever the fuck you want to.” His amused smile grew bigger, and you tried so hard for your toes not to curl in your shoes. Fuck he was gorgeous. And tall; so tall in fact that it felt like you were talking to a giant. That didn’t help the butterflies in your stomach.

Ignoring your bodies’ attraction, you followed Opie until you came across poor Charlie.

 “He will run again,” Opie started, “but he’s gonna need a new engine – and that’s the least of the problems.”

You sighed; my day was going so great though… you thought, looking at Charlie who had been nearly completely emptied of, well, everything.

Car parts sat here and there, the inner workings of the car that you didn’t even know existed. Even though your father had taught you a lot about cars, you didn’t know there was … so much inside of them.

  “And what does this mean for me?” Your voice sounded somewhat mournful.

Even though you only had Charlie for a few months, you had grown an attachment to him. It was just how your personality worked. You grew bonds with a lot of things; animals, jewellery, plants, even the odd mechanical item. Charlie ended up a part of your never-ending list.

“We’ll fix it up, won’t take too long. Maybe by the end of the week?” Opie stood with his arms loosely crossed, a rag hanging from his back pocket, as well as over his shoulder.

You hadn’t thought about it before, but you realised that Opie must have personally worked on Charlie. This felt a lot more private. 

  “A week…” you echoed the words, except yours had a melancholy twinge to it.

“It won’t be a problem, I can take you wherever you need to go,” he said those words so nonchalantly.

   “No, I-I couldn’t. It would be too much trouble-“

“Look, I don’t want to sound like I’ve been watching you like a stalker. But I noticed that we live on the same street. I’m only a few doors down.” Opie was fortunate he had a beard because it hid the significant blush that had bloomed on his cheeks.

Had he really just said that? It was like his brain blanked and the words came out before he could think first.

 Your gut twisted. Self-consciousness spread through you even though you had nothing to be self-conscious about.

“I don’t want to put you out…” You trailed off, unsure of your feelings about his offer.

On one hand it would be great to be driven everywhere – he knew the area and you’d have someone in your life. Plus … you couldn’t deny the complete and utter attraction you felt for him. But on the other hand,…you didn’t know him. Anything about him. This felt too good to be true.

Was this your life now? Being personally chauffeured to and from your desired destination by a handsome biker? How had this happened?

It’s a good thing the workshops empty, Opie thought, because I look like a fucking creep.

Opie decided it was too late to backtrack. He was a bad talker anyway, and anything else he said would make him sound even more disturbed.

 Weighing it up in your head, you realised that the pros outweighed the cons. If your workplace knew Tig, and they trusted him. How could this go wrong? (Maybe that wasn’t the best question to ask yourself, but you couldn’t help it.)

You nodded.

 And then realised that Opie had let you deliberate in your head all this while.

                                                           – 🛠 –

While your thoughts were occupying your mind, you didn’t hear the conversation that was happening in the workshop.

  “You actually said that?” Jax’s voice was hushed through the phone, still at the hospital, he didn’t want to disturb Abel.

“Yes,” Opie said with a hand on his forehead; silently berating himself. How and why the fuck did he just come out with that? ‘Oh, I live a few houses down,’ who the FUCK says that. He thought. Hoping you weren’t thinking the same thing.

 “And she hasn’t called the cops yet..” Jax replied, his eyebrows were raised as he gazed upon his son, the phone pressed against his ear with one finger.

 “No…” was Opie’s only answer. He shut his eyes and hung his head. “I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”

Jax chuckled but Opie didn’t even smile. It wasn’t his intent – to make you uncomfortable. At first he had just seen a pretty lady walking a dog. A lady he hadn’t seen before in Charming, so that’s what grabbed his attention. Who were you, where did you come from, why did you choose this town?

 And then he noticed a car parked around the block, which seemed to follow you every day, everywhere you went.

It wasn’t his business, but you seemed too virtuous to get into a trouble. Too…wholesome. You even walked your dog the same time every day.

 And Opie couldn’t let that be on his conscious. Another woman hurt on his watch. Not after Donna…

So, he made sure to keep you safe. Even from afar.

                                                           – 🛠 –

It hadn’t taken long to get home. And even though it was only your third time on a motorcycle, you were getting the hang of it. It wasn’t just holding on, you had to move with the bike; there was a knack to it.

 When the rumbling ceased, you climbed off the bike and took out your housekey. You were going to let the biker drive off, but that felt too rude. Not after everything he’d done for you.

  “Wanna …come in? I made some cupcakes yesterday. Maybe I can give you some as a thank-you?”

He looked up at you, heart thumping and nodded, “sure.”

 Taking out the keys and putting them in his pocket, you heard his boots as they trudged up the stone steps. Quickly unlocking the many locks (that had different keys), you opened the door and were instantly met by the happy yelps of your dog.

Her tail wagged left and right, paws nearly trotting on the spot. Even as she saw Opie, her demeanour never changed.

  Now that was a green fucking flag. You let loose a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You believed that animals had a keen sense of how a person is. And you always listened to them when they showed dislike to people. Animals knew on some sort of super-natural level what was at a person’s core.

Opie’s voice shocked you out of your stupor. “And who is this?” Opie bent down to scratch behind the ear of your Bernese-Lab mix. She rolled onto her back, exposing her belly in comfort.

  “This is Bella,” you replied, a smile threatening to bloom.

You noticed how large Opie’s boots seemed, so masculine, in this feminine space that you had created. Even though you were only renting, the house still had a womanly aura to it. Probably because the owner was a widowed old woman who moved in to her daughter’s place.

One of your other pets appeared. A tabby named Bea. She moseyed her way over to Opie, rubbing against his leg as he continued to crouch down and rub Bella’s tummy.

 You scoffed at how easy it was for your pets to like him. Maybe feeling a tad jealous, you walked into the kitchen and got out a large tupperware box. Curious, your other cat Dobby had peaked his head around the hallway’s corner, but stayed where he was.

You filled the container with your frosted cupcakes, giving Opie the best-looking ones…which only ended up being six out of the twenty that you made. You hadn’t even been hungry, just bored…and nervous.

“I’m not the best baker, but I’m pretty sure they’re edible-“ Walking over to him, he got to his feet and smiled down at you.

For a moment his hands covered your own; they enveloped your own, their largeness making you weak at the knees.

  You stared down at your hands, let a few seconds pass, then gently slid them out from under his.

“Thank you,” he uttered, lifting the container as he spoke.

“No please, it’s nothing compared to how you’ve helped me today.” You shook your head, clasping your hands as you spoke. Trying your best to convey how much appreciation you felt.

   Leaning forward then backward, Opie shrugged his shoulders and shook his head -  like all of this was nothing. But internally he was at odds. Should he tell you about the car that had been following you? He’d figured out it wasn’t a coincidence. Plus this town was so small that everyone knew who was and wasn’t apart of the community.

But there was something etched on your face, it took him a moment to find it, that distant emotion he hadn’t felt since Donna died. But it was hope. You had hopefulness. He’d, given you hope. Of what, he wasn’t quite sure, but he saw it there. And he’d be damned if he took that from you.

   “Well I still have to thank you, so … thanks.” Opie looked downward then pulled the keys from his pocket, “I’ll ugh, keep going on your truck.”

“Charlie,” you quickly retorted.

“Uh?” His eyebrow’s furrowed together, mouth quirking to the side.

   “The truck – his name is Charlie,” you said without a single drop of embarrassment.

“Okay, well I better go work on … Charlie…” he huffed a tad, realising the innuendo.

You just smiled; a true one. That reached your eyes, making them twinkle.

  Just as Opie followed you inside, you followed him to the door, feeling like a Hobbit saying goodbye to Gandalf.

  “Soon I’ll be cutting you a key…” you mumbled underneath your breath.

“And I’ll be getting a second helmet,” you stopped in your tracks, your face turning a bright shade of red.  

 Opie only smirked at you and walked through the front door. You were still in shock as he got on his bike, waved, and drove off.

                                                           – 🛠 –

    Taking off your shoes and slipping on a pair of joggers, you realised just how fucking huge your day had been. 

   From Charlie breaking down (fair enough, we all have those kinds of days), to being rescued by a biker and having him drive you to an interview, getting the job the same day, then having a different biker from the same club taking you to the mechanics to find Charlie in complete meltdown mode. 

Then having the first biker tell you he could be your personal driver whenever needed. And inviting him in… AND your pets liking him!

What the fuck, was all you could think.

 You decided that you needed to clear your head. Finding Bella’s leash, you clipped it to her collar and started down the street.

Even though you’d spent most of the day around animals, you could never get enough of your own. They had saved you. They truly had.

 So, off you went down your block. The sun still shining, although moving lower and lower with each few steps you took. The first signs of Dusk starting to appear.

Almost like an epiphany, a thought appeared out of nowhere.

You had come to Charming to start again, to escape men; or rather, a certain man, and yet, here another was. Conscious of it or not, Opie was shovelling his way into your heart. 

[oddberryshortcake]

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Hi, I’m Audrey! I like to write and occasionally analyze things!

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

🍰AO3

🍓INBOX

🍰KOFI

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🍓WRITINGS🍰

I typically write Gen fics, many of which contain angst, hurt/comfort and tragedy which will be marked as ‘mature.’ 

🍰The Worthy Heir (TW Suicide Attempt)

🍓Just a Dream

🍰Wonderboy

Fic links can also be found with the hashtag #oddberry fics

Analysis or general thoughts can be found with the hashtag #oddberry analysis

Other fics for other fandoms will only be found on AO3 so if you’re interested in non-TWST fics, feel free to check them out!

🍓Writing/Drabble Requests? 🍰

Yes! I primarily write gen though. The chances of me writing shipping is extremely low. Unless it gives me a dynamic I actually like working with. 

I do not do “x reader” fics.

I do not do "NSFW" fics.

If you have anything you want to see me discuss or analyze, just shoot me an ask. I promise I have some interesting things to say 

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Additional notes! 

Warning! I play the ENG version of Twst HOWEVER I actively participate in #twst spoilers on JP server so if you don’t want to be spoiled, please blacklist #twst spoilers

I frequently collaborate with @/Cozymochi so that's while you'll see her on this blog a lot and vice versa. Some of Cozy's ocs are a collaborative effort but please think of me as their godmother!

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Header banner by my friend @/cozymochi 😘

[luveline]

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. 

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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